Crocodile found herself sharing a rowboat with two pirates and the unconscious body of their captain, whom she had recently drugged and stabbed, in a situation that might tactfully be described as awkward.

One of the pirates, a middle-aged woman with a loud floral gown and screeching red hair, ignored her completely as she fussed over Donquixote. The other pirate, a plain man around Donquixote's age, stared at Crocodile with an undisguised hostility that might have been intimidating if he had not inexplicably been wearing what looked like buttered asparagus on the left side of his head.

"Are you his new girlfriend?" he asked at last.

Her natural inclination was to launch herself into enthusiastic denial, perhaps accompanied by some disgusted sounds, but she was faintly aware that this reaction left something to be desired in terms of optics. "We're partners. Business partners." She added, eager to change the subject, "He's going to need some medical help. Do you have a doctor on board?"

"We do," said the middle-aged woman. "Him." She nodded at Donquixote.

Crocodile sighed. "Let me guess. Self-taught?"

"For what it's worth, he usually just sleeps it off."

They were approaching a small island off the coast of Loguetown, on which a natural rock formation formed a small cove. Seagulls, annoyed by the unusual disturbance, stretched out their wings and squawked before going back to sleep. The shape of Donquixote's ship emerged in the moonlight, led by a figurehead in the shape of a gigantic flamingo. This was in line with her expectations, though she was a little disappointed at the lack of disco balls.

The ship, insofar as she could tell, was amateurishly-rigged and in need of fresh caulking. Large barrels cluttered the deck, in between lawn chairs and patio tables strewn with empty cocktail glasses, all of which would go flying around and destabilize the ship as soon as they ran into a squall.

As Crocodile stumbled onto the deck, pirates in various stages of inebriation made their way out of their cabins. "Who's your navigator?" she asked them. "Shipwright?"

"Who are you?" a tall, lanky pirate in bunny pajamas replied belligerently. The others, clearly not itching for a fight, exchanged a glance and pointed to their captain's unconscious body.

"We've traditionally been rather more like land pirates," said the middle-aged woman who'd manned the rowboat, with a hint of embarrassment.

"Land pirates," Crocodile said flatly.

"This is our first time leaving the North Blue."

Crocodile realized that she would need to take charge if she meant to survive the trip. "We need to get out of here soon, or the Navy will be breathing down our necks. Once you've taken the captain to his cabin, come back here and clean up the deck. Take those barrels downstairs and secure them with ropes. And let's have someone who knows how to make a bowline, preferably someone sober, fix that sail now so that it doesn't fly off as soon as we hit a real wind. Go."

There was some grumbling, though for the most part, they seemed relieved to have found someone who possessed a modicum of competence. "Do you have a helmsman, at least?" she asked.

They looked dubiously towards the captain's cabin.

She pointed at one of the pirates, a man in sunglasses and an impeccable suit who struck her as having been blessed with an above average number of functional brain cells. "You. You're the helmsman now. I'll tell you what to do. The rest of you, go ahead and raise the anchor once you're done with your tasks."

They obeyed without further complaint, and she was surprised to find how natural and right this felt, as though, after years of wasted efforts, she had finally found what she was meant for.

At least, the winds and the seas were mild-mannered, thanks to the gods of luck and their unaccountable fondness for idiots. Crocodile squinted at a map of the constellations that they'd brought to her, comparing it to a sky at which she hadn't glanced in many years. "All right, so if you follow that star over there, the eye of the T-Rex, you'll end up at Reverse Mountain. From there, you'll end up in the Grand Line, which will let you cross back into North Blue. That being said, I'd appreciate if you could first drop me off somewhere, before your captain wakes up. Anywhere that's not a desert island, really."

The newly-designated helmsman, Señor Pink, reflected on this. "I was given the impression you were intending to stay. To be honest with you, we could use the help, as you've probably noticed."

"Given the general ineptitude on display, I'm reluctant to stay onboard any longer than I need to." He did not answer. She had, perhaps, been overly acerbic. Overall, he wasn't a bad sort for a pirate, not prone to idle chit-chat, willing to follow orders without question, not to mention given to a decent taste in cigars. "To tell you the truth, I've been reconsidering some of my career choices. An opportunity to make a fresh start somewhere might do me good. I'm not sure how your captain will take it, though. He had plans."

He continued to look straight ahead. "I can't exactly go behind the young master's back. I'm sure you understand." He paused. "Now, if we were to stop somewhere to look for a doctor, and you were to sneak off the ship and not return, then I can't very well stop you, can I?"

"You're all right. You know, if you're ever looking to join another crew, with a captain who actually knows what they're doing - "

"Don't press your luck."

The sedative had worn off, and the evening's exertions had caught up to her. "I'm going to rest for a bit. I won't sleep, so don't try anything. Just go straight ahead until you see land."

"I think I can manage that."

When she opened her eyes again, the sun was already up.


In recent years, Doflamingo had become aware that something was leeching away from his life, bit by bit, leaving a noticeable gap behind, a lost limb to whose absence he had never quite gotten used. And just as people who had lost a limb sometimes regained it in their dreams, he sometimes found it again when he slept, that missing thing.

What was it?

It was not gold, of which he had plenty. Nor was it freedom, which he'd grown to understand as an illusion, even for the elites to whom he'd once belonged. Nor was it love. His crew obeyed him without question and worshipped him as a god, and what greater proof of love was there than that?

No, what he missed wasn't love, but something much like it for which he had no name. He thought he might have gotten it from his biological family once, a long time ago, though the memory was growing hazy.

Sometimes, he'd meet a stranger who promised to fill the gap for him and give him what he missed. That always turned out to be just another dream.

Still, the dream was a pleasant one. He sometimes wished he would not wake up, but there were plans to execute, vengeance to be had and vermin to slaughter.


At the horizon, the shape of a mountain rose out from the mist.

"What the hell?" Crocodile said, unable to keep the betrayal out of her voice.

Señor Pink observed her, impassive, though his hands had tensed. "The young master woke up and told me to make straight for our destination, with no detours. I'm afraid his orders override yours."

"Couldn't you at least let me know?"

"I tried to, but you were…" He considered his choice of words carefully. "Resting. In any case, they are having breakfast in the common room, first door on your left, if you want to join them. Say, do helmsmen get breaks?"

She found the rest of the crew settled around an opulent, if not excessive, breakfast. Donquixote sat at the head of the table, a cup of black coffee in one hand, reading a book entitled Identifying and Treating Sepsis. "Good morning," he said without looking up. "How kind of you to join us. Please have a seat."

She complied, since he had, after all, said please. "Why did you have the helmsman change course?"

"I'm glad to see you have been getting along with my accountant," he said. "Perhaps it's time to introduce you to the rest of the family. Crocodile, here is my interior designer, my fashion advisor, my chef, and my sommelier. And these little munchkins here are my assassins." He picked up the youngest of the two children, a little girl who could not be more than five or six years old, and sat her on his lap, in some misguided appeal to her maternal instinct. The child, face painted with chocolate spread, stared at her with a ferocity that suited her profession, if not her age.

"Charmed."

"You've no doubt noticed that there's a position yet to be filled."

"Hairdresser?"

"Apothecary," he said, without departing from his pleasant tone. There were some chuckles around the table, some carrying a hint of bloodthirst.

She stood up straighter, affecting as much wounded dignity as she could. "What are you trying to imply?"

"That you'd do a more than adequate job for me, based on your performance last night. Well, what do you say? Would you like to join my family?"

Crocodile looked around the room and found no support, only malignant glee. "Listen, we're about to cross into the Grand Line. We should all be on deck for this. Can we continue this discussion later?"

"I don't see why. It's a yes or no question." Donquixote drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

She drew from her normally never-ending supply of bullshit and came back empty. "Then it's a no. I'm not joining your crew."

"May I at least know why?"

She smiled back at him. "You might get to know me, and that would be unfortunate. For both of us."

"Everyone else. Get out," Donquixote said without raising his voice. The other pirates filed out of the room, looking disappointed that they would miss out on whatever unpleasantness was coming next.

"I saved your life last night, asshole," Crocodile reminded him.

"Indeed, you did. From a peril that you had created in the first place." He flexed his fingers in a pattern that she was beginning to recognize. Glowing strings reached out for her and coiled around her limbs, pulling her into an empty chair.

It was finally time to show him what she could do. "That doesn't work on me." She stood up, letting the strings slice through her. "I can't be tied up."

To her delight, an expression of helpless rage flashed across his face, though he soon regained his self-control. "That's too bad. Will this work?" In an instant, he was next to her, while his fist slammed into her diaphragm.

Crocodile did not dodge the blow, hoping to demoralize him and show him how useless his bag of tricks was against her. Instead, she flew through the wall of the cabin. Her body slammed into the taffrail, which bent under her weight.

She tried to breathe, but her lungs no longer worked as intended. Wood creaked and snapped as he kicked the remnants of the cabin wall out of his way. How was it possible? He should not have been able to hit her. She tried to dematerialize and found herself sucked back into a painful and helpless present.

Her instincts on the previous evening had been correct. She did not stand a chance against him in a fair fight, which meant she'd have to find a way to make it unfair, and quickly.

His pointed boots filled her line of sight as he squatted next to her. "It's too bad," he said. "I rather like you. Is it really so hard to return the favour?" He grabbed her by the shirt collar and pulled her to her feet.

Her breath returned to her and brought, with it, a taste of blood. She summoned all of her willpower and went for the good old hit-them-in-their-recently-stabbed-parts routine.

Donquixote released her and staggered backwards. "You fight so dirty," he said, with a hint of admiration. She followed up by sending a wave of sand to his face, which bought her time to close the distance between them. His sunglasses, annoyingly, had protected his eyes. He saw her blow coming and intercepted it. She grabbed his wrist with the intent of draining it dry, though she was forced to release him immediately to dodge a kick that he made at her injured leg, which she was still struggling to dematerialize.

"Excuse me, young master," said a polite voice. They stared at each other and then, slowly, turned to look at the speaker. Señor Pink stood on the deck, hands behind his back.

Donquixote spat out a mouthful of sand. "Stay out of my business."

"Oh, certainly. I just thought I'd mention that we are currently on a collision course with the mountain. Your assistance would be appreciated."

By an unspoken agreement, they released each other and rushed to the deck.

Reverse Mountain loomed ahead, much closer than she would have thought possible in the short time that had elapsed. A dim roar could be heard as the ocean was funneled up the mountainside, moved by monstrous unseen forces.

"Ah yes, this thing again," Donquixote murmured, scratching his head. "Corazón, do you remember how we handled this the last time?"

"We found some illustrated step-by-step instructions in Navigational Basics," said the young pirate who had rowed the boat on the previous night. He had since replaced his decorative asparagus with a more morning-appropriate fried egg.

"Of course. Go fetch it from the library for me, please."

"We avoided crashing into the cliff by exactly two inches," Señor Pink observed.

"An entire two inches! And I have experience now."

Crocodile sighed and raised her voice. "All right, men. Hoist up the sails if you don't want them to be damaged. We don't need them anymore – the currents will do the rest. Señor Pink, I know this is counterintuitive, but steer the ship towards eleven o'clock."

"Isn't that - "

"The mountainside, yes. But the currents in the area will move us in the right direction. Those of you who aren't at the wheel, go inside and make sure that all loose objects are secured. That includes furniture, barrels, everything."

The crew stared uncertainly at their captain. "Now that I recall," he said, "that is exactly what I told you to do the last time. What are you waiting for? Go!"

Crocodile sighed, relieved. She wouldn't have put it past him to crash the ship out of spite. The crew dispersed, some with a glare in her direction, others showing obvious and flattering signs of relief. Donquixote hauled himself up to the yard, on which he sprawled, dangling his legs. "It's your fault if something goes wrong now," he called out to her. "Good luck!"

The ship moved, a helpless object, into the roiling seas at the foot of the mountain. "Here comes the hard part," she told the helmsman, whose hands were clenched on the wheel. "You have to let go until I tell you."

"Yes, ma'am. Been nice knowing you." He released his hold. The ship rolled backwards, as though some invisible monster, below the surface, had been fighting them for control. She held on a taffrail gone slick and cold with spray while they pitched forward again, this time, facing the roaring river that ran up the mountain. "Now make a hard turn left!" she shouted over the din.

For a moment, she thought they would crash into the mountain. Señor Pink caught the spinning wheel and fought against the current, his brow wrinkled with effort, though the wheel would not budge. The mountain loomed closer. "Just a few degrees to the left and we will make it," she said, more as a prayer than as encouragement as this point.

Through the haze, a few white strings shot out from the rock and stabilized the ship. Señor Pink spat out his cigar, which had been extinguished by the spray, and won his battle against the current.

The ship shot up the mountain. She gritted her teeth and held on to the railing for dear life while cold seawater blinded her and drenched her clothes. From above came the sound of the captain's demented laughter, because of course, this was his idea of a good time.

The descent was, if anything, even more unpleasant, though it had the merit of being over quickly. She located a handkerchief that was not entirely soaked through and used it to wipe the seawater from her eyes. The first sight that greeted her was that of enormous black mass, which swam towards them with unmistakeable murderous intent.

"Ah, a sea king," said Señor Pink, unfazed. He still managed to look impeccable, even though he was drenched from head to toe.

Donquixote jumped from his perch onto the deck. "Allow me."

The helmsman crossed himself and stared ahead with a resigned expression. "What -" she began, though she did not have time to finish.

Although there was no noise and no impact, a detonation went off in her head. Pain bloomed outwards, in a vision of blood vessels bursting open like fireworks, and the world vanished into a red void. The pain was followed by an overwhelming sense of defeat, the same feeling that came to her sometimes, at night, when she wondered whether she hadn't taken a wrong turn somewhere and gotten lost, while her bottles of poison rose out of the fog like a beacon, promising refuge.

It would be so easy to let go, but as always, she clung to life out of sheer spite. Then a second blow, this one distinctly physical, struck the side of her head, and she felt herself falling into an ocean that had suddenly grown dark and still.


The sun was at its apex when Crocodile woke up. She rolled to her side, saw a pair of now-familiar boots and scrambled away, reaching for one of her knives.

"Eh, calm down," said Donquixote. He'd brought out a bottle of champagne. "Look, if I wanted to kill you, do you think that I'd hold back just because you were unconscious?"

She didn't answer, though she did not draw the knife. The rest of his crew was still unconscious, she noted, though he had propped them up in more comfortable positions.

"For the record, though, I win." He filled another flute and pushed it towards her.

"That makes us even, then." She accepted the drink.

He drained his glass moodily. "I guess. Anyway, I've been thinking that I really do want your help with that concern we discussed last night. For that reason, I'm inclined to let you go, for now. I know, I know, save your gratitude. I would just have one question for you, really, and I'd appreciate it if you minimized the bullshit, because my good mood is a little bit fragile right now."

She held out the glass again, because this sounded like the kind of ordeal for which she'd want to be intoxicated. He filled it out without looking at her. "You say that you don't want me to get to know you. That makes me curious. What charming quality is it that you possess that I haven't already had the pleasure of experiencing first-hand?"

"Well, it's not so much that."

"Uh huh."

"It's more a matter of – well, when people get to know you, they know you at a specific moment in time. They expect you to remain frozen there. But five years ago, I was a very different person. And five years from now, I expect I'll want to change again. It's hard to shed your skin like that, when you're surrounded by assholes who like you just the way you are."

"Now that's a load of fucking bullshit." She reached for the knife again. "No, no, don't worry, I'm not going to attack you. But I have to call it out for what it is. If you want to become someone else, then why wait five years? Just look at me. When I want to do something, I just do it, I don't fuck around." He stood up, a little unsteadily. "Anyway, thanks, that's all I wanted to know. Tell Señor to drop you off somewhere when he wakes up. I'll be going back to bed." He added reproachfully over his shoulder, as if it had anything to do with her, "I was having a very nice dream last night."


What Crocodile loved the most about plans was that, unlike dreams, they said very little about the person who made them, except the lengths to which they were willing to go.

"Listen," he said. "I have a favour to ask."

Ivankov turned away as one of her patients walked out of the operating room, dressed in oversized men's clothing under which she tottered like a newborn foal. Ivankov rattled off a list of instructions. "Drink plenty of water, darling, don't wear high heels more than eight hours a day, and oh, keep this in mind, you are an autumn, so stay away from pastels. Goodbye, now!"

The patient stumbled away, a dazed smile on her face. Ivankov pulled off her rubber elbow-length gloves, which she then handed over to her assistant. "Oh, you're still there," she told Crocodile. "My dear, look at the time! I must retire for the night." She pretended to faint in her assistant's arms, though she opened an eye to see if he bought the act. "Just kidding, I suppose."

Perhaps this had been a mistake. "Look, I don't know what Dragon told you, but I'm not looking to cause any trouble."

Ivankov stood up reluctantly. "I've read the news. If you want to blow up another city for a good cause, since the end justifies the means, and all that sort of thing, then you should know that I disapprove entirely and in fact - "

"Actually, I've been thinking of getting out of politics," he said. This was even more embarrassing than he'd thought it would be. "I thought I might become a pirate instead."

"Indeed. Well, darling, it's been great of you to drop by and let me know what you've been up to, but I really must go. My succulents need me."

"Not just a pirate. The King of the Pirates." He paused. "The King, Ivankov. Not the Queen."

"Oh," said Ivankov. "Oh. Well, I suppose that changes things." She turned to her assistant. "Inazuma, my dear, can we fit one more patient before we call it for the day?"

"I already watered your succulents this morning," said Inazuma. They had always been the quietly competent sort.