AN- This chapter contains some disturbing things.

Really, assume that all future chapters from this point onwards will contain some kind of disturbing content.


-Part 3-

Self-Made Psycho

-Now-

Crocodile had been aware that he was getting into risky business when he decided he'd try making a small fortune taking what was already-made product, changing the brand under the name of Baroque Works, and reselling it at a higher value.

He remembered the worst feeling in the world, perhaps worse than what had happened to him when he was a child, when he had been torn apart by everyone that he had placed trust into. That had been an incredibly difficult day, but not nearly as the day he was tied up, blindfolded, and dragged across the desert in the trunk of one of Whitebeard's many fancy, old automobiles. Crocodile remembered thinking to himself how special he was, to have warranted a ride in such a luxury vehicle, that he was worth the older man's efforts to be taken out and executed by his own hands.

There had been a lot going on in his mind at that moment, aside from the car ride. Crocodile was sick to his stomach, dehydrated from being locked away for some time, and he was sore and swollen all over from being beaten by Whitebeard's men. Worst of all was the injured pride. Crocodile couldn't bear to even bring himself to acknowledge the acts of molestation that went on, and how quick it took for the men to find out what he was missing, what made him such a peculiar subject of torture, because now they had nothing to cut off, and instead were left calling their boss, asking what to make of the man. It was at that moment Crocodile realized he would no longer be treated as an ordinary subject, and it made him sick, and all throughout the ride in the trunk that sickness inside of him grew, until he was left distracting himself with the idea of car rides and how he would have liked to be able to afford such a nice car, assuming he lived after this.

He remembered being pulled out of the trunk, barely catching any light in his eyes through the blindfold they had tied around his head, and the sickness grew as Crocodile heard remarks being made about him, again, and what a strange thing he was. Spanish was lathered in-between English, but Crocodile recognized that the word "man" never came up.

He was dropped on the hot, hard desert ground. His face was stinging, his pride vanishing, and his entire being aching all the more when everyone around him laughed, until it finally went silent. There were heavy, slow footsteps, and even heavier breathing, by him and those around him, and his blindfold was removed, and standing before him was the infamous drug lord.

Crocodile could not forget the fear.

He could not forget the cruel laughter directed at him, the way Whitebeard stared down at him, letting the young man know the exact reason why he would be let off this one time, and that he ought to return back to America, tail between the legs, where he'd be better off, and safer too.

He could not forget the treatment he had undergone as well.

Since castration was not an option, Crocodile was held down by Whitebeard's men, his left arm stretched out in front of him, and he got the most wonderful view of his wrist getting crushed by the giant man's boots, grinding and rubbing his wrist against the painfully heated floor, until Crocodile had no choice but to react to it and scream out in pain.

He was pressed further down, his stomach against the barren wasteland, several men keeping his arm out, mocking him, poking fun at him, reminding him to never mess with Whitebeard territory, and his head was lifted up by the roots of his hair, and he stared at Whitebeard crouching down at him, a large machete in his hand and a smile so sick it made Crocodile wish the man would have just killed him.

He could not recall the exact moment the blade tore his already bruised and bleeding wrist. Just having the warlord grab hold of his hand had put him into enough shock and pain that even comprehending the world around him became an impossible chore. At some point the large blade began to saw through the bones, and Crocodile was brought into semi-awareness again, this time watching blood spurt from a gaping wound, his hand limp as Whitebeard ripped through muscles and ligaments holding it all together.

And then it ended. Just like that, and as soon as it did, Crocodile began to notice the intense, indescribable pain shooting up his arm and into his chest, running up and down his spine and causing him to dry heave every breath he took. Whitebeard said nothing more, other than to call his men back in the cars, and left Crocodile to shake and twist on the ground, his body convulsing as it became more aware of its terrible predicament.

What made it worse was that the blade had cut so fine, even through the bone, and that Crocodile could see a town not too far off in the distance. His bloodshot eyes stared out and he could spot the figure of civilization. It was not a poor town. There would be hospitals.

The cars drove off in the opposite direction, building up a storm of sand, leaving Crocodile to rage at the miserable fact that he had not been left to die, but purposely made left to survive and undergo the misery of being left alive.

That was the consequence of getting caught.

And Crocodile survived. He survived the ordeal, but he refused to leave the country, and decided to settle down and procure several more properties once he was out of the hospital.

He understood there would be risks, and he got caught taking Whitebeard's gold, and he had learned the hard way the importance of not getting caught.

So he told himself he would not get caught again, and with the newfound wisdom, and the memory burned deep into his mind, Crocodile expanded Baroque Works, took everyone's hard work and twisted it and made it his, and he did not get caught.


And then he got caught, again.

Crocodile stared into the bathroom mirror, resting his fingers on the light bags that were beginning to develop under his eyes from lack of sleep. Halfway through the day, adding to a total of almost thirty hours, and he had achieved two hours worth of rest. Not sleep, but light rest, and brought on by physical exhaustion. After some mental persuasion, he brought himself to clean his face, wash warm water through his hair and fix himself up for the rest of the day.

It was hard to keep a straight face when you knowingly fuck up. It was harder to try and make it appear as though it had always been part of the plan.

Crocodile walked out of his bedroom, right hand struggling to tidy up the left side, pulling up the cuff as best he could. He hated the way the sleeve dangled now. Crocodile had enough issues with wondering how clothes would look on him. He was tall, broad, and didn't carry a shapely form like most, but the act of dressing had always been an uncomfortable experience. The dangling, messy look of his left sleeves privately drove him insane, reminding him of Whitebeard and the fact that he had gotten caught, again.

Again! Crocodile would have laughed if he could, but after buying himself a nice car, a few extra suits, some cigars, books, kitchenware, and a garnet ring, he was finding it difficult to look at his fuck-up as being a simple mess-up. He had already lost a hand. He had been given his warning.

And it had been three days since.

Crocodile sat himself down in the middle of a sofa, surrounded by all the wonderful toys and decorations he had supplied himself since he had started his business. Everything was new, expensive, and it all belonged to him. The house was paid for. The Italian leather was all paid for. Each ring decorating his right hand was his. The car outside was fully purchased on the spot, much to the dismay of the company attempting to make profit from it.

And now Crocodile was wondering what would become of all his things once Whitebeard and his men made their second appearance.

There was a solid, single knock at the door. Crocodile relaxed into his seat, letting his stare become lidded as he brought himself to slowly inhale and exhale, fixing into a nice pattern, and forcing himself into a calm state. He heard the door open. Crocodile reached out to his side and opened a small, furnished wood box, and took a cigar from it.

"Mr. 0." A cold and collected voice called and made its way into the living room. Crocodile pulled out a lighter, letting his eyes rest as he placed it on the side, cutting the tip from his cigar as the sounds of footsteps grew closer.

The pseudo name was for practical reasons. Crocodile despised the idea of getting close to others. He had learned the mistake of making friends, giving away secrets, and allowing certain weakness to arise. None of his associates, save a certain woman, knew his real identity, only referring to him by the number he had assigned himself.

Naturally, power structure worked a certain way, and Crocodile was aware of the identities of his more active agents. Beyond a certain number, Crocodile couldn't care less, but certain people under him were worth learning the names of. At the very least, he would only come into possession of more power by having their information memorized.

Finally, after the walking ceased, and after the silence in the room grew to a thick, unbearable still, he asked, "What?"

Crocodile looked up at the large, dark man standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking almost uncharacteristically impatient. Daz Bones. He had given the man a very prestigious title, and seeing him staring down at him with such an unusual look left a sour taste in Crocodile's mouth.

He brought the cigar to his lips. "This better be good, Mr. 1."

"Miss All-Sunday has procured a hostage," the man answered.

Crocodile shrugged, bringing the lighter to the end of the cigar. "Wonderful," he muttered. "And what am I to make of that, exactly?"

Daz remained at attention, his dark pupils resting on Crocodile's relaxed shape. Crocodile was pleased to see that he wasn't giving any mixed signals. It was hard enough keeping his thoughts straight.

Daz let a frown form at the ends of his lips. "The man in question claims to be the maker of the cocaine we came into possession of several hours prior."

Crocodile could barely even recall such news. He was sick to his stomach around that time, coughing up whatever he put inside of him as he worried over his survival. He had been wandering around the bedroom, pacing back and forth, waiting to get a call from an unknown caller, letting him know that death was around the corner.

Now Crocodile took in a deep, almost drastic breath as he stared over at Daz, looking almost bored of the news. "And?" he asked.

"He and a few of his associates have made a mess at the warehouse," Daz answered.

The warehouse being one of many expensive two-story bedroom homes, each one located at the center of a very nice, quiet neighborhood. Crocodile liked having his power and product in plain view. He'd have it on full display if it were possible. There were risks to hiding drugs and stolen arms in the middle of nice neighborhoods, and now Crocodile was getting yet another taste of what might occur if he didn't take every little potential consequence in to consideration.

"What's the damage?" he asked, letting warm stream of smoke trail out of his mouth.

"None of the associates were killed," Daz responded.

Crocodile made sure not to jump up from his seat. "What?" he also made sure to keep his voice as flat as possible, not letting on that this news was the last thing he needed after three days of high-level stress.

"We have his product in our possession," Daz continued. Crocodile could make out the small droplets of sweat beginning to develop on the man's forehead.

It looked as though things were getting out of hand. Crocodile refused to believe he had hired numbskulls to perform the simple task of loading a bullet into another human's head. How was it possible that his subordinates could fuck up on such a procedure?

"Everything is compromised," he growled. He took his cigar and placed it on the ashtray, letting his chin rest on top of his hand.

"We have him as our hostage," he heard Daz point out. As if that changed anything.

He stared at the smoke floating from the tip of his cigar. "Which warehouse?" he asked.

"The one on Rainbase Avenue," Daz answered.

He felt the bottom of his eyelid twitch. "And Miss All-Sunday?" he asked.

"Is waiting on your orders," Daz finished. Which meant she was alive and well, and could be punished for allowing this to happen.

Crocodile liked that house. He had given it to Robin with the expectations that she would take care of it for him. She was supposed to live in it and keep up appearances. There were a lot of nice things in that house. He bought her a lot of nice things! And now he was supposed to just accept the fact that he might have to abandon it?

"She has his mobile phone," he heard Daz add. "If you'd like, we may try reaching his–"

"Let the bastard rot," Crocodile grumbled. He dismissively waved his hand over at Daz, no longer caring for the topic.

He got caught taking and selling Whitebeard's property. The location of his favorite warehouse was compromised. Robin was in need of some punishment.

Today had reached its low point, and Crocodile took his cigar, feeling the need to distract his anxiety with nicotine and heat filled lungs.

"You can leave now, Mr. 1," he muttered, letting his stare hit the ground.

"Would you like to see what we were able to collect from the mules, sir?"

Crocodile inhaled. Right, Robin still had her uses.

He looked back at the large bounty hunter and let his harsh stare ease a few notches, just enough for the man to know he was fine with this one suggestion. Daz left the room in silence, leaving Crocodile to mull over his unlucky position in the universe for a few minutes more, before Daz reappeared with a large duffle bag.

He carefully placed the bag in front of Crocodile, unzipping it and showing off the contents inside. There had to be well over two hundred pellets. Although he was sick to his stomach, Crocodile couldn't help but be impressed. He leaned forward and took one with his hand, hoping to admire it up close. A closer inspection showed that the quality of the casing wasn't too impressive. Crocode suspected a constipated mule would end up with a serious overdose with how thing it looked. The pellet itself was rather large, the shape less than perfect. If Robin hadn't done away with the mule, odds were passing it would have been more than uncomfortable.

"Beginner's work," he commented. Quantity aside, this was not the uplifting news he needed. He tossed the pellet back into the bag and reclined back into the couch.

"We had Mr. 3 test the purity."

Crocodile wouldn't have cared were it not for the change of tone in Daz's voice. The man was not known for being expressive. And at that moment he informed his boss of the test, Crocodile could detect just a dash of excitement in Daz' voice. He pulled his cigar away from his chapped lips, giving him a better view of the giant man's smirk.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"It's high quality stuff," Daz answered. "Not as pure as Whitebeard, but pretty damn close. You'd think he was in contact with a Yonko or something, that's how nice it was."

Crocodile pulled his lips in as he reevaluated the pile of filled pellets.

"Mr. 1, where's this chemist from?"

"American," Daz answered. "He has the same accent as you do."

Someone from the west? And this chemist had made so many mistakes since he–no–since before he had even arrived.

Crocodile counted the errors in his head. The mules had been left unoccupied. The mules had been taken to the warehouse and had been cleaned out. The casings were uneven, at risk of bursting. The fact that Crocodile possessed these pellets meant that they had failed to be sent to the proper buyer. And the chemist, not someone better equipped to kill, had been sent. There has been a shootout. And now the chemist was in his custody.

Was it just an American thing to screw up? Because if that were so, then Crocodile would be allowed a moment to relax, just a for a second to emotionally catch up with himself and compare this mess to whoever was stupid enough to have all of this happen.

"There are no American Yonko," Crocodile stated.

There was that Irishman that Mihawk was in cahoots with. Shanks. Was it possible? That little redhead that Mihawk had taken under his wing so many years back? And hadn't that man grown up not too far from where Crocodile once resided? Last he heard, the guy left the states to set business in Europe. At least that was what Mihawk had mentioned. Shanks could be doing anything right now, with the power he had achieved in the last few years. Mihawk had said the man could very well be replacing Whitebeard in ten years or so…was it possible Shanks might be involved in this?

Crocodile was sure that the odds were close enough to zero for it to not matter. He also was under the impression that Mihawk would have taken the liberty to warn him about such matters, should they actually spring up.

Could it possibly be Yonko product?

He looked down at the pile of cocaine filled pellets. Crocodile had sampled Whitebeard's drugs before. He was going to get assaulted sooner or later, the least he could do for himself was get high and–

No, this was not an option. Crocodile silently chastised himself for letting his mind wander and rest on such juvenile thoughts. He was better than this. Things were not going his way, but Crocodile knew he had the ability to control himself.

"This is as good as Yonko product?" Crocodile stated aloud.

"Yes, sir," Daz replied. "And the man said he was the one who had made it, so–"

"I wonder what Whitebeard will have to say about that," Crocodile proclaimed, staring down at the bag and its contents.

"Sir?"

Crocodile would not admit that he had fucked up. He practically denied that it was a mess-up on his part at all.

But after so many days of waiting, it was starting to get to him.

He had taken Whitebeard's product, again. He didn't even know it was the warlord's until after selling several pounds of the damn stuff under his name, and it wasn't until he had received a wonderful note from one of Whitebeard's men asking him if they were going to receive the money he had earned selling said drugs did Crocodile realize the horrible mistake. It was one thing to screw up and sell Whitebeard's product after getting caught before, but doing it again, and not even knowing about it until after he had been caught, that was painful. It stung his pride. It made him sick. It was impossibly embarrassing.

And Crocodile didn't want to die.

He had so many nice things.

He had survived worse situations before.

Crocodile knew he couldn't die. He was incapable of such a thing!

He could not die. Not yet.

He came up with his plan.

"I'll make an offering to Whitebeard," he announced. He felt his heart rate speed up the moment he finished his declaration to Daz.

Perhaps these drugs, along with the man who had cooked it all up, would save him.

His heart eased. Crocodile refused to let it show.

"Understand, Mr. 1," Crocodile muttered. He was sure his subordinate would not question his choices, but Crocodile needed to prove his point. He needed to hear it for himself, for it to sound absolutely perfect, and for Daz to agree with it. It had to sound correct. And it had to be done without sounding suspicious.

"This territory belongs to a man who is hell-bent on weeding out any potential competition," Crocodile said, knowing full well that his subordinate already understood this.

"However," Crocodile said, more to himself than to Daz, "providing Whitebeard this man, as well as his product, might distract him from gathering any further information on Baroque Work's movements."

"You think Whitebeard may view this guy as a potential threat?"

Crocodile let his middle and index finger rub against one another and listened to the sounds of metal clicking loudly.

It didn't really matter if the hostage was a threat or not. For all he cared Whitebeard could take the man in and make him into one of his cooks. Crocodile just needed the old gizzard to be distracted long enough to get out of trouble. If he were really lucky, the offering alone would be enough for Whitebeard to forgive him for making such an error.

Crocodile doubted it. But it was better than sitting around and waiting for Whitebeard to make his move against him. Crocodile needed to change. He needed to adapt around this problem, and soon.

"Perhaps," he answered. "Considering the old man's relationship with the other three, notably with Kaido and Big Mom, it wouldn't surprise me if he took the man in and made him one of his own."

His mouth was dry. He needed a drink.

"Whitebeard is getting older," he went on, continuing to assure himself that he was in the right," and Whitebeard needs to work harder in order to maintain his territory and influence. He's going to need more than his precious boy's club to keep him on top." There were more fingers rubbing and more clicking between the two rings. "And he might appreciate the offer."

"So…a potential ally?" Daz muttered. The smile on his face alerted Crocodile that his henchman was agreeing to this idea of his. Crocodile would have been proud of himself for having come up with such an idea, but every word he had uttered since waking up was covered in a thick layer of lies and self preservation.

Crocodile seriously doubted he'd ever be allowed a potential candidate for a comrade. He had called it a "boy's club" for a reason. Not that Crocodile required such things. He didn't need help, nor did he want a Yonko breathing down his back. He just wanted the warlord out of his way.

Whether this cook ended up joining the ranks or getting killed for producing and attempting to sell in Whitebeard territory mattered little to Crocodile. The man just wanted to live and enjoy his many things.

Daz looked down at the bag. "Shall I have someone make contact with one of Whitebeard's men?"

"No," Crocodile almost snapped. Daz raised his head up, looking alert. "That certainly won't be necessary," Crocodile growled.

"Sir?"

"I'll be the one arranging all the details," Crocodile insisted. He got up from his seat, taking his cigar along with him, letting it play between his fingers as he gave himself a second to bring himself back to his weary self.

He brought the cigar to his lips and inhaled again, letting his slow words leave a nice trail of smoke as he walked out of the room, "I've a few words I need to say to the man anyways…you can just go and have all that unwrapped and packaged."

"And the hostage?"

Crocodile cackled. "Our cook?" he asked.

The American cook who wandered down to Whitebeard territory, hoping to make a quick buck, now trapped in Crocodile's basement, possibly fretting over his own existence. The mules Robin had ensnared for him had mentioned something about heading east. Crocodile had not taken in all the little details. He had ben so sick to his stomach at that point. He was still feeling sick, almost to the point of his mind creating cramps where they ought not to be occurring. But the fool had gone all the way down south in order to get his drugs back. And now Crocodile would have to consider moving several things out of Rainbase. But losing a warehouse was better than losing a life. This cook might very well lose his life.

What could he possibly say about such a man?

Crocodile looked down at the cigar in his hands, feeling more ashamed of himself for letting such a mistake occur.

He was lucky this man had come down.

It made him feel just a little bit better about his situation.

And now Crocodile would take advantage of that man's misery in order to not mentally dwell on his own. "Tell Miss All-Sunday that she needs to interrogate the man." Crocodile brought the cigar back to his thin lips and took another deep inhale of the strong fumes. "There is a lot about this man that we don't know about…and I'd rather gain some information on our American friend before sending him off to Whitebeard."

Crocodile headed back to the direction of his room. He'd need a special prosthetic for this occasion, and he had just the right one in mind. "Who knows," he added, feeling a long, cruel smile form, "he might very well be related to someone famous…and then we'd have something worth selling off to the warlord."

He managed a small chuckle before shutting the door behind him.


Crocodile had managed to stop himself from smacking Robin across the face when she had appeared at the front door, opening it and letting him pass through without so much as a flinch when he turned and faced her.

But then she had started talking. From the moment the woman had opened her mouth, it seemed like all Crocodile could do was keep himself stiff and still, barely holding on to himself as she began to relay all the information she had collected about their hostage. Never had there been an instance where Crocodile wanted to break from his regular, passive composure and just grab the woman and throw her across the floor, step on her beautiful face with the sole of his shoe and watch her calm demeanor break. He wanted to rip her apart. He wanted to punish her for ruining everything. He quite liked this neighborhood, and had given her this warehouse because he had liked it so much. It was a nice house. A nice neighborhood, and it had such wonderful things inside of it. How could she have let this happen?

But…

But Crocodile stood at the door to the basement, letting his hands rest on the knob as she stood behind him, just inches away, her svelte form an arm's length away from being grabbed and attacked, should he decide to simply let go and have his way with her.

"Mihawk?" he asked.

"He had called the man," Robin said. Her voice was so unlike its usual self. It pissed Crocodile off to no end to have her voice shake. He hated her for letting that side of her show. She knew better!

"And?" he added, bringing his hand away from the knob.

"Your name came up," she replied. "They both spoke of you as though the man already knew of your presence."

He told himself that Robin had done her job. She had successfully interrogated the man and gathered the information necessary for Crocodile to inflict the right judgment and make his next move. There was no reason for him to make a remark about the information she had received, no matter how much is disturbed him.

But…

"Mihawk and Kaido," Robin stated in disbelief. "It seems almost…impossible to conceive, no?"

Crocodile looked over his shoulder and eyed the young woman.

Of course it was impossible to imagination. Mihawk was already in a perfect relationship with another dangerous man, one far younger, and halfway across the world. Mihawk would never send...no, it wasn't even possible. None of this was real. This was all a…

But…

"Are you quite sure you got the name right?" Crocodile asked her. He had wanted to sound as threatening as possible. He sounded weak. It made him sick. He wanted to grab her and forced her to the wall. He wanted to prove himself more than ever who he really was, and all he could think about was the last time he and that boy had been together, how weak and pathetic he had allowed himself to become.

He had made the mistake to let someone in, and now he was suffering from it. He was still suffering from it, years later, and would continue to for the rest of his life, so long as he retained that memory of being torn apart by him.

And he could not forget such a memory. "Doflamingo Donquixote," she said aloud.

Crocodile wanted to hit her right on the mouth for saying that name. She was a pretty little thing, and the last Crocodile desired was to have his favorite things engaging in disgusting behavior. Robin had no right to say such a despicable name. She was already in enough trouble for letting a bunch of drug dealers follow her to his house, and letting them run amok and destroy his window. She would have to be dealt with later, once this was all over, or just enough for Crocodile to think straight and find an appropriate means of punishment.

Perhaps after he had several of his men clean out this house.

Crocodile sighed, turning away from her and back at the door. "Doflamingo…called Mihawk?"

He had trusted Mihawk to keep quiet about things.

"Yes," Robin answered. "And according to what you've already mentioned, that man is working under Shanks."

Crocodile nodded his head. "We've nothing to fear," he said in a half-lie. "Mihawk has no interest in working with Kaido."

"Are you suggesting I've been tricked?" she asked, sounding a little offended by the idea.

"No," he admitted.

No. Doflamingo wouldn't just come up with that name. Nobody would. Kaido was a mysterious man. Nobody would just throw his name out in a conversation without considering what might occur afterwards. If Doflamingo was really here, and if he had the gall to bring up such a name, then that meant Doflamingo was in far greater trouble than he was.

But…

But this made little sense.

Crocodile was already in enough trouble with Whitebeard, a powerful, well-known name in the drug business. What were the odds of Doflamingo would get himself in the same mess, and with a man so influential in the black market?

And what were the odds of them being here, together, under the same roof?

Crocodile liked to believe this was the only reason he didn't want to open the door. The idea that he might be entering a situation where he'd have to deal with not just one, but two different Yonko, frightened him. He already knew he lacked the resources and subordinates to bring down Whitebeard. Kaido was a whole different story.

And he sure as hell didn't believe for one second that Doflamingo was a cook.

Yes, that was it. Because, no matter what was on the other side of the door, Crocodile knew he would be in a greater position of power. Robin had told him how she had treated their honored guest. She had told him of the damaged she had done.

Crocodile felt his smile tremble at the thought.

"Thank you for your time, Miss All-Sunday," he uttered out. It almost hurt to speak. "I need you to contact several of our Frontier Agents and have them clean this place out while I make my final decision on the hostage situation."

"Yes sir," she answered back.

"Contact our Officer Agents and inform them that they'll need to be prepared, should I decide to contact Whitebeard," Crocodile added.

But…but if it was Doflamingo?

He heard Robin begin to walk away, her heels sounding treacherous to his frail mind. And then they suddenly stopped. "Anything else?" he heard her ask.

If it was Doflamingo, and he was in trouble, and he sure wasn't worth the effort trying to offer up to Whitebeard, and Crocodile had nothing to give the man, not that the trade was guaranteed to work anyways, what then?

What would he do to assure his survival then?

"That will be it," he answered.

He waited for her to leave the vicinity before he hesitantly grabbed the doorknob again, letting it grow warm in the palm of his hands before shaking his left arm, feeling the weight of his golden hook hang from his side.

Crocodile turned the knob and opened the door, breathing in a foul smell, and stared down into the dark room. His mouth watered, and his nostrils flared. He would have to make a point to have this basement cleaned out if he was to proceed with any enactments of torture.

It was silent. Crocodile leaned in and stared into the dark room, unwilling to turn on any light source. He told himself it was unnecessary. He took a step inside of the basement, letting his shoe rest on the first step of the stairway. There was a bit of creaking, which unsettled him, so much so that Crocodile had to stop and remind himself who was in control, who was in power. It felt good. Good enough for him to flick the lights on and continue from there.

By the third step down he had a decent view of the limp body that had been left in the middle of the room. Even with the chair in the way, he could make out the long, thin legs. He saw the unusual choice of clothing and felt himself grow increasingly uncomfortable.

Another step down, and he saw the blond hair stained with dry blood. Crocodile stopped himself, holding onto the railing as he let the image burn in his mind. The small pool of blood collected around the head made him wonder if maybe the man was dead, and then he'd nothing to fear other than the eventual loss of his own life. But he could already tell some light breathing was taking place, which meant that Crocodile had no choice but to press onward, feeling his legs grow heavier and his step more forced as he continued to make his way down.

By the time he had finished making his way down Crocodile was no longer looking over at the limp body.

He already knew it was Doflamingo. It had to be Doflamingo. Fate wouldn't have allowed it any other way. And even though Crocodile was destined to never be free from that man's grasp, he couldn't instantly bring himself to look him in the eyes. Instead he stared at one of the walls, letting his hand linger at his side, at the holster and the handgun he had on him.

It wasn't the same handgun he had threatened to use on Doflamingo. This gun was brand new, and unlike the handgun he had bought so many years ago, this one had the privilege of actually being used. And this one was expensive. And it looked so nice. But Crocodile almost wanted to call for Robin and have her fetch his old, unused, waste of money, illegally purchased handgun and wait for Doflamingo to wake up, just so he could shoot the rest of his face off with it.

But guns were quick. If he were to face Doflamingo and those demons, then he'd have to take another approach. Crocodile wanted to make a game of this. So he removed his hand from the gun, leaning and resting against the wall of the small room, turning his head slightly to catch a glimpse of the man's legs.

It reeked of rotting flesh and stomach acid, and the knot in Crocodile's stomach was the only thing keeping him from throwing up what little he had in his stomach. He supposed the rancid stench was best. Disgusting acts ought to be performed in equally disgusting settings. There was a reason why the house he dwelled in held no secrets, and a reason why he had Robin live in this one.

Another slight turn of the head, and he captured more of the man's mangled image. He shivered. This wasn't like him. He was stronger than this.

But…

Crocodile removed himself from the wall and turned to face Doflamingo's resting form. The man was bound to a chair. There was blood covering the entire left half of his head. Crocodile couldn't really tell, but it looked as though his left eye socket had received some serious damage from the fall. It looked purple. Swollen. Crocodile would need to get closer in order to determine whether stuffing a finger into Doflamingo's eye would be worth the fun or not.

Either way, he'd stuff something into the man.

Crocodile felt his bottom lip tremble. His legs began to shake.

He took a step over, and then he realized he could make all sorts of delightful holes all over Doflamingo. He noticed how much Doflamingo had grown since he had last seen him, and suddenly Crocodile was wondering how well a potential trade with Whitebeard would even go. Assuming Doflamingo was even a cook to begin with, and the two of them weren't completely screwed by their situations, what were the odds Doflamingo would save him from certain death? Whitebeard had already warned him about selling in his territory, and the man wasn't one to provide second chances. Crocodile had the unluckiest luck in the world to be offered the opportunity to live, but only after having hands travel all over him, after losing his own, and having men mock him and tell him that he'd never be like them.

Crocodile could feel a grin spreading and hurting across his face as he stopped right in front of Doflamingo. The poor man was passed out, unsuspecting of what horrible things were in store. Or maybe Doflamingo had an idea. After all, this room was filled with all sorts of manmade devices that Crocodile had amassed over the years. Even if Robin had only kept the lights on for a minute, there would have been enough time for Doflamingo to take a look at what had happened to the drug mules lying limp on the table.

Crocodile's golden eyes looked around the room, fixated on all the disturbing paraphernalia that he could inflict upon Doflamingo.

He could make the blond regret ever having come into existence.

But!

There was always the small chance that Doflamingo was a genius, and that the drugs that were in Crocodile's possession had been made painstakingly by the blond. All he had to do was ask. It wouldn't hurt. And Doflamingo, despite being a fool, couldn't deny that it was better to live under the cruel reign of Whitebeard, than it was to die by Crocodile's even crueler hand. Maybe the two of them could reach some kind of agreement. They were adults.

Crocodile dropped to his knees, causing a small stir from Doflamingo, but not enough to wake him from his deep rest. With his only hand supporting part of his weight, Crocodile was left with the hook to reach out with, letting it carefully hover above Doflamingo's face for several seconds, Crocodile unsure of how to proceed without the use of touch, before letting it drop down to make contact with the face.

The hook made contact with the cheek, and Crocodile saw how much thinner and angular Doflamingo had become since he was sixteen. The jaw was formed. The body muscular. Not as thick as Crocodile's, but still impressive. And although Doflamingo was in a fixed sitting position, Crocodile had a hunch that the young man was taller than him.

He lifted his hook away. Crocodile blinked and noticed that he had lowered himself further, that he was closer to Doflamingo, and that a few of his hairs had gone out of place, and his heart was racing, his mind growing lighter, only filled with sick ideas of where to penetrate Doflamingo and with what tools, and that horrible, unbearable, longing that was taking place between his legs.

"I guess we're going to die then," he rasped, feeling his entire being shake with some excitement as he let his gaze rest on the left half of Doflamingo's bloodied up face.


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