#01746 birthday bash

[gendervapor14]

01746 birthday bash ~ day four ~ chapter 35: lifesaver

content warnings: implied graphic violence, hostage situation word count: 486 words brief summary: after botching his first mission for the donquixote pirates, doflamingo encourages corazon to set things back on track.

Thankfully, unlike last time, when he whipped the bedroom door open, Señor Pink was nowhere to be seen. Rosinante wandered downstairs, into the kitchen. He wasn’t there either, but Pica was. Seemed to be catching up with a late lunch, as the rain poured on outside. His hair was a little wet, which made sense. He and Señor Pink probably made it back sometime during his shower, in the middle of this storm. “Hey, Corazón. Hungry?”

I just want to know how on earth a person can sound like that. Someone his size, no less. The offer was tempting. He realized the last proper meal he had was last night. Before this physically and mentally exhausting mission. Rosinante, if you keep ignoring your injuries, chain-smoking, not sleeping, and not eating, you’re going to kill yourself before you even have the chance to bring Doffy in. He just politely raised a hand and shook his head, passing through the kitchen before Pica could say another word. Something told him this summon from Doflamingo was of utmost importance. Especially judging from the muffled screams a room over.

When he stood there in the threshold of the living room, the cigarette almost tumbled from stunned fingers. His brother lounged contentedly in his armchair. Vergo stood to his left, instead of Trebol. The spot to his right was empty. Oh, but that’s not really what Rosinante was paying attention to.

The beaten, bound woman and children kneeling there on the floor before him cried out against the rags stuffed in their mouths. Behind them, the manager from the Jets Peak Finance Department. He was restrained as well, bleeding and bruised, but his mouth was unobscured. Behind him, a few nameless grunts stood there with rifles trained to his back.

“There he is.” Doflamingo lilted, awfully pleased about his brother’s appearance. “Seems like you two recognize each other, hmm?”

A tasteless joke. Well, neither party laughed, other than the captain. Rosinante’s baffled eyes jerked from the manager to his brother. Too shaken up to bother writing a thing. How did he rig this up in mere hours?

“Come in, Corazón, no need to make yourself a stranger. This is the man who gave you a hard time, is it not?”

He could shake his head no, but then what? What would that solve? His infantry would probably just set the entire city ablaze. Jaw set, Rosinante crossed the room silently, drawing in a heavy intake from the cigarette, wrists still trembling. Something like this was bound to happen eventually. He tried to blanket himself with Tsuru’s wisdom, but in this moment, actually being here, standing here across from two muted, bawling children and their weary, protective mother, her words escaped him entirely.

He stood at his brother’s right side. His right hand. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

You made the bed, Rosinante. Now Corazón has to lie in it.

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[gendervapor14]

01746 birthday bash ~day three~ chapter 28: rendezvous

content warnings: graphic violence, selective mutism word count: 604 words brief summary: rosinante sees his brother again after 14 years.

The main floor was so dark and chaotic, swarming with confused pirates. Rosinante couldn’t quite make out who had seen him, and who was firing. It was hard enough to see at all. Fuck it. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a grenade, tearing off the pin and whipping it across the room with a soundless Calm spell to really incite the hysteria. He ducked for cover while silently, a mob of pirates erupted. The giant iron shelf that collapsed into the glass office wasn’t nearly as quiet.

Despite the chaos, Rosinante found himself grinning with confidence. He was still in control. There couldn’t be more than a dozen pirates left. This was an impressive feat, working out to his liking. Maybe I could find the captain, get in a scrap with him, and—

With a startled grunt, someone leapt in from behind, pinning him to the ground. His head smacked against the concrete, leaving his entire world spinning. Whoever had assaulted him twisted his arms behind his back in a rough pin that nearly had him crying out. Shit. Why do I bother planning anything…?

“I got ‘em boys! Ha, ha, I got the rat-bastard—!”

A horrible, iron-bending-splitting-screeching echoed across the entire facility. Sunrise poured in. With still-spinning vision, Rosinante glanced over towards the massive garage door that had been pried open through wildly unnatural means.

Now he understood why those agents said just the sight of Doflamingo was enough to freeze blood solid.

“I-Is that…?”

“Do-Doflamingo!?”

“This must be one of his men!”

He stood there with an arm outstretched, backlit in the early morning sun. Just a glimmer of it caught in his lenses as he withdrew his arm, head turning as he took in the sights. The mass destruction, the littered bodies, the smoke. And then, as Rosinante’s crushed lungs puffed out shattered fragments of air, those eyes landed on him.

Fingers twitched. The man atop Rosinante cried out and gurgled. A headless corpse fell there on the ground beside him as the pressure slid off his back. Rosinante just stared, petrified. The Joker’s shoes clicked sharply on the floors, not unlike the sound of high-heels, as every pirate in the room remained entirely still.

Doflamingo paused a distance away from Rosinante. Not yet close for a conversation, or really much of anything. As if he just needed to take a closer look, to confirm that there really was a man lying there on the floor who could be his brother. And then, he turned away, hands out, fingers cricking. Massive worms, no, threads, burst through the walls, the floors. They ripped up foundation like paper, tangling around any remaining criminal and either spearing them through the chest, or beating them against walls until they weren’t even recognizable.

Frozen still, Rosinante just stared.

As Doflamingo eyed around the place, uncomfortably quiet, he lowered his arms, and the massive threads receded into the ground as if they ever belonged there to begin with. Walls crumbled. Dust settled. Swiftly, his head turned down to the floor-bound blond. Another click of a step echoed as he kneeled down, white pants marked with a bit of soot from the earlier explosion, feathers settling almost gracefully over dust and debris.

“Rosinante…?” How dreaded that name could sound, spoken with the voice of the devil himself. “Is it really you?”

The marine stared into those lenses. Harsh. Reflective. Unforgiving. Subhuman. He was left staring at himself, laying there in a dumb, overwhelmed, stupor. A total shutdown. The worst possible scenario.

I’m sorry Sengoku. You were right. I was never ready for this.

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[gendervapor14]

01746 birthday bash ~ day five ~ chapter 50: hopeless

content warnings: heavy angst, alcoholism word count: 577 words brief summary: my take on my favorite scene in law's backstory: rosinante breaking down in tears the night before he becomes just "cora".

happy birthday 01746. my sweet little fucked up story. i can't believe i created you. ♥

Crickets droned on. Law snored softly. Every page was a blur. The sea, the sky, it was all merging together.

Ten hospitals. Six months. All of it, equivalent to nothing.

The fire before him was crackling low, on its way to self-extinguishing. Still hot enough to render paper to ash, little orange worms of hot ember dancing along tattered edges. Lazily, his hand rustled around within the roomy pockets of his coat for any pages left behind. He hardly skimmed them before tossing them in.

“Enemy.” burned quickly. Of course the World Government tainted hospitals. I can’t believe how desperate they are.

“We needed a better plan.” was gobbled up eagerly by hungry flame. So inclined to cover up their own horrible misdeeds, they purposely miseducated trained professionals. People who are trusted with life itself.

“Marines.” fluttered into the fire.  I’ll never wear that justice coat again.

With a defeated belch, Rosinante stared at the sleeping snail planted on top of a stack of sea charts. Receiver firm in hand, anyway. “I wouldn’t pick up if I were you, either. I promised I wasn’t going to do anything stupid.” He mumbled, “Then I quit my mission for half a year. Never called, never looked for you.”

For a moment, he waited for a reply that would never come. Hung his head and let his heavy eyelids flutter shut. “I did exactly what I said I wouldn’t do anymore. I disappeared.”

The receiver hit the dirt without a sound. His hands fisted around the book of sea charts in his lap. His brother’s beloved sea charts. The solution, he thought, the diamond in the rough. He tore out a handful of pages and whipped them over the cliff’s edge, towards the sea. Ancient maps tore and fluttered in the wind until they clung to the surface of the water. Slowly breaking down, deteriorating.

And then, he downed the rest of that sweet bottle of white wine. The bottle he saved for months now, the cure bottle. The celebration bottle. Tasted bitter as hell.

What the hell am I doing…? I’m completely isolated now, forcing this poor kid to relive his horrible childhood, over and over again. I might as well have crucified him outside a church and lit a match. He stared at the blurring waves, legs folded up, moonlight turning dark feathers a glistening violet. His sickness is only getting worse. It’s not even the will of D driving me anymore. I don’t care about that anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.

When he dies, then what, Rosinante? What purpose do you have? You’ve turned your back on your family, blood and otherwise. There’s nothing left.

An aftershock of rage coursed through him. He swayed up to his feet, shoulders trembling. Threw the empty bottle against the rocky surface, hard, internally delighted with the sprinkle of glass, the shattering echo. The heat prickled then, sparked up from his sternum, clogged his throat, his nose. His eyes. I just…I feel so sorry for this damn kid. He’s got Flevance under his skin, his family’s death in his eyes, and my brother’s wretched strings tangled around every limb. He needs help, but it just seems so impossible…and if I give up…if I do nothing…he’s going to become just as miserably dangerous as Doflamingo. But what am I supposed to do? Love didn’t save Sengoku, Tsuru, or Sora from my stupidity. Love won't save Law from White Lead Disease.

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[gendervapor14]

01746 birthday bash ~ day two ~ chapter 21: distance

content warnings: dialogue heavy, excessive use of the word "fork" word count: 784 brief summary: grueling weather leaves rosinante and his commodore stuck in a tavern until they can pursue their targets. a serious humorous conversation ensues.

His attention shifted back to the table at the sound of shuffling beside him, pleased to find Sora, rather than any of the other unfortunate souls in this tavern. “Damn, still not letting up.” The commodore sat beside him, sliding a dish of food and a drink his way. The promotion suited her nicely. Especially since he still got to work with her, even though he remained the same rank. After the incident in Hollow Island, he wouldn’t expect anything else. “On the bright side, your hair actually looks nice for once.”

After a flickering glare of annoyance, Rosinante insecurely swiped at his soggy, curly hair, snuffing out his cigarette. “What do you mean for once?”

“No, no, keep it slicked back.” She urged with a smile, “It’s a good look on you.”

“Great, I don’t care.” He bickered, investigating the meal she brought him with a crinkled nose, “Also, I don’t want this.” He picked up the bread roll on his dish like it was contaminated, unceremoniously plopping it next to hers. Even then, he still looked irritated, lifting his plate and fork and shoveling a considerable amount of his food onto hers.

“The hell is your problem?” Sora chastised, “What, did you see the chef sneeze on it or something?”

“I don’t eat bread.” He glared at the red sauce on his fork with internal resent. “And I don’t like the looks of whatever this is.”

“Lasagna?”

“Looks like pizza.”

“You don’t like pizza?”

He frowned with distaste. “No.”

The commodore stared at her massive plate of food, compared to the tiny little portion of salad he had left. “So that’s it, that’s all you’re going to eat.”

“Guess so.” He lifted his mug of beer and had a sip.

Sora scooted in, shoving her salad onto his plate. “At least have more of this, then.”

“Sure.” He resolved, picking up his fork and stabbing at the leaves. “I knew I should’ve ordered.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were such a picky eater. I mean, I knew, but…c’mon, you don’t eat bread? You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.” He insisted bitterly, “It’s gross.”

“Any bread? What about things that have bread in them? Like crackers?”

“Crackers and bread are totally different.”

“Okay.” She shook her head with a laugh, “I guess I’m just not very understanding to your heavenly palate.”

A smirk and a hum, “Yes, in Mariejois there is no such thing as this, filthy peasant bread. We ate sautéed diamonds with shaved gold.”

His commodore snorted, “Of course, how silly of me.” She buttered some of the bread, “Next you’re going to tell me that’s the wrong kind of fork.”

“Well, it is.” He paused to have a look at it, swallowing his mouthful, “But this is old news, I’ve gotten over that by now.”

“Wait…so there really are different types of forks?” Sora blinked in surprise, “What is that like, a soup fork?”

“A soup fork?” Rosinante repeated incredulously, “Why the hell, who eats soup with a fork?”

“I-I don’t know! Go ahead, then, tell me about the different kinds of forks.”

A little sigh as he set down his silverware between them. “This is a fish fork. See, it only has three prongs. Actually, if we’re getting really technical, they’re called tines, but. I’ll spare you. For a salad, I would use a salad fork, with four prongs. Then there’s dessert forks, they also have three prongs, but they’re thinner than fish forks. And you can’t confuse fish forks for oyster forks, which also have three prongs, but they’re shorter. Overall that entire fork is just, smaller. The fruit fork has two prongs, so does the cheese fork, but those are completely different.” He listed, pausing when Sora just stared at him numbly, “What? You asked.”

“Please tell me there aren’t more forks.”

His eyes flickered up in reflection. “Uh, well, off the top of my head, I didn’t hit the carving fork, or the snail fork, or—”

“Alright, alright.” Sora held a hand up, “I get it, Rosi.”

“That’s not even breaking the threshold of all the different kinds of spoon—”

“If you start listing spoons at me, I will force you to eat this bread with your fish fork.”

The blond snickered, “Why would I eat bread with a fork?”

“I-I don’t know. Enough, saying the word fork! I’m getting sick of it!”

A hum as Rosinante silently went back to eating his salad. Both of them just eyed around the bar between bites, glancing out the window to monitor the weather. Eventually he sipped from his drink again. “Y’know, if this rain keeps up, we might have to fork this one over to them.”

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previous entry can be found here!

[gendervapor14]

who's ready for some 01746 snippets!!

alright so here's how this is gonna work. i'll post one snippet per day. we should land on the 30th, the birthday! and that will be the last snippet and i will probably cry in the tags or something. but yes, they will be chronological. i don't have all of them 100% planned yet...? trying to map out a few in the middle. these will all include potential spoilers, but nothing groundbreaking. it's difficult to define what's a "spoiler" since this is a biography of events that take place in the canon universe but, well, lemme stop rambling and kick things off.

01746 birthday bash ~ day one ~ chapter 12: discovery

content warnings: teenage angst, pre-canon spoilers word count: 633 words brief summary: several days after roger's execution. rosinante is stuck at Navy HQ, very bored, due to a broken leg. in his late-night wandering, he accidentally discovers something life-changing.

Then, he approached the thick stack of papers that were left neatly on the desk. They were interesting, that was for sure. The names some of these pirates came up with, the worth they carried with them. I wonder what determines whether they’re wanted dead or alive. He flipped through them with mild interest, snickering to himself at some of the rather unsightly or blurry photos. Imagine having your likeness represented like that. His eyes reluctantly took in the appearance of a man who had actual snot rockets dripping from his face. How the hell does a photo like that even happen?

And then he turned the page. Dead or Alive. He took in that garish expression. An almost frightening grin, tongue lolling out. Those pointed sunglasses, with goggles perched above them. An odd look, for sure. He almost flipped the page before his tired eyes urged his hand to pull away, towards the fine print. The fine print that he almost skimmed. Those capital letters, printed just beneath his photo.

DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO

Flesh turned to stone. A distant swirling sensation of painkillers mixed with the edge of a dehydration headache surrounded him. Otherwise, all was empty, still. These other pirates didn’t matter. The execution didn’t matter. The marines didn’t matter.

Doffy was still alive. Doffy was a pirate. Worth one-hundred-million berris.

There wasn’t a peep. No one was around. Still, Rosinante snagged the poster, folded it into quarters, and tucked it into his cast, as if he had only seconds before he was caught. Then he put all the other posters back, lined them up neatly, exactly the way they were left on the desk. He clanked the lamp off and staggered out of the room, holding onto the wall on his way back to his dorm, so as not to fall flat on his face.

Thankfully, the days of living with others in his rank were long gone. He flicked the light on, wincing as he tugged the poster from his boot and unfolded it. Smacked it down on his desk and stared at that horrid expression until his eyes pricked with hot, furious tears. He ripped the receiver from the shell of his transponder snail, pressing his knuckles to an eye to at least pretend to stop crying.

It rang. And rang. And rang. Then, the eyes drooped shut.

The teen gave a frustrated growl, knuckles white around the receiver as he tried again. Thirty seconds of ringing. Nothing. “Dammit!” He cried out, a moment of fury causing him to fling the receiver across the room. Unexpectedly, it bounced back on the wire and whacked him in the eye. “Ow! Shit!”

As he cradled the swelling eye, Rosinante limped across the room, scooping up his pillow and screaming into it without restraint. His care for any of his neighbors had been cast to the wind. Then, he whipped the pillow across the room. Achingly, he collapsed onto his knees, smushing his face into his mattress. That became his next victim, subjected to grueling strike after strike, blankets bunched up in a messed pile.

Then, a spell of coolness flooded over him. It was fleeting, temporary. He let it bring him to stillness, ribs trembling and shoulders aching from the intensity of his fit. Wearily, his dark eyes flicked over to the transponder snail. With a bit more composure, he limped over to it, dialing a different number.

A few rings. His grasp tightened on the receiver with each ring. Every second it became less likely that she’d pick up. And then the eyes drooped shut. Rosinante hung his head and screamed, loudly, wrathfully, raking fingers through his hair and pulling. “Dammit Roger!” He kicked his desk chair across the room with his good leg, “Damn you and your stupid execution!”

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