Chapter Text
Author’s Note:
Hey there! Just a little heads-up before you dive in—this fanfic is a mix of One Piece canon and my own alternate universe ideas. I’ve carefully rearranged parts of the original timeline and added my own twists specifically to bring Buggy more into the spotlight (because let’s be honest—he deserves it).
That means some events might play out differently, character roles might shift, and the story may not follow the exact path you know from the manga or anime. If something seems “off,” it’s probably on purpose This is the One Piece world reimagined with Buggy at the heart of it all. I’m just here to explore the “what ifs” and have fun with it—and I hope you will too!
Thanks so much for reading 💙
— THEFINISHED
The battlefield was quiet now. Or maybe Buggy just couldn’t hear anymore.
The scent of smoke and blood clung to the air, thick like tar, and somewhere far away, Luffy was screaming his name—but it sounded warped, like an echo from the bottom of the ocean. His body was broken, crumpled in a crater of ash and ruined earth, arms outstretched as if trying to shield the boy who would one day become King.
Funny.
He always thought he’d die a joke.
Instead, he died a hero no one would remember.
Buggy grinned through split lips, the blood on his gums dark as rust. "Guess the universe really went all out with the punchline, huh?" he croaked to no one in particular. The red nose was gone—blasted off in the first hit—and his makeup smeared with the dirt and fire. For the first time in years, his real face stared up at the night sky.
And the moon... was crying.
No. Not the moon. Something else.
A low hum filled the air, like a lullaby sung by the stars themselves. The clouds parted, not with sunlight, but with light. Silvery, cold, and ancient. A crack in the world split open above him, smooth and glowing like a wound in time. From its core, a soft, ethereal orb floated down—small enough to fit in his palm, glowing like moonlight in water.
“Moon-Moon Fruit,” a voice whispered. Not from above, not from around him, but from within.
A gift? Or a curse?
Buggy reached for it. His fingers trembled as they grazed the surface. And suddenly—
He was falling.
No, rising.
No, unraveling.
Time bent. Space buckled. His body dissolved into light and memory, all while the world folded in on itself like paper. He saw flashes—a younger Shanks, Roger laughing, Luffy grinning with a straw hat too big for his head, Ace... Ace still alive.
And then—
Silence.
Buggy woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, face buried in a wildflower field under a soft blue sky. The sea murmured nearby, and gulls cried overhead.
His hands were smooth. Unscarred. He touched his cheek. The make up is there, his red nose present… where is he?
Younger. Stronger. Not yet broken.
A small shell lay beside him in the sand—a snail-sized, shimmering fruit the color of moonlight.
Buggy stared at it, breath caught in his throat.
“…Guess the joke’s not over yet.”
He spoke as he looked at the fruit in his hand. A moon shaped devil fruit.
He gulped as he looked around, not knowing where he is as he looked down at the fruit. His not hopeless like the world thinks he is. Buggy has his own knowledge about devil fruits and also got curious to study one.
Yet, the realization hit him fast. The sand was cold beneath his fingers. Not the heat of battle.
Not the roar of Marines or the scream of a dying Pirate King’s brother.
Just wind. And quiet. And the silver-blue glow of the moon casting long shadows across the dunes. His throat burned like fire, lungs trying to breathe in a world that had already moved on without him.
And there—cradled in his trembling palm—was a Devil Fruit.
Unmistakably unnatural. Smooth, swirled, pale as bone with a faint shimmer—like starlight soaked into flesh. It pulsed in his hand. Like it had waited.
For him.
“…No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, that’s not—”
He scrambled back, sand cascading from his clothes. His heartbeat crashed in his ears.
“I died,” he muttered, hands gripping his head, voice hoarse. “I died. I remember dying. I was bleeding out—I destroyed the clue—the last map fragment to Laugh Tale. They were going to tear the seas apart looking for it and I—”
He stared at his hands. Whole. No blood. No wounds.
“I was supposed to die... not Ace.”
Silence again. A cold realization settling on his shoulders like frost.
He looked at the fruit.
“…So why… the hell… do I have this?”
The Moon-Moon Fruit.
The waves hissed in the dark like they were afraid of touching him. Salt sprayed gently across the shore, but he didn’t feel it. Couldn’t.
Buggy sat there, motionless.
The stars didn’t move. The world didn’t speak. Only the fruit did. Quietly. In his hand.
It shimmered faintly, as if it was absorbing the moonlight.
Pale and smooth. A sickly silver-gray, like it had been soaked in centuries.
Etched with curling patterns too perfect to be natural. Too wrong to be real.
He didn’t breathe for a long time.
“…Moon Moon Devil Fruit… doesn’t exist,” he whispered hoarsely. His voice cracked like the air had dried it out.
He stared harder. “It… it doesn’t—I looked for this. Vegapunk said it was myth. A placeholder name. A theory. A fruit that could bend time through gravitational echo or—no. No.”
He dropped it.
Or tried to, his damn fingers wouldn’t let go.
His hand wouldn’t move.
Like the fruit knew.
His lips parted, breath hitching. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
“Why…” he whispered, his throat tightening. “Why am I holding one?”
No answer. Not from the sea, not from the sky, not from the Devil Fruit. Only the wind howled back, cold and cruel. Like it was laughing. He blinked hard, eyes stinging, chest beginning to rise and fall too fast, like it couldn’t hold the pressure building inside.
“I died.”
His voice was smaller now. A boy’s voice. A voice that had been held under water, under war, under decades of screaming and blood.
“I died protecting him. I chose to die. That was it. That was the end. That was the deal.”
He doubled over, gripping the Moon-Moon Fruit tight like it might vanish.
“I destroyed the last map to Laugh Tale. I burned it so they wouldn’t hunt him. So they'd think it died with me—that clue. That cursed last clue. They would’ve torn Luffy apart.”
The name shattered from his mouth, more memory than word. He looked at his own reflection in the fruit’s slick surface. This wasn’t the broken man who bled out at the foot of a burning execution platform. This was him. Years younger. Stronger. Before.
He was back. He was back.
He let out a noise. Something between a breath and a scream.
"Why am I holding this!?" he shouted at the ocean, the stars, at fate itself. "Why the hell—why me!? WHY NOW!?"
The wind kept blowing.
His fingers curled tighter around the fruit.
Tears burned his eyes before he even realized they’d started falling.
And then, quieter than before, a whisper no one heard: “…What the hell am I supposed to do with a second chance?”
He was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone. But time had already chosen him.
And the fruit?
The fruit never lied.
He had seen it before. In papers, in whispers. A failed project. A theoretical Devil Fruit said to be tied to time and memory, discovered in debris that Vegapunk once claimed "shouldn’t exist yet."
Its abilities? Never activated. Never claimed. Lost.
Until now.
Buggy slowly rose to his feet. The wind caught his loose shirt, fluttering like the last page of a closed book.
Everything was wrong.
The world… The sky… His body.
“…This is the past,” he whispered. “This isn’t Marineford. This isn’t after. This is before it all. This is before Ace dies. Before Luffy becomes…”
He staggered.
His knees nearly gave.
“I came back.” His voice cracked. “I came back.”
A beat of silence. Then he stared at the fruit again, eyes wide.
“…Vegapunk,” he muttered. “I need to see Vegapunk. I need—” he choked on his own breath, laughing. “Oh, hell. I hate that bastard but I need him.”
He turned slowly, gaze lifting to the stars above.
☀️☀️☀️ 🌑🌑🌑
The Moon-Moon Fruit sat wrapped in cloth, tied tight, hidden inside his satchel like a loaded gun.
Even now, Buggy swore he could feel it pulsing against his side — not warm, not cold — just there. A quiet, steady reminder that everything was broken.
His boots crunched against dry gravel as he walked.
No crew.
No sails.
No noise but his own footsteps and the voice in his head screaming every five minutes that this was a bad idea.
“I hate this,” Buggy muttered under his breath. “I hate this. I hate him. He’s smug. He’s creepy. His hair makes no sense. Why the hell does it look like a brain!?”
He kicked a rock. Hard.
The rock didn't deserve it.
But he kept walking.
His loose, light clothes flapped in the highland wind as he crossed into the edge of a winter island — a long-disused trail that led toward the remains of Egghead’s lesser satellites, abandoned labs, fieldwork stations. Vegapunk was never in one place, but he was reachable. With the right whispers. With enough risk. With enough guts.
Buggy had all three.
Unfortunately.
He gritted his teeth, glancing at the sky. "Of all the people in the world I have to crawl to, it had to be him."
Then, quieter, sharper:
“…But he was with Luffy.”
That made it worse. Or better. He didn’t know.
The name had a new kind of weight now. A name from the future that hadn’t happened yet.
A kid he’d once sworn to protect, now younger, smaller, and somehow — still on a collision course with destiny.
Buggy shook his head violently.
“Why did I come back?” he whispered to himself, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Why me? Why not Ace? Or Sabo? Or hell, even Rayleigh? Why the clown?”
There was no answer.
Only the wind.
Only that strange, silent pressure of the Moon-Moon Fruit against his ribs.
And his own memory— Flashes of fire. Of Luffy screaming. Of blood in his mouth and the unbearable silence that followed. He exhaled sharply through his nose, walking faster.
"Don’t think about it," he hissed. “Think forward. Think Vegapunk. He’s the only one who might know what this damn thing does. If anyone understands a Devil Fruit that shouldn't exist, it’s that sleep-deprived freak.”
His pace quickened.
Because the truth was, even Buggy the Clown — jester, pirate, second-rate warlord with a death wish — knew one thing with crystal clarity:
If the Moon-Moon Fruit had truly brought him back… Then something bigger than fate was moving.
And it was only a matter of time before the world noticed.
The lab wasn’t flashy.
It was hidden in a limestone cliff, partially buried by rockslides, shielded by camouflage tech that flickered every now and then like a drunk mirror.
No guards. Just drones. Surveillance snails that blinked and twitched as Buggy walked toward them, arms out, palms open.
“I come in peace,” he grumbled. “I also come in frustration, exhaustion, and desperate, caffeine-deprived rage, but peace is in there somewhere.”
A door opened with a hiss.
And just like that, he was inside.
Metal walls. Screens. Machinery that looked twenty years too advanced. Steam vents. Scattered tools. The smell of solder and anxiety.
And at the far end, a man with an absurdly large head — a brain so expanded it arched into a translucent dome of fluid and metal. White lab coat. Floating boots.
Eyes as sharp as his tongue.
Dr. Vegapunk.
He turned, blinking once.
“…You're Buggy the Clown,” he said slowly, voice almost offended by the fact.
“Warlord Buggy the Clown,” Buggy snapped, arms crossed. “Geez, no respect.”
Then, more serious: “I need your help.”
Vegapunk gave him a long, flat look. “Why would I help a pirate who made a name off splitting himself into floating body parts and slapstick war crimes?”
“Because I have this,” Buggy said, pulling out the cloth bundle from his satchel. He unwrapped it — slowly, carefully — revealing the Moon-Moon Fruit.
Vegapunk’s pupils dilated instantly.
“…You made this,” Buggy accused quietly.
“No,” Vegapunk whispered, stepping closer. His tone shifted — from insulted genius to stunned scientist. “No, I theorized it. Decades ago. As a thought experiment. A hypothetical Paramecia that reacts to lunar tidal forces and quantum time collapse. It was never real. It wasn’t supposed to be real.”
Buggy watched him with a tight jaw.
Vegapunk’s fingers hovered above the fruit like it might explode. “Where did you get this?”
“I’m not telling you that.”
Vegapunk stared at him.
Buggy leaned forward, eyes sharp beneath the clown paint.
“I don’t know what it does. I don’t know why I have it. I don’t know if eating it will kill me, turn me into the moon, or reverse gravity so hard my organs shoot out of my ears. And I don’t trust anyone else with it.”
Vegapunk tilted his head. “So why come to me?”
“Because you’re the smartest man alive,” Buggy muttered. “Unfortunately.”
Silence stretched.
Buggy looked away. “I don’t have a lot of time. I need to know what this thing is. What it wants. What I’m supposed to do with it.”
Vegapunk slowly took a breath. Then nodded.
“Alright. I’ll run tests. But it’ll take time.”
Buggy hesitated. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
A beat. Then—
“I’m not paying you,” Vegapunk warned.
“I’ll steal your shoes in your sleep.”
Vegapunk turned. “You’re as unbearable as they said.”
Buggy grinned wide. “Then it’s good to be predictable.”
But beneath the grin…
He was screaming.
He hadn’t lied. He truly didn’t know what the Moon-Moon Fruit wanted.
But he did know what it had already done.
It had brought a dead man back. And now, in a timeline where his still Buggy The Clown that exist, where Ace still lived, and Luffy hadn’t yet set the world ablaze— Buggy had just walked into the most dangerous role of his life.
The Moon-Moon Fruit sat at the center of the diagnostics chamber — suspended midair by mechanical arms and light fields, spinning slowly under intense scans. Screens blinked and pulsed. A robotic voice repeated the same thing every time a scan ended:
"ANALYSIS ERROR."
"SIGNATURE UNKNOWN."
"PREDICTIVE MODEL — FAIL."
Buggy sat slumped on a bench in the corner, arms crossed tightly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the fruit since the tests began.
It just sat there.
Silent. Steady. But it pulsed every so often — a faint rhythm like a heartbeat — especially when he got too close.
He hated it. He hated it. He HATED it.
“…Why was it just a hypothesis?” Buggy asked, not looking at Vegapunk. His voice was low, rough. “Why did you write it off like it was fake? And why does it exist now?”
Vegapunk didn’t answer at first. He was typing. Fast.
“The Moon-Moon Fruit was an idea,” the doctor muttered. “A what-if. I theorized about Devil Fruits tied to gravity and lunar tides — fringe stuff. The kind of theories that make other scientists mock you at panels. But this… this fruit was only found once. A trace. In a data vault deep in the old Punk Hazard logs. I thought it was fabricated. A lab joke. A hoax.”
Buggy’s eye twitched. “Well,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm, “looks like the hoax found me.”
Vegapunk frowned. “I still don’t know how. The scans show zero predictive alignment with any current Devil Fruit lineage. It’s outside the Paramecia-Logia-Zoan structure. It’s a void-type anomaly. The results are showing—”
“ERROR.”
“—that,” Vegapunk muttered, pointing at the screen.
Buggy threw up his hands. “If the test results aren’t giving you answers, then what should we do?! Cut it in half? Drop it into the sea and hope the moon doesn’t explode?”
Vegapunk turned toward him, serious.
“You should eat it.”
Buggy blinked.
Then stood up slowly, voice rising like a kettle about to scream. “…Do you want to kill me that bad?! I already have a fruit inside me, you chrome-brained lab gremlin!”
Vegapunk remained eerily calm. “It reacts when you’re close, Buggy. It pulses. It doesn't do that with anyone else. You are the variable.”
Buggy took a step back, “Maybe it’s just allergic to clowns!”
“No,” Vegapunk said firmly. “This is the first time I’ve seen this fruit in real life, and you’re the first subject it’s responded to. If it wants to be consumed — and it’s chosen you — then you’re not just holding it by chance. You were meant to.”
Buggy scoffed. “Meant to what, die twice?! You know what happens when a person with one Devil Fruit eats another one, right? They explode.”
Vegapunk nodded. “Yes. That’s the theory.”
Buggy gawked. “THEORY—?!”
“But this isn’t just another fruit. If my readings are even half correct,” Vegapunk said, stepping closer, “this one may not overwrite your current abilities. It may bend them. Fuse. React uniquely to your existence — your biology, your history. Because this fruit shouldn’t exist.”
His voice dropped. “And neither should you.”
Buggy went completely still.
The silence between them thickened.
“…You don’t know anything,” Buggy muttered, half-hearted. “You’re just making this up as you go.”
Vegapunk smiled slightly. “Welcome to science.”
Buggy looked at the fruit again, it pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
And this time, he felt it. In his bones. Like the gravity shifted under him for just a second. He swallowed hard. “...If I die, I’m haunting you,” he muttered. Vegapunk turned back to the console. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Buggy stood in front of the Moon-Moon Fruit, staring.
It stared back. He sighed as he took a bite of the fruit. The fruit was bitter. Not the kind of bitter that stayed on your tongue — but the kind that clawed into your throat, like swallowing the night sky itself. Buggy forced it down, face twisted. “Bleh! I swear, these things get worse every time—” He paused. Blinked. “…I’m fine, I th—”
And then his knees buckled. The world tilted. His vision swam in black and silver. “Buggy!” Vegapunk’s voice sounded distant, tinny, as if from the other side of the ocean. “Your pulse—your body temperature—he’s collapsing!”
Buggy’s last thought before the dark swallowed him was, Oh, great. I’m gonna die looking like an idiot. Again.
Darkness.
Not empty — heavy. It pressed against him like the deep sea. No color. No sound but his own heartbeat.
And then, from the shadows, a voice:
“Joy Boy failed… and you haven’t reached your potential yet.”
Buggy spun around. “What?! Who the hell said that?!”
The dark shimmered, a vague shape emerged — towering, indistinct, its outline shifting like smoke and moonlight. Buggy clenched his fists. “Potential? What potential? I’m just a clown. A pirate with a nose everyone loves to punch!”
“As Buggy D. Silas.”
Buggy froze. His blood ran cold.
“…What did you just call me?”
“That name.”
The voice was calm. Ancient. “That name isn’t said by anyone. Only your mother whispered it when you were born. The world has long forgotten. But not me.”
Buggy’s mouth went dry. His hands trembled. “…Who—what are you?”
“The one who watches. The one who remembers.” The figure leaned closer — though its face was still unseen. “Are you really just a clown, Buggy? Or have you been hiding behind that paint all along?” Buggy laughed — not with humor, but in raw disbelief.
“Yes. Yes, I’m just a clown! I make people laugh when I fall on my face! I’m a sideshow, a mistake, a man who got dragged into history’s shadow because I stood next to Roger! Out of all the people who died, out of all the people who could’ve mattered — you had to choose me?!”
The voice chuckled. Quiet. Knowing. “Well… who would ever think a clown would make a difference?”
Buggy’s breath hitched.
He didn’t have an answer.
The world snapped back like a whip.
Buggy’s eyes shot open — he was on the lab floor, drenched in cold sweat, Vegapunk hovering over him with a scanner. “Buggy?! Can you hear me?”
Buggy blinked, chest heaving. “…I’m alive,” he muttered. “I’m actually—” He sat up too fast, gripping his stomach. “Ugh. That fruit tasted like sea-floor trash, but I’m not dead.”
Vegapunk’s face was a mix of awe and panic. “You… survived. That’s impossible. No one can—” He scanned the data. “The Moon-Moon Fruit… merged with your existing powers. Buggy, your Devil Fruit is—it’s changing.”
Buggy stared at his hands. They felt… different.
He could feel every piece of himself. Each fragment of his body like they had minds of their own.
But all he could think of… was that voice.
"Are you really just a clown, Buggy?"
☀️☀️☀️ 🌑🌑🌑
Buggy didn’t know what hurt more — the taste of the Moon-Moon Fruit or the silence that followed.
He hadn’t died, that much was clear. But his body still felt wrong. Heavy in places. Lighter in others. Like his bones had rearranged themselves without permission. Vegapunk hadn’t stopped scanning him since he woke up, and the tension in the lab was so thick it could snap steel.
“Anything yet?” Buggy asked from the metal bench, voice tight.
Vegapunk didn’t turn. His eyes darted across glowing monitors, hands flying over controls that hissed and whirred. His frown deepened with every line of data.
And then—
One machine chimed.
Vegapunk stilled.
“I have something,” he said quietly, and turned around with a look that was part awe, part terror. “The readings finally stabilized. And I need you to listen.”
Buggy folded his arms. “Great. If this ends with ‘you’re dying again,’ I’m out.”
“No,” Vegapunk said. “You’re evolving.”
The room dimmed as a large panel flickered to life behind him, casting pale blue light over the lab. Diagrams, models, and projections hovered in the air — all focused on Buggy’s outline.
“You didn’t just gain a second Devil Fruit,” Vegapunk explained. “The Moon-Moon Fruit merged with your original powers. That shouldn’t be possible — ever. But you… you’re not exactly normal anymore, are you?”
Buggy looked away. “I never was.”
Vegapunk tapped the display. “Here’s what the Moon-Moon Fruit gave you — or is trying to give you.”
He pointed at the first offered power, Lunar Veil “Light from the moon bends around your body, hiding you in a glowing shimmer. Not full invisibility, but hard to see — like you’re a trick of the light.”
The second, Shadow Moondrop “You can now fall through shadows — especially those cast by moonlight. Your detached limbs might vanish into them and reappear somewhere else.”
The third, Lunar Marionette “Those invisible threads that control your own body? You can now attach them to others. If they step too close, you might be able to move them like puppets.”
The fourth as Buggy felt himself wincing at each tap, Time Mirage “You can leave behind illusions of where you were a few seconds ago — or where you could be. It’s not time travel, but in a fight, it could fool anyone.”
Buggy groaned, as Vegapunk pointed at the next power, Tidal Pull “Your body can increase or lower gravity around you. Pull enemies toward you or make them too heavy to stand.”
The next, Gravity Dismantle “You might be able to pull objects — or even limbs — off people the way you pull your own apart. Dangerous. Violent. Not advised casually.”
Next, Lunatic Drive “Under certain moon phases, your strength and speed might skyrocket. Blood Moons. Eclipses. You may act without thinking.”
Buggy blinked, “I what?!” Vegapunk ignored him and pointed again, Lunar Weapon Creation “You can form temporary weapons out of moonlight. Swords. Chains. Whatever your mind can shape.”
“Actually that might be good” Vegapunk pointed next, Glitch Teleportation “Your body may suddenly ‘jump’ to other locations, especially if moonlight or your own scattered limbs are nearby. Fast. Disorienting. Erratic.”
Moon Vision “You can use the moonlight as a spy vision, I don’t know what’s the drawback but it can your spy camera to look at any enemies. Oh, that’s quiet useful.”
Buggy sat in stunned silence.
Then slowly, quietly, “You’re kidding.”
Vegapunk didn’t laugh. “No. But that’s not all. These powers… they change with the moon.”
He pointed at another screen, this one showing a glowing lunar cycle.
“Full moons? You’ll be stronger. Sharper. More precise. New moons? You’ll feel dull. Like your powers are flickering. But the real danger—”
He tapped three flashing warnings.
Blood Moon. Blue Moon. Lunar Eclipse.
“On those nights,” Vegapunk said, lowering his voice, “your powers might go beyond control. You could lose focus. Change personalities. Or worse—forget who you even are.”
Buggy’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists in his lap.
“…So let me get this straight. I’m basically a glorified disco ball with emotional damage and the moon’s mood swings.”
Vegapunk blinked. “…Yes, that’s actually quite accurate.”
Buggy groaned and dropped back onto the bench. “I’m going to explode. Or implode. Or moonplode.”
“You’re going to need training,” Vegapunk added, now typing again. “You’ve become something rare. Maybe even unique.”
Buggy stared up at the ceiling. He could still feel the echo of that voice — the one he heard when he passed out.
Joy Boy failed… you haven’t reached your potential yet…
He didn’t know what being Buggy D. Silas really meant.
But now?
Now, he wasn’t just a clown with a split body.
He was a gravity-bending, moonlight-haunting, time-flickering problem. And for once in his life… That scared him more than it thrilled him.
☀️☀️☀️ 🌑🌑🌑
The lab was quiet.
Not the hum of silence, but the deep, sterile kind. The kind that made your own breath feel too loud, like it didn't belong.
Buggy sat alone on the edge of a cold metal bench, the distant blinking of dormant machinery casting long shadows against the walls. The monitors had gone dark hours ago. Vegapunk had left — something about calculating atmospheric readings under a lunar compression field. Buggy hadn't listened. He needed the silence.
And now he had it.
He exhaled slowly, long fingers weaving together as his elbows braced against his knees. He stared at the floor. It stared back.
He didn’t want to admit it — not to himself, not to anyone — but his mind had stopped racing. Now it was just drifting. Like a ship at sea with no wind in its sails, pulled gently but relentlessly toward things he didn’t want to face.
The Moon-Moon Fruit.
The way it pulsed when he got angry.
The voice that whispered Buggy D. Silas like it meant something more than mockery.
His eyes narrowed, red nose twitching just slightly as he tilted his head up. The lab ceiling offered no stars, but his memory did.
And there, above it all, was that stupid smile.
That damn straw hat.
“…Stupid brat,” he muttered, rubbing both hands roughly over his face like he could scrub the ache away. “You better be alive right now. You better not be doing anything dumber than usual.”
He lowered his hands, fingers spreading slightly like he was holding something that wasn’t there.
“You don't even remember how many people died for you,” he whispered. “They smiled when they did it too. Like it was some honor to go before you.”
He didn’t say his name. He didn’t need to.
He saw him every time he blinked.
The scar on his chest. The fire in his fists.
Thank you, Silas.
He gritted his teeth and pushed off the bench, pacing now, rubbing the back of his neck like the memories were something physical weighing him down.
He shouldn’t have eaten the fruit.
He shouldn’t have come here.
He shouldn’t have died.
But he did.
And he was still here.
He stopped in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on the far wall like it had said something offensive.
“…If I’m going to do something this time,” he muttered to himself, “then I’m not going to waste it being the sideshow act again.”
He looked down at his hands. They weren’t trembling. That scared him more than if they had been.
Then his voice cut through the stillness.
“Oi, Vegapunk!”
No answer.
Didn’t matter. He raised his voice anyway.
“DO YOU DO SURGERY?!”
A pause.
Somewhere, far in the upper floors of the lab, a door hissed open.
“What kind of surgery?” Vegapunk’s voice filtered down through a speaker, confused but unsurprised. Buggy jabbed a finger at his own face — at the bright, bulbous red nose that had been with him since he could remember.
“This. I want this thing to finally look normal.”
“You want cosmetic surgery,” Vegapunk deadpanned, “I want a tall, pretty, normal nose,” Buggy said solemnly. “I want a nose that screams I’m mysterious and brooding and girls regret breaking up with me.”
“…You want to fix your nose now,” Vegapunk replied. “You just inherited a mythical devil fruit, possibly time-traveled from a doomed future, and are one lunar tantrum away from rewriting physics — and now you care about your nose?”
Buggy leaned dramatically on the nearest table.
“Let me have this, man. I died. Twice. I deserve a nose that doesn’t squeak.”
The comm was silent for a long, long moment.
Finally, “I’ll prep the lab.”
Buggy grinned.
For the first time in days, it felt real.
Everything still hurt — the past, the future, the weight of the moon inside him — but maybe fixing something as stupid and small as his nose was exactly what he needed.
One change at a time.
If his gonna work through this, he needs another identity. Without the red nose, without the face paint, without anything that ties as Buggy the Clown. He’ll be what that being talked about while he move.
Buggy D. Silas.