Ari's stream of IWILLBEKINGOFTHEPIRATES!!!

The world shifts into a blurry focus. There's a plastic mask over his face and an uncomfortable weight in his throat that suggests a tube in his stomach. Hospital... Awesome, guess that means... What. What???

"Law!!!"

Even after all this time, the connecting cables are no match for the gangly arms connected to them. Tha dazed man crashes unceremoniously to the floor.

Several terrified nurses scramble to pull him upright and stub the bleeding from a pulled IV in his wrist. Greasy hair falls across his face. Letting out a sigh, he resists the urge to sweep it away and lets them do their job.

Instead, he tilts his head back. Urgh- big mistake. The tube hits his gag reflex and and a wave of nausea floods his system. Tensing his jaw, he fights the urge to vomit. The nurses mutter something about solid food and breathing. Please, for the love of God, remove this damn thing.

Out of habit, silence forms around his face. In a hoarse whisper that noone else can hear, he lets out a string of complaints and curses. Ah shit, they saw his mouth move.

"..."

"..... us-"

"Hello? Sir, can you hear me?"

Cancel. Nothing to write with. He can't use his arms with them pawing at them anyway, "Yes, hello."

Several of them take a step back. The tiny women are like little white rodents, wide-eyed and jumpy. The man wonders if they preferred him asleep, most people do.

The seemingly head nurse takes a shaky step forward, bowing her head behind a trembling clipboard. Her voice barely above a whisper, she stammers, "G-oOd morning, s-siR...!"

What's with all this 'sir' crap? His bleary eyes drift around the room until they land on the mark of the blue seagull. Ah, marines- gotcha. What was his rank again? He had never bothered to remember, especially as it kept changing. Undercover agents are kind of a special case anyway.

"What day is it?" Wait, no. Better question, "How long have I been out?"

The nurse regains her composure, taking a deep breath before answering, "I'm afraid we're going to have to do some... tests, b-before I can answer that."

Standard. That means it's been a helluva long time. Don't wanna shock the patient when he's just woken up. Great, wonderful, perfect. Steady your breathing, steady it dammit.

She takes another step. Don't yell at this random woman. She's kept you alive- her team has kept you alive. You're okay, you're safe. He can't get you. Can he get you? Fuck, how long has it been?

A soft whumf and the nurse takes a seat next to him. She stops just shy of touching, allowing her presence to be checked for threat. She's a marine med, of course she has experience with shell shock. Despite the poised and deliberate movement, the large man can still sense her fear. The bed practically vibrates with it.

Come on, she's meeting you halfway. Just say something, anything-

"Is Sengoku still around?"

Anything apart from that, you moron.

She softens, like she was expecting this, "He's already been contacted. If you do the tests, you'll definitely be able to see him."

Oh-thank-god.

Rosinante lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Fine, tests it is then.

Hours later, after being poked and prodded with every object known to man, the tube is finally removed. Cora is about ready to cry. Moving his neck has never felt so good.

The tension in the room has almost entirely dissipated. It is as if the head nurse (who's name is Florence, by the way) has diffused a ticking time bomb. Once the others were sure that he wouldn't lash out in panic, they relaxed into a professional rhythm. To their credit, nothing they did was prolonged, it just felt like it. Questions, notes scribbled on clipboards, eye tests, motor function tests, more questions.

Rosinante knows his height is intimidating, even without his background or rank. He had broken out of the restrains on his bed without even meaning to, just by waking up. The fact that this team was warming up to him so quickly was a credit to their experience and talent, not to mention bravery.

By the end of the day, he has proven that he can eat solids and use the bathroom by himself. Much to his chagrin- the idea of making these angels wipe his ass makes him want to die in a hole. Odd really, given what he thought was his recent habit of burning down hospitals.

He knows Sengoku probably won't appear the same day, but Rosinante still pouts about it. He tries not to let it show, but he hears Florence tittering about it anyway. Part of him reconsiders rescinding his cooperation, but on the other hand, he just wants the day to be over.

They plop him into the biggest wheelchair they can find and wheel his butt over to a new room.

This room is a lot more comfortable than the other one. The bed is still plain and white, but there are none of the sectional dividers or monitoring machines. It even has a corner with a coffee table and chairs. There several cabinets crammed with books, paper and utensils. Fancy. He is really getting the gold star treatment, huh.

The blonde wakes with a start. Silence. He yawns and stretches within his little bubble. Man, he feels rough. Who kicked his ass again? Doffy? Those damn kids? Urgh, cancel.

He scans the room for a clock. It reads 5:40-ish. They'll all sleep till mid morning anyway. That's enough time to get the kid to another hospital before they get run out of town. He'll give his report later.

Wait. Wait a minute.

He shakes his head as if to clear it. What's going on? What is he doing? Where is he?

As if on cue, his side twinges. Bang! The heat of lead and the steam of a muzzle. The cold wet floor of snow. Doffy stares down at him with signature smile. No, that's not right. He's not smiling. His face is twisted into an ugly grimace. Slouch, lay down. Distract him from the wood at your back.

You can't use it. You have to listen to his monologue. After all, these are the last words you'll hear, the last ones your family will leave you with. The chair scrapes and shifts from under him. Stay still, kid. It's nearly over. You're nearly home free.

There's a clatter and a crash. Did he lose consciousness? Did it deactivate? Shit! The best he can do is throw his body between them. Grab his ankle, his ankle- stop him!

A rush of pain floods his senses as something large and flat collides with his face. Take that, bastard. Go on, kick me. See what good it will do.

"RUN!!!" He screeches, hoarse voice echoing off the white empty walls. Another shrill voice joins his,

"Oh god, sir! Are you alright? Sir!!!"

The angel effortlessly flips him onto his side, levering his own limbs in order to do so. Tiny hands cup his cheek. A cloth dipped in something wipes a trail of soft stinging next to his ear.

"No..." tears form streaks down his face, smearing the makeup, "Take the fruit... Leave me... Please kid..."

She pauses for a second. Then leans down to whisper, "It's okay Cora, we're safe now. He can't get us."

Another pause, "We have the fruit. We did it. We really did it."

That snaps him out of it. He's heard those lines before. Lines you tell dying men so they can rest easy. He lifts his head to see the nurse looking down at him with a gentle expression. For a brief second, he wonders who she really sees when she comforts people like this, before once again surrendering his limp body to her professional hands.

"... and I can't believe you didn't even break your nose!" Florence continues, "Really? Falling asleep at a desk after waking from a coma- who does that?"

She has been on his ass ever since his tiny saviour did her handover. In an effort to appear like he actually gave a shit about this lecture, Rosinante opted not to use his power. Though the repetitive hen-pecking was really testing his patience.

"I'm pretty sure it was a flashback-" interjects another nurse, playing with her hair.

"Of course it was a flashback," Florence stands dramatically with her hands on her hips, "And that's why needed something soft to land on."

"Like a bed..." he admits.

"Like a DAMN bed!" She says in unison.

Their chatter is interrupted by a slight knock. It was so quiet and polite that one could've mistaken it for a footstep, if not for how rhythmic it was.

"WE'RE ON ROUNDS!!!" yells the head nurse, not bothering to turn her head. The others turn slightly, and one breaks off to check. Cora isn't quite sure, because she's so quiet, but he thinks her name is Hazel. Fitting, given her hair colour.

The door cracks open and she squeaks in surprise, "Inspector general! Oh!"

Inspector general? Who-

"My apologies for interrupting your rounds. I came as soon as I could." Yet another man to tower over them, poor girls. Hazel stands aside, and the shadow of the other man crosses her face and slips to the floor as he ambles into the room.

Is it really him? Here already? Wait... Inspector General, how-

Rosinante's face lights up at the familiar voice. So many calls, so many reports. About the only constant thing in his life after the death of his parents, here in the flesh.

And then it falls. Deep set wrinkles scar his face. His once dark hair now faded into a grey white. Where once stood a clean cut, prim and proper marine admiral, a decrepit old man remains. How can this be? His voice still sounds the same! What the hell happened?!?

Sengoku gives an indignant huff, upon seeing his subordinate's face fall, "I'm not that old! I'll have you know this is all due to stress! STRESS!!!"

Cora can't help but chuckle. Yelling like an old man sure as hell isn't helping your case, "... old man." He mutters.

"I heard that!" The general stomps over to one of the chairs and throws himself down, "See if I ever pay your medical bills again, cheeky brat..." He rests his feet on the coffee table, earning a look of distain from Hazel.

Ah, that's why his room's so fancy.

"All hail my lord and saviour with deep pockets." He says deadpan, as he mimes praying, then kneeling. The mattress creaks under him.

"Thank Florence and her team if you're ever really feeling grateful." Sengoku waves his hand lazily.

"Already did, many times..." Rosinante swings his legs over the side of the bed and presses his hands into the mattress to get a firm grip.

"What was that?"

"THANK-YOU FOR THE CARE!!!!" The lankey man gets caught between standing up and trying to bow, the momentum sending him careening face first towards the ground.

Florence tries her best to catch his head, but she trips at the last second, leaving some the others to try and scramble over her. The effect is similar to someone knocking over bowling pins. After the dust settles, Cora is laid face down over the bodies of three nurses.

He tries to pry himself off them. Though that proves quite difficult due to the many hands holding him in place.

"Don't move!" The head nurse's muffled voice comes from beneath the pile. Several other voices chime in, telling him to stay put.

"Sorry- I'm really so- Look, I must be heavy-"

Sengoku bursts into raucous laughter, "Oh-ho my, should I leave?"

After thoroughly extracting him from the nurses and floor, Sengoku reaches into his coat and hands a stack of newspapers to Rosinante. The medical team fusses about, clearly unsure if he is ready for it, but their superior dismisses them, "Wanna know what's been going on in the world?"

"Fuck. Yes. Please." He knew he wouldn't disappoint. The next best thing would have been a cigarette, maybe later.

Cora lays them out across the coffee table. His commander picks one up and examines the date before placing it back down, "This one is the most recent."

Thirteen years, damn. That is, if this accurate. The headline reads 'Worst generation topples Kaido and Big Mom alliance'. Alliance? Huh... Rosinante slowly picks up the paper and rifles through it. Suddenly, his eyes stop focusing. Wait. What.

"Thirteen years?!?"

"Not such a spring chicken yourself, huh." Sengoku chuckles, "I know it's a lot to take in. Keep these. I'll come back and visit."

"You can't just leave..." Cora protests, "What about the-" He stops, his mind catching up with him. Why hasn't he said anything? Does he know what happened? He must do. There's no way he could be alive otherwise. Unless, this feeling of familiarity is just... It's fake. That's it, it has to be. Then again, what right did he have to expect anything else after what he'd done? Oh god-

"I knew this was a bad idea." Florence clinks a tray of tea onto the table, "Quit agitating our patient." She quickly corrects herself, "... Sir."

He ignores her, "It was a miracle I was able to get here at all, considering everything going on right now." He lifts the cup to his mouth, stopping to blow on it slightly. Doing so fogs up his glasses.

No, wait. Argh. Rosinante feels something crack in his head. Ah. Right, if course. No need to beg, no point. Sengoku just doesn't care. He woke up at the worst time possible and now he's being updated out of obligation. It's not fair. He's scared, he just wants- Just-

White hot anger bubbles under his skin, only barely being held back by his clenched fist and gritted teeth. The paper crumples and tears under his nails. A large vein pulses on his forehead. He's shaking, feeling all of the muscles in his body flexing simultaneously. The table begins to tremble. Hah... hah...

Silence.

Breathe. Get your bearings. He forces air into his lungs. In... out... in... out...

Sengoku says something, but he can't hear it. He closes his eyes and continues to focus on calming down. There's a weight on his shoulder, whatever. Hit him, he doesn't care. That's probably what he came to do anyway- to punish him for being a traitor and a drain on resources.

The breathing isn't working. His chest feels tight. Tighter than with that accursed tube. He's going to be dropped. Hunted, he's going to be hunted again. Noone will catch him this time. He can feel the warmth of torches and the vibration of mud against boot. Maybe he can buy some time, maybe he will- Keep it in, keep it in. Breathe, breathe- BREATHE!!! Why isn't it WORKING?!?!

He can't open his eyes, he can't move, he can't breathe. Doffy help-

Out. His body ragdolls against the strong shoulder next to him. Pitch black.

Urghhh... Cora shifts in bed. He thought waking up the first, no, the second time, was bad. This is worse. It feels as if he has been dragged underneath a ship. His head is pounding.

Where is he? Hospital, marine base. Okay, no more of this. The nightmares and memories have never been this close together before.

Argh. Another painful throb. If it really has been thirteen years, he has to be pushing 40, right? Probably why that stupid panic attack gave him the equivalent of a damn hangover.

A few minutes later, the door clicks open. The quick quiet tap of flats draw close to the side of his bed. He lays still. A gentle hand lays over his chest, moving with each rise and fall. Another hand presses to his neck, right under his jaw. Rosinante cannot help his heartbeat jumping. Anyone touching his neck would have had the same reaction. She leans back and sighs, "I know you're awake."

Even cracking his eyes open hurts. They're dry and swollen. Oww...

"Gimme a minute." Is the only thought he can manage to string into a sentence.

"I'll get you a glass of water, kay?" Before he can respond, she turns quickly and the tap-tap-taps fade.

Not Florence, not Hazel, this nurse is... uhh... Isla! That's right, she's the one with the mole. She returns with a glass of the best drink he has ever had. It's as if all the moisture that had been previously sapped out of his body is being shwooped directly into his veins. Wow. Good old-fashioned life juice, can't beat it.

The Moled woman quietly watches him down several glasses, her stare permeating through him. He finally takes beat to catch her eye, "Thank-you, miss."

It's a small moment, but it holds his dignity. She smiles, "No problem! Thought you might be thirsty."

The lull leaves time for Cora's eyes to wander. The room is meticulously tidy- they definitely cleaned while he slept. The logbook he'd been using has been leaned against the back wall on top of the desk, complete with a dip pen and spare sheets of paper. The front of it shows some splatters of ink, but it looks as if someone has wiped it to the best of their ability.

There's a conspicuous box next to the book, with some files poking out of the top. As soon as Isla spies him looking at it she mumbles, "Don't look at that yet."

The words feel automatic. She must be trying to avoid another incident. He nods, "...Okay." This is so awkward. Make conversation. You do remember how to do that, right?

"So uh, how long you been working here?" Smooth, very smooth.

She cups her chin, thinking, and shrugs, "Around three years, I think?" She muses idly, "I was pretty green before the attack..."

Which attack? Where even is this base? He wants to know. He wants to know so badly, but his stupid brain is on a hair trigger. Instead, "Well, you seem pretty practiced now, definitely better than a field medic at least."

That earns an airy laugh, like the soft bell of a windchime. The smile that forms is slight but sweet nonetheless. What battles have you seen, love? How many men have you saved with that smile?

He changes track, "Don't wanna assume, but I don't think I've seen any doctors around."

She nods, "That's right. We were told to keep the team to a minimum- well, at least while you were comatose."

"And now?"

Isla wrinkles her nose, "I don't see why that has to change, to be honest." Oops, he didn't mean it like that. Backtrack, backtrack.

"I didn't-"

"Nah, I get it." Her eyes flick upwards, reaching back into her memory, "From what I was told, you went into surgery when you first arrived- waaaay before my time." She cringes, "Oops, no offence!"

He's so old now. This woman is so pretty and he is so old. Haha, everything is pain.

"None taken." Rosinante tries to fake a laugh. If she notices, the nurse doesn't comment.

"I think you had specialists working on ya for a good few months, until they realised you were long-term..." She produces a pen from somewhere and uses it to tap her lip, "... Aaaand then you got bounced around a few times. You've only been here for a year or so."

She gives him an expectant look, like he was supposed to remember any of this. He does not. He runs his hand through his hair. It was washed in a sink a day ago, after all the tests. He tries not to think about how many hands have washed him in thirteen years- which proving a very hard to do.

He sighs, "So, a small team cos I didn't change much?"

Isla flashes a devilish grin, "Actually, that's the thing, you shouldn't have a dedicated team at all."

"What... do you mean... by that?" The hell? Just how much money has Sengoku dropped on him? Why didn't he just stick him on a ward with a bunch of- oh. Oh yeah.

"Well, I recon you gotta be someone with pretty high profile for the Inspector general to vouch for you for so long." She leans in close to whisper, "I shouldn't ask this, but are you being hunted? Are you an ex pirate?"

Yes, and yes.

"It's better you don't know, if you haven't been told."

"I knew you'd say that." She pouts, and the moles move with the balloon of her cheeks. Huh, cute. The nurse gestures to the mystery box, "I've been dying to read those files all morning, but the Chief said I'd lose my job if I did, soooo..." Smart. Discretion is always your friend, especially as a marine. Stay in your lane, and you don't get dragged into shit.

"You thought you'd ask me? If that's the case, why'd you stop me from reading em?"

"If you start reading them, I have to leave! There's a video transponder snail in here!" A whine creeps into her voice, "It's not fair! I wanna seeee!"

So there is. Cora can't help but grin. What a bad girl- she wasn't trying to avoid an incident at all. She was just trying get in before anyone else. Too bad.

"I'm not promising anything. You really should try and keep your job."

She opens her mouth to protest, but is interrupted by an- "ISLA!!! I KNOW YOU'RE SLACKING OFF AGAIN- WHERE ARE YOU?!?"

He cocks his head, his grin widening, "I think you should go."

The moment that she is out of earshot, Cora bolts for the box. Sorry dear, but you are far too sweet to be involved in anything to do with... Well, whatever's in here.

He carefully lifts the flaps to see that it is stacked to overflowing with thick bound folders, all numbered with colour-coded tags. The tags near the top have long since faded, but still retain their original numbers. The top label reads '#1 Dressrosa'.

The second he feels his heart jump, he panics and grabs the edge of the desk. The bed. Yes, the bed. If he falls, it will be soft. The huffing and self-talk feels cringey, like he's talking to a child. But he'll be damned if he gets interrupted again.

The sweaty blonde struggles a little with the box. It's humiliating, considering that he was able to break restrains and tubes while only semi-concious. Was it the constant flashbacks that'd exhausted him? Or had his muscles really wasted that much?

Finally, he plops down on the matress and dumps the contents. One... Two... Three... Five. Five total files, all of varying different sizes. Settling himself down, Rosinante takes a second to lay them out in order and position some pillows behind him. Perfect.

The files, in order, read: #1 Dressrosa, #2 The Heart Pirates, #3 World events, #4 Medical history, #5 Setup.

The 'World events' file has been recently opened, and he can see the crumpled edge of some newspaper. Oh, so that's where they came from.

Welp, since they've been arranged so nicely... He reaches over to the 'Dressrosa' file and slowly unbinds the string enclosing it. The stiff card creaks, scattering paper dust all over his hands. This one definitely hasn't been opened in some time.

There are several divider tabs within: Leadership, Successor, Census, Connections.

The first thing he notes is how general the labels are. Anyone around who might have felt the need to peek could be put off by seemingly superfluous information. They may discard this folder entirely. Not this marine though, well, if he can still be called that.

In overview of the first tab, there was an incident involving king Riku- his eyes widen- a mass gathering of money, followed by a massacre on an impossibly large scale. Seriously? That... No, he'd never. It can't be. Don't tell him that-

He quickly flips to the next tab. The 'Successor' is-

Donquixote Doflamingo.

He can't even react. He failed. He fucking failed. Of course he did, the message never got through. What else? What has he done? His eyes dart from page to page. Warlord, saviour- the words make him feel sick. That wasn't ours. You had no right to do that!

"Get them before they can get us". He can hear his brother's laugh in the back of his head, "That was always the plan, no?"

The next, Census. Comparisons of citzen numbers, compared with birth records and firsthand accounts. The notes get gradually more and more frantic, with many corrections being tacked on. The tapestry of scribbles and paperclips devolves into one message: 'MISSING!' It has been circled and underlined enough to leave holes in the paper.

Holy shit. Keep going.

Connections. There's a list of personnel reports, all detailing their relation to the Donquixote pirates. Some he recognises, some he doesn't. Though they are all undoubtedly big names. All trapped in his web, acting as both workhorse and shield. There are a few addendums, noting bounties and current status. The numbers just keep getting bigger and bigger.

So that's it then. Conquer all of Dressrosa, subjugate the people, build your army. All according to plan. It's not enough. It'll never be enough for you, will it?

"Of course not", he responds, "Not until Mary Geoise, not until it all burns."

He closes the folder in disgust. Cora is about to move on when he notices a small note attached to the back. It reads 'continued in World events'. Oh?

The Heart Pirates, huh... Good name. Let's see what you have to do with this.

This folder is relatively new. He gets the feeling it must have been replaced many times, due to the several pieces of tape keeping the sides together. The string is sturdy and mostly white, only yellowing around the points where it has rubbed on the edges. There is less trepidation opening this one.

The bold 'WANTED' peeking over half open folder flap catches his attention. He can see in the corner that several of the posters have been tacked together with a small metal twist tie. There are other loose ones behind it. So, who are these? With rustle, he shakes them loose.

Face to face, the picture is T- Tuh-

The- The picture... is-

"Kid!!!"

Those deep set eyes, that pale tanned skin, the little dimple he would always get when his mouth streched wide... It's him, it has to be. Cora can even see the slight traces of discolouration from the white blotches on his skin. They're faint, but still there.

It gotta be you, kid.

Silence.

He throws his head back and lets out the biggest wail of his life. His chest heaves with each sob, and tears gush down his cheeks. Here, in his little bubble, the sounds of compound forgotten years: relief, regret, love, fear, longing, joy.

Thank god you're alright. All these years you've spent without me. You made it. Look at you, all grown up. How recent is this? Are you alright? I wanna see you. I wanna hug you. I wanna tell you just how proud I am. You're the best kid, I love you. I can't- I'm so happy- I can't-

The remaining files are blown to the side as he flings his arms open. All that remains are the attached bounty posters clutched in his hand. The bed groans in protest as he throws his head back and releases a hysterical laugh, "You did it", his once stoic face stretches into the biggest beam it has ever formed, "You really DID IT!!!"

On the monitor, the silent revelry earns a facepalm. Sengoku knew the kid was important, but Rosinante's display of emotion stung a bit. Was he really worth so little, compared to Law? Perhaps he should have waited for their reunion until after he'd read these. It wasn't his fault he was so anxious to see him. The recruit was practically his son, after all.

"You did this to yourself." Mutters Florence.

The officer huffs and tears into a packet of rice crackers, "Shaddup."

After calming down somewhat, Cora picks up the remainder of the folder. He has to know everything.

He flicks through the leaflet of posters, all different pictures and bounties of the same Law. The loose posters show other pirates, presumably his crew. The uniform is adorable- they're all in boiler suits! And a polar theme, too. The orca and penguin additions to the hats are a nice touch. Oooh, a mink, so fluffy. He really wants to pet him. Would that be rude? And the ship- she's a submarine. That's so smart, super practical.

There's a series of reports on theories of when they were formed, and excerpts from the newspaper of incidents involved. Quite the rap sheet. So many run-ins with the marines. The dates stretch further and further into the future. What a life you've lived, kid! Knew you'd leave your mark on the world.

Oh, oh shit. Oh shit. One of the later reports makes his eyes boggle. The excerpt reads: 'TROUBLE AT SABAODY AS PIRATES HOLD CELESTIAL DRAGONS HOSTAGE'. What? No no no no. Huh??? 'Strawhat Luffy, Eustass Captain Kid and The surgeon of death, Trafalgar Law stand their ground as marines lay siege to the auction house'.

He struggles to ground himself. The rooms spins around him. That'll get admirals pulled on you, Law, what the hell are you doing?!?

He hurriedly scans the rest. Escape... escape... c'mon, kid, you're killing me here. Yes!!! 'After commandeering captives from the auction house, Trafalgar Law and the heart pirates have been seen fleeing the island. Current whereabouts: unknown'. Oh-thank-god.

What were you thinking? Is the will of D truly that strong that you couldn't resist antagonising them? He knows what really goes on in those 'auction houses', but still... And these others... Strawhat Luffy and Eustass 'Captain' Kid... Did they put you up to this?!?

There's still a little left in the folder, but he can't keep this up anymore. Cancel. He collapses onto the pillows behind him. It's so much. Has the kid had anymore run-ins with those parasites? It clearly shot up his bounty. What else? What could possibly be more stupid than directly attacking and then threatening a celestial dragon?

He's exhausted. His life meant nothing before that little brat. Now he has to care. It's as if someone has removed his heart and attached it to Law. Every time there is the mere mention of him being in danger, he can feel it twinge in his chest, like it's actually his own life on the line. It's so painful. He has never felt more alive.

Rosinante slows his breaths, his eyes fluttering shut. He'll take a break to let this all sink in. Just rest his eyes for a second.

Sometime after, Hazel wakes him by sliding a trolley of food into the room. He flinches and bolts upright, "Bwuh?"

Her freckled cheeks flush. Oh? In the rush of lingering endorphins, he thinks that maybe she could be... I mean, he can't look that bad, he muses... wait, no. She's trying not to laugh.

"Thuh-" he can't look her in the eye, "Thank-you for the meal..."

There's a tray of sandwiches, a jug of water, a bowl of fruit, and some tin that hopefully contains something sweet- and not a sewing kit. Compared to the porridge and stewed apple from when they weren't sure if he could eat solid food, this is paradise. The man can't help but drool.

"Go wash your hands, please." She instructs. He rises from the bed slowly, head bent down. This is partly focusing on keeping his balance, and mostly so that he doesn't have to see her bemused expression.

Hobbling over to the bathroom next door takes a decent amount of effort, but it's worth it. For the sandwiches!

He has long since gotten over the fear of water. Many users have it. Marine facilities filter and store fresh water really well, to start. That, and hiding his devil fruit powers has become second nature. Other than his apparent clumsiness, it is easy to hide discomfort and fatigue. The man would never throw himself in the ocean, but has definitely masked being splashed with seawater. It's not so hard when you have a permanent scowl on your face.

The cold water stings his fingers. His hands feel a little numb, but he is not going to wait for the tap to warm up- there are sandwiches to eat.

The towel, of all things, feels nostalgic. Everything gets printed with the marine logo, of course. Towels are a recruit's best friend. Keeping dry, avoiding trenchfoot, cleaning duties, smacking each other in the locker room... After drying his hands, Cora runs them across the textured surface. Pirate or marine? This world is so familiar, yet so alien.

The small groan he utters as he squats on a chair across from the tray does not do wonders for his self-esteem. Hazel is too preoccupied in peeling fruit to notice, though. He shovels fistfulls of neatly cut triangle sandwiches into his mouth. Oooh, fish paste and cucumber- yummy!

More life juice and apple slices later, he leans back and pats his stomach. Food is good.

The nurse giggles with delight.

A second later, he feels his stomach gurgle. Oh, that's right- bread.

Cora has to use the bathroom. He has to use it now! He is not going to shit himself infront of this nurse.

He struggles to his feet, clutching his stomach. Was he really that out of it that he would eat the one thing that goes right through him? Dammit kid, he was so happy he forgot- it's all your fault.

Leaning on the wall and squeezing his buttcheeks, he waddles towards the door. Upon crossing the threshold, he hears, "Oh crap! That was on the diet list- how did these get through?"

Several horrific minutes later, he can finally get off the toilet. He hovers around the bathroom, waiting for a second wave. If he didn't know any better, he'd think they had done it on purpose. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tricked him into eating it. Both the family his squadron in the marines loved to see his face fall and spectate as he frantically reached for a way to relieve himself.

The only solice is that he knows they didn't hear him in here- he made sure of that.

Hazel paces back and forth in the hallway. He's been in there for some time. She does have a key, for emergencies. Should she use it? What if he slipped and hit his head?!?

Bam!

The door slams open, and a rather haggard-looking Rosinante slinks out. He did not win this battle, not by a long shot.

"More water... please." You will rue this day, you glutinous monster.

She breathes a sigh of relief, "I should have looked at the chart more closely- you've been on tube for so long I didn't even think..."

He winces at the word 'tube'. Urghghh... the involuntary shudder makes his neck feel tight.

"If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, please!" Her worry comes out in a waterfall of word vomit, "You're already so weak, oh... This must've made it worse! Much worse!" She separates a lock of hair and alternates between curling it around her finger and chewing on it.

The genuine concern removes the impulse to burn down the base, only just. Only. Just.

Screw it. May as well get something out of it, "Well, there is something-"

"ANYTHING!!!" The brunette interrupts. She gives the biggest puppy dog eyes he has ever seen. How is the person who fed him literal poison more pathetic than the guy who has just spent ten minutes struggling on the John? Now he just feels bad.

"Do you... have any makeup?"

She looks like she is about to cry. Oh. Shit wait-

"Do you want me to dress up?" She blubbers, "I'll do it. I know it must be horrible that someone as ugly as me hurt you. Oh god I really am the worst. I'll get some right now. It must be the freckles, right? I know they're awful I just-"

"Wait!" He lifts an unsteady hand, "F-for me! Not you, geez..."

The glistening saucers fix on him, "What?"

The heat warming his cheeks feels much better than the sudden guilt. Rosinante lets a sigh leave his mouth, "Ain'tcha seen a guy wear makeup before?"

The nurse goes from shock, to confusion, to delight in about three seconds. Her face lifts into a beautiful smile, as she dances in place. Has he always been this bad with women? This was normal way back when. Though, admittedly not marine attire.

"Oh! No I haven't!" She quickly turns on the spot, "But I definitely have some! Just wait here- I'll grab it!"

Before he can respond, she speeds down the corridor and out of sight. No, don't worry about it- he can make it back to his room just fiiiiine.

Hazel returns a little while later, carrying another jug of water and a little makeup case. As he gulps down another glass, she pops it open to reveal the connected sections and tiny mirror on the interior of the lid. The set is simple: a capsule of liquid foundation, a few shades of eyeshadow, some mascara and eyeliner, a stick of lipstick and some setting powder. Perfect.

"Do you need any help?" It's hard to ignore her buzzing positivity. If he refuses, he'll undoubtedly have to deal with her staring him down as he works.

"Perhaps you could do the base for me? It has been a while."

If someone had seen her face out of context, one would think she had been given some huge gem or something. Her eyes are practically sparkling. Hazel holds his face delicately, first wiping it with a damp flannel, and then patting it dry with a warm towel. He has never bothered with this fanfare before, but he lets her have her fun.

It's pure luck that her foundation matches his skin tone, though that probably has something to do with the fact that he hasn't seen the sun in thirteen years. She is incredibly pale. He studies the parts of his creamy complexion that he can see in the tiny lid mirror, nice and smooth.

"Hmm..." She notices him struggling, "Maybe we should get you something bigger."

Again, before he can respond, she shoots off. How can someone possibly have that much energy? Wow.

Back again. Hm, the hand mirror is better. He can actually see his full face. She sits back, glowing with joy. Okay, let's see if he remembers how to do this.

The final result is... okay. He is more used to greasepaint, but it still resembles his original look. Blue spikes under one eye, lipstick smile stretched from ear to ear, dark eyeliner and lashes. Finally, Corazon.

"What a bold look!" Okay, so anything would've impressed her. He can't help but blush. Having only communicated over transponder snail, not a single marine has ever seen him like this. Well, he had a photo taken taken for the bounty poster, but that doesn't count- no-one knew it was him. What would Sengoku say? What did he say when he saw the poster? When he saw his showy form coated with blood in the snow?

It's ironic, Doffy was the one who insisted that he wear it. He had never much cared what he looked like, and that had been a big problem for the family aesthetic. A new flashy wardrobe to match his brother, complete with sunglasses and dramatic makeup. A style that practically screamed 'I'm with the family- don't fuck with me'. Was it some convoluted form of humiliation? Or a backhanded way of providing protection? Much like everything Doffy did for him, nothing was said directly. He just went along with it.

The world shifts into a blurry focus. There's a plastic mask over his face and an uncomfortable weight in his throat that suggests a tube in his stomach. Hospital... Awesome, guess that means... What. What???

"Law!!!"

Even after all this time, the connecting cables are no match for the gangly arms connected to them. Tha dazed man crashes unceremoniously to the floor.

Several terrified nurses scramble to pull him upright and stub the bleeding from a pulled IV in his wrist. Greasy hair falls across his face. Letting out a sigh, he resists the urge to sweep it away and lets them do their job.

Instead, he tilts his head back. Urgh- big mistake. The tube hits his gag reflex and and a wave of nausea floods his system. Tensing his jaw, he fights the urge to vomit. The nurses mutter something about solid food and breathing. Please, for the love of God, remove this damn thing.

Out of habit, silence forms around his face. In a hoarse whisper that noone else can hear, he lets out a string of complaints and curses. Ah shit, they saw his mouth move.

"..."

"..... us-"

"Hello? Sir, can you hear me?"

Cancel. Nothing to write with. He can't use his arms with them pawing at them anyway, "Yes, hello."

Several of them take a step back. The tiny women are like little white rodents, wide-eyed and jumpy. The man wonders if they preferred him asleep, most people do.

The seemingly head nurse takes a shaky step forward, bowing her head behind a trembling clipboard. Her voice barely above a whisper, she stammers, "G-oOd morning, s-siR...!"

What's with all this 'sir' crap? His bleary eyes drift around the room until they land on the mark of the blue seagull. Ah, marines- gotcha. What was his rank again? He had never bothered to remember, especially as it kept changing. Undercover agents are kind of a special case anyway.

"What day is it?" Wait, no. Better question, "How long have I been out?"

The nurse regains her composure, taking a deep breath before answering, "I'm afraid we're going to have to do some... tests, b-before I can answer that."

Standard. That means it's been a helluva long time. Don't wanna shock the patient when he's just woken up. Great, wonderful, perfect. Steady your breathing, steady it dammit.

She takes another step. Don't yell at this random woman. She's kept you alive- her team has kept you alive. You're okay, you're safe. He can't get you. Can he get you? Fuck, how long has it been?

A soft whumf and the nurse takes a seat next to him. She stops just shy of touching, allowing her presence to be checked for threat. She's a marine med, of course she has experience with shell shock. Despite the poised and deliberate movement, the large man can still sense her fear. The bed practically vibrates with it.

Come on, she's meeting you halfway. Just say something, anything-

"Is Sengoku still around?"

Anything apart from that, you moron.

She softens, like she was expecting this, "He's already been contacted. If you do the tests, you'll definitely be able to see him."

Oh-thank-god.

Rosinante lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Fine, tests it is then.

Hours later, after being poked and prodded with every object known to man, the tube is finally removed. Cora is about ready to cry. Moving his neck has never felt so good.

The tension in the room has almost entirely dissipated. It is as if the head nurse (who's name is Florence, by the way) has diffused a ticking time bomb. Once the others were sure that he wouldn't lash out in panic, they relaxed into a professional rhythm. To their credit, nothing they did was prolonged, it just felt like it. Questions, notes scribbled on clipboards, eye tests, motor function tests, more questions.

Rosinante knows his height is intimidating, even without his background or rank. He had broken out of the restrains on his bed without even meaning to, just by waking up. The fact that this team was warming up to him so quickly was a credit to their experience and talent, not to mention bravery.

By the end of the day, he has proven that he can eat solids and use the bathroom by himself. Much to his chagrin- the idea of making these angels wipe his ass makes him want to die in a hole. Odd really, given what he thought was his recent habit of burning down hospitals.

He knows Sengoku probably won't appear the same day, but Rosinante still pouts about it. He tries not to let it show, but he hears Florence tittering about it anyway. Part of him reconsiders rescinding his cooperation, but on the other hand, he just wants the day to be over.

They plop him into the biggest wheelchair they can find and wheel his butt over to a new room.

This room is a lot more comfortable than the other one. The bed is still plain and white, but there are none of the sectional dividers or monitoring machines. It even has a corner with a coffee table and chairs. There several cabinets crammed with books, paper and utensils. Fancy. He is really getting the gold star treatment, huh.

The blonde wakes with a start. Silence. He yawns and stretches within his little bubble. Man, he feels rough. Who kicked his ass again? Doffy? Those damn kids? Urgh, cancel.

He scans the room for a clock. It reads 5:40-ish. They'll all sleep till mid morning anyway. That's enough time to get the kid to another hospital before they get run out of town. He'll give his report later.

Wait. Wait a minute.

He shakes his head as if to clear it. What's going on? What is he doing? Where is he?

As if on cue, his side twinges. Bang! The heat of lead and the steam of a muzzle. The cold wet floor of snow. Doffy stares down at him with signature smile. No, that's not right. He's not smiling. His face is twisted into an ugly grimace. Slouch, lay down. Distract him from the wood at your back.

You can't use it. You have to listen to his monologue. After all, these are the last words you'll hear, the last ones your family will leave you with. The chair scrapes and shifts from under him. Stay still, kid. It's nearly over. You're nearly home free.

There's a clatter and a crash. Did he lose consciousness? Did it deactivate? Shit! The best he can do is throw his body between them. Grab his ankle, his ankle- stop him!

A rush of pain floods his senses as something large and flat collides with his face. Take that, bastard. Go on, kick me. See what good it will do.

"RUN!!!" He screeches, hoarse voice echoing off the white empty walls. Another shrill voice joins his,

"Oh god, sir! Are you alright? Sir!!!"

The angel effortlessly flips him onto his side, levering his own limbs in order to do so. Tiny hands cup his cheek. A cloth dipped in something wipes a trail of soft stinging next to his ear.

"No..." tears form streaks down his face, smearing the makeup, "Take the fruit... Leave me... Please kid..."

She pauses for a second. Then leans down to whisper, "It's okay Cora, we're safe now. He can't get us."

Another pause, "We have the fruit. We did it. We really did it."

That snaps him out of it. He's heard those lines before. Lines you tell dying men so they can rest easy. He lifts his head to see the nurse looking down at him with a gentle expression. For a brief second, he wonders who she really sees when she comforts people like this, before once again surrendering his limp body to her professional hands.

"... and I can't believe you didn't even break your nose!" Florence continues, "Really? Falling asleep at a desk after waking from a coma- who does that?"

She has been on his ass ever since his tiny saviour did her handover. In an effort to appear like he actually gave a shit about this lecture, Rosinante opted not to use his power. Though the repetitive hen-pecking was really testing his patience.

"I'm pretty sure it was a flashback-" interjects another nurse, playing with her hair.

"Of course it was a flashback," Florence stands dramatically with her hands on her hips, "And that's why needed something soft to land on."

"Like a bed..." he admits.

"Like a DAMN bed!" She says in unison.

Their chatter is interrupted by a slight knock. It was so quiet and polite that one could've mistaken it for a footstep, if not for how rhythmic it was.

"WE'RE ON ROUNDS!!!" yells the head nurse, not bothering to turn her head. The others turn slightly, and one breaks off to check. Cora isn't quite sure, because she's so quiet, but he thinks her name is Hazel. Fitting, given her hair colour.

The door cracks open and she squeaks in surprise, "Inspector general! Oh!"

Inspector general? Who-

"My apologies for interrupting your rounds. I came as soon as I could." Yet another man to tower over them, poor girls. Hazel stands aside, and the shadow of the other man crosses her face and slips to the floor as he ambles into the room.

Is it really him? Here already? Wait... Inspector General, how-

Rosinante's face lights up at the familiar voice. So many calls, so many reports. About the only constant thing in his life after the death of his parents, here in the flesh.

And then it falls. Deep set wrinkles scar his face. His once dark hair now faded into a grey white. Where once stood a clean cut, prim and proper marine admiral, a decrepit old man remains. How can this be? His voice still sounds the same! What the hell happened?!?

Sengoku gives an indignant huff, upon seeing his subordinate's face fall, "I'm not that old! I'll have you know this is all due to stress! STRESS!!!"

Cora can't help but chuckle. Yelling like an old man sure as hell isn't helping your case, "... old man." He mutters.

"I heard that!" The general stomps over to one of the chairs and throws himself down, "See if I ever pay your medical bills again, cheeky brat..." He rests his feet on the coffee table, earning a look of distain from Hazel.

Ah, that's why his room's so fancy.

"All hail my lord and saviour with deep pockets." He says deadpan, as he mimes praying, then kneeling. The mattress creaks under him.

"Thank Florence and her team if you're ever really feeling grateful." Sengoku waves his hand lazily.

"Already did, many times..." Rosinante swings his legs over the side of the bed and presses his hands into the mattress to get a firm grip.

"What was that?"

"THANK-YOU FOR THE CARE!!!!" The lankey man gets caught between standing up and trying to bow, the momentum sending him careening face first towards the ground.

Florence tries her best to catch his head, but she trips at the last second, leaving some the others to try and scramble over her. The effect is similar to someone knocking over bowling pins. After the dust settles, Cora is laid face down over the bodies of three nurses.

He tries to pry himself off them. Though that proves quite difficult due to the many hands holding him in place.

"Don't move!" The head nurse's muffled voice comes from beneath the pile. Several other voices chime in, telling him to stay put.

"Sorry- I'm really so- Look, I must be heavy-"

Sengoku bursts into raucous laughter, "Oh-ho my, should I leave?"

After thoroughly extracting him from the nurses and floor, Sengoku reaches into his coat and hands a stack of newspapers to Rosinante. The medical team fusses about, clearly unsure if he is ready for it, but their superior dismisses them, "Wanna know what's been going on in the world?"

"Fuck. Yes. Please." He knew he wouldn't disappoint. The next best thing would have been a cigarette, maybe later.

Cora lays them out across the coffee table. His commander picks one up and examines the date before placing it back down, "This one is the most recent."

Thirteen years, damn. That is, if this accurate. The headline reads 'Worst generation topples Kaido and Big Mom alliance'. Alliance? Huh... Rosinante slowly picks up the paper and rifles through it. Suddenly, his eyes stop focusing. Wait. What.

"Thirteen years?!?"

"Not such a spring chicken yourself, huh." Sengoku chuckles, "I know it's a lot to take in. Keep these. I'll come back and visit."

"You can't just leave..." Cora protests, "What about the-" He stops, his mind catching up with him. Why hasn't he said anything? Does he know what happened? He must do. There's no way he could be alive otherwise. Unless, this feeling of familiarity is just... It's fake. That's it, it has to be. Then again, what right did he have to expect anything else after what he'd done? Oh god-

"I knew this was a bad idea." Florence clinks a tray of tea onto the table, "Quit agitating our patient." She quickly corrects herself, "... Sir."

He ignores her, "It was a miracle I was able to get here at all, considering everything going on right now." He lifts the cup to his mouth, stopping to blow on it slightly. Doing so fogs up his glasses.

No, wait. Argh. Rosinante feels something crack in his head. Ah. Right, if course. No need to beg, no point. Sengoku just doesn't care. He woke up at the worst time possible and now he's being updated out of obligation. It's not fair. He's scared, he just wants- Just-

White hot anger bubbles under his skin, only barely being held back by his clenched fist and gritted teeth. The paper crumples and tears under his nails. A large vein pulses on his forehead. He's shaking, feeling all of the muscles in his body flexing simultaneously. The table begins to tremble. Hah... hah...

Silence.

Breathe. Get your bearings. He forces air into his lungs. In... out... in... out...

Sengoku says something, but he can't hear it. He closes his eyes and continues to focus on calming down. There's a weight on his shoulder, whatever. Hit him, he doesn't care. That's probably what he came to do anyway- to punish him for being a traitor and a drain on resources.

The breathing isn't working. His chest feels tight. Tighter than with that accursed tube. He's going to be dropped. Hunted, he's going to be hunted again. Noone will catch him this time. He can feel the warmth of torches and the vibration of mud against boot. Maybe he can buy some time, maybe he will- Keep it in, keep it in. Breathe, breathe- BREATHE!!! Why isn't it WORKING?!?!

He can't open his eyes, he can't move, he can't breathe. Doffy help-

Out. His body ragdolls against the strong shoulder next to him. Pitch black.

Urghhh... Cora shifts in bed. He thought waking up the first, no, the second time, was bad. This is worse. It feels as if he has been dragged underneath a ship. His head is pounding.

Where is he? Hospital, marine base. Okay, no more of this. The nightmares and memories have never been this close together before.

Argh. Another painful throb. If it really has been thirteen years, he has to be pushing 40, right? Probably why that stupid panic attack gave him the equivalent of a damn hangover.

A few minutes later, the door clicks open. The quick quiet tap of flats draw close to the side of his bed. He lays still. A gentle hand lays over his chest, moving with each rise and fall. Another hand presses to his neck, right under his jaw. Rosinante cannot help his heartbeat jumping. Anyone touching his neck would have had the same reaction. She leans back and sighs, "I know you're awake."

Even cracking his eyes open hurts. They're dry and swollen. Oww...

"Gimme a minute." Is the only thought he can manage to string into a sentence.

"I'll get you a glass of water, kay?" Before he can respond, she turns quickly and the tap-tap-taps fade.

Not Florence, not Hazel, this nurse is... uhh... Isla! That's right, she's the one with the mole. She returns with a glass of the best drink he has ever had. It's as if all the moisture that had been previously sapped out of his body is being shwooped directly into his veins. Wow. Good old-fashioned life juice, can't beat it.

The Moled woman quietly watches him down several glasses, her stare permeating through him. He finally takes beat to catch her eye, "Thank-you, miss."

It's a small moment, but it holds his dignity. She smiles, "No problem! Thought you might be thirsty."

The lull leaves time for Cora's eyes to wander. The room is meticulously tidy- they definitely cleaned while he slept. The logbook he'd been using has been leaned against the back wall on top of the desk, complete with a dip pen and spare sheets of paper. The front of it shows some splatters of ink, but it looks as if someone has wiped it to the best of their ability.

There's a conspicuous box next to the book, with some files poking out of the top. As soon as Isla spies him looking at it she mumbles, "Don't look at that yet."

The words feel automatic. She must be trying to avoid another incident. He nods, "...Okay." This is so awkward. Make conversation. You do remember how to do that, right?

"So uh, how long you been working here?" Smooth, very smooth.

She cups her chin, thinking, and shrugs, "Around three years, I think?" She muses idly, "I was pretty green before the attack..."

Which attack? Where even is this base? He wants to know. He wants to know so badly, but his stupid brain is on a hair trigger. Instead, "Well, you seem pretty practiced now, definitely better than a field medic at least."

That earns an airy laugh, like the soft bell of a windchime. The smile that forms is slight but sweet nonetheless. What battles have you seen, love? How many men have you saved with that smile?

He changes track, "Don't wanna assume, but I don't think I've seen any doctors around."

She nods, "That's right. We were told to keep the team to a minimum- well, at least while you were comatose."

"And now?"

Isla wrinkles her nose, "I don't see why that has to change, to be honest." Oops, he didn't mean it like that. Backtrack, backtrack.

"I didn't-"

"Nah, I get it." Her eyes flick upwards, reaching back into her memory, "From what I was told, you went into surgery when you first arrived- waaaay before my time." She cringes, "Oops, no offence!"

He's so old now. This woman is so pretty and he is so old. Haha, everything is pain.

"None taken." Rosinante tries to fake a laugh. If she notices, the nurse doesn't comment.

"I think you had specialists working on ya for a good few months, until they realised you were long-term..." She produces a pen from somewhere and uses it to tap her lip, "... Aaaand then you got bounced around a few times. You've only been here for a year or so."

She gives him an expectant look, like he was supposed to remember any of this. He does not. He runs his hand through his hair. It was washed in a sink a day ago, after all the tests. He tries not to think about how many hands have washed him in thirteen years- which proving a very hard to do.

He sighs, "So, a small team cos I didn't change much?"

Isla flashes a devilish grin, "Actually, that's the thing, you shouldn't have a dedicated team at all."

"What... do you mean... by that?" The hell? Just how much money has Sengoku dropped on him? Why didn't he just stick him on a ward with a bunch of- oh. Oh yeah.

"Well, I recon you gotta be someone with pretty high profile for the Inspector general to vouch for you for so long." She leans in close to whisper, "I shouldn't ask this, but are you being hunted? Are you an ex pirate?"

Yes, and yes.

"It's better you don't know, if you haven't been told."

"I knew you'd say that." She pouts, and the moles move with the balloon of her cheeks. Huh, cute. The nurse gestures to the mystery box, "I've been dying to read those files all morning, but the Chief said I'd lose my job if I did, soooo..." Smart. Discretion is always your friend, especially as a marine. Stay in your lane, and you don't get dragged into shit.

"You thought you'd ask me? If that's the case, why'd you stop me from reading em?"

"If you start reading them, I have to leave! There's a video transponder snail in here!" A whine creeps into her voice, "It's not fair! I wanna seeee!"

So there is. Cora can't help but grin. What a bad girl- she wasn't trying to avoid an incident at all. She was just trying get in before anyone else. Too bad.

"I'm not promising anything. You really should try and keep your job."

She opens her mouth to protest, but is interrupted by an- "ISLA!!! I KNOW YOU'RE SLACKING OFF AGAIN- WHERE ARE YOU?!?"

He cocks his head, his grin widening, "I think you should go."

The moment that she is out of earshot, Cora bolts for the box. Sorry dear, but you are far too sweet to be involved in anything to do with... Well, whatever's in here.

He carefully lifts the flaps to see that it is stacked to overflowing with thick bound folders, all numbered with colour-coded tags. The tags near the top have long since faded, but still retain their original numbers. The top label reads '#1 Dressrosa'.

The second he feels his heart jump, he panics and grabs the edge of the desk. The bed. Yes, the bed. If he falls, it will be soft. The huffing and self-talk feels cringey, like he's talking to a child. But he'll be damned if he gets interrupted again.

The sweaty blonde struggles a little with the box. It's humiliating, considering that he was able to break restrains and tubes while only semi-concious. Was it the constant flashbacks that'd exhausted him? Or had his muscles really wasted that much?

Finally, he plops down on the matress and dumps the contents. One... Two... Three... Five. Five total files, all of varying different sizes. Settling himself down, Rosinante takes a second to lay them out in order and position some pillows behind him. Perfect.

The files, in order, read: #1 Dressrosa, #2 The Heart Pirates, #3 World events, #4 Medical history, #5 Setup.

The 'World events' file has been recently opened, and he can see the crumpled edge of some newspaper. Oh, so that's where they came from.

Welp, since they've been arranged so nicely... He reaches over to the 'Dressrosa' file and slowly unbinds the string enclosing it. The stiff card creaks, scattering paper dust all over his hands. This one definitely hasn't been opened in some time.

There are several divider tabs within: Leadership, Successor, Census, Connections.

The first thing he notes is how general the labels are. Anyone around who might have felt the need to peek could be put off by seemingly superfluous information. They may discard this folder entirely. Not this marine though, well, if he can still be called that.

In overview of the first tab, there was an incident involving king Riku- his eyes widen- a mass gathering of money, followed by a massacre on an impossibly large scale. Seriously? That... No, he'd never. It can't be. Don't tell him that-

He quickly flips to the next tab. The 'Successor' is-

Donquixote Doflamingo.

He can't even react. He failed. He fucking failed. Of course he did, the message never got through. What else? What has he done? His eyes dart from page to page. Warlord, saviour- the words make him feel sick. That wasn't ours. You had no right to do that!

"Get them before they can get us". He can hear his brother's laugh in the back of his head, "That was always the plan, no?"

The next, Census. Comparisons of citzen numbers, compared with birth records and firsthand accounts. The notes get gradually more and more frantic, with many corrections being tacked on. The tapestry of scribbles and paperclips devolves into one message: 'MISSING!' It has been circled and underlined enough to leave holes in the paper.

Holy shit. Keep going.

Connections. There's a list of personnel reports, all detailing their relation to the Donquixote pirates. Some he recognises, some he doesn't. Though they are all undoubtedly big names. All trapped in his web, acting as both workhorse and shield. There are a few addendums, noting bounties and current status. The numbers just keep getting bigger and bigger.

So that's it then. Conquer all of Dressrosa, subjugate the people, build your army. All according to plan. It's not enough. It'll never be enough for you, will it?

"Of course not", he responds, "Not until Mary Geoise, not until it all burns."

He closes the folder in disgust. Cora is about to move on when he notices a small note attached to the back. It reads 'continued in World events'. Oh?

The Heart Pirates, huh... Good name. Let's see what you have to do with this.

This folder is relatively new. He gets the feeling it must have been replaced many times, due to the several pieces of tape keeping the sides together. The string is sturdy and mostly white, only yellowing around the points where it has rubbed on the edges. There is less trepidation opening this one.

The bold 'WANTED' peeking over half open folder flap catches his attention. He can see in the corner that several of the posters have been tacked together with a small metal twist tie. There are other loose ones behind it. So, who are these? With rustle, he shakes them loose.

Face to face, the picture is T- Tuh-

The- The picture... is-

"Kid!!!"

Those deep set eyes, that pale tanned skin, the little dimple he would always get when his mouth streched wide... It's him, it has to be. Cora can even see the slight traces of discolouration from the white blotches on his skin. They're faint, but still there.

It gotta be you, kid.

Silence.

He throws his head back and lets out the biggest wail of his life. His chest heaves with each sob, and tears gush down his cheeks. Here, in his little bubble, the sounds of compound forgotten years: relief, regret, love, fear, longing, joy.

Thank god you're alright. All these years you've spent without me. You made it. Look at you, all grown up. How recent is this? Are you alright? I wanna see you. I wanna hug you. I wanna tell you just how proud I am. You're the best kid, I love you. I can't- I'm so happy- I can't-

The remaining files are blown to the side as he flings his arms open. All that remains are the attached bounty posters clutched in his hand. The bed groans in protest as he throws his head back and releases a hysterical laugh, "You did it", his once stoic face stretches into the biggest beam it has ever formed, "You really DID IT!!!"

On the monitor, the silent revelry earns a facepalm. Sengoku knew the kid was important, but Rosinante's display of emotion stung a bit. Was he really worth so little, compared to Law? Perhaps he should have waited for their reunion until after he'd read these. It wasn't his fault he was so anxious to see him. The recruit was practically his son, after all.

"You did this to yourself." Mutters Florence.

The officer huffs and tears into a packet of rice crackers, "Shaddup."

After calming down somewhat, Cora picks up the remainder of the folder. He has to know everything.

He flicks through the leaflet of posters, all different pictures and bounties of the same Law. The loose posters show other pirates, presumably his crew. The uniform is adorable- they're all in boiler suits! And a polar theme, too. The orca and penguin additions to the hats are a nice touch. Oooh, a mink, so fluffy. He really wants to pet him. Would that be rude? And the ship- she's a submarine. That's so smart, super practical.

There's a series of reports on theories of when they were formed, and excerpts from the newspaper of incidents involved. Quite the rap sheet. So many run-ins with the marines. The dates stretch further and further into the future. What a life you've lived, kid! Knew you'd leave your mark on the world.

Oh, oh shit. Oh shit. One of the later reports makes his eyes boggle. The excerpt reads: 'TROUBLE AT SABAODY AS PIRATES HOLD CELESTIAL DRAGONS HOSTAGE'. What? No no no no. Huh??? 'Strawhat Luffy, Eustass Captain Kid and The surgeon of death, Trafalgar Law stand their ground as marines lay siege to the auction house'.

He struggles to ground himself. The rooms spins around him. That'll get admirals pulled on you, Law, what the hell are you doing?!?

He hurriedly scans the rest. Escape... escape... c'mon, kid, you're killing me here. Yes!!! 'After commandeering captives from the auction house, Trafalgar Law and the heart pirates have been seen fleeing the island. Current whereabouts: unknown'. Oh-thank-god.

What were you thinking? Is the will of D truly that strong that you couldn't resist antagonising them? He knows what really goes on in those 'auction houses', but still... And these others... Strawhat Luffy and Eustass 'Captain' Kid... Did they put you up to this?!?

There's still a little left in the folder, but he can't keep this up anymore. Cancel. He collapses onto the pillows behind him. It's so much. Has the kid had anymore run-ins with those parasites? It clearly shot up his bounty. What else? What could possibly be more stupid than directly attacking and then threatening a celestial dragon?

He's exhausted. His life meant nothing before that little brat. Now he has to care. It's as if someone has removed his heart and attached it to Law. Every time there is the mere mention of him being in danger, he can feel it twinge in his chest, like it's actually his own life on the line. It's so painful. He has never felt more alive.

Rosinante slows his breaths, his eyes fluttering shut. He'll take a break to let this all sink in. Just rest his eyes for a second.

Sometime after, Hazel wakes him by sliding a trolley of food into the room. He flinches and bolts upright, "Bwuh?"

Her freckled cheeks flush. Oh? In the rush of lingering endorphins, he thinks that maybe she could be... I mean, he can't look that bad, he muses... wait, no. She's trying not to laugh.

"Thuh-" he can't look her in the eye, "Thank-you for the meal..."

There's a tray of sandwiches, a jug of water, a bowl of fruit, and some tin that hopefully contains something sweet- and not a sewing kit. Compared to the porridge and stewed apple from when they weren't sure if he could eat solid food, this is paradise. The man can't help but drool.

"Go wash your hands, please." She instructs. He rises from the bed slowly, head bent down. This is partly focusing on keeping his balance, and mostly so that he doesn't have to see her bemused expression.

Hobbling over to the bathroom next door takes a decent amount of effort, but it's worth it. For the sandwiches!

He has long since gotten over the fear of water. Many users have it. Marine facilities filter and store fresh water really well, to start. That, and hiding his devil fruit powers has become second nature. Other than his apparent clumsiness, it is easy to hide discomfort and fatigue. The man would never throw himself in the ocean, but has definitely masked being splashed with seawater. It's not so hard when you have a permanent scowl on your face.

The cold water stings his fingers. His hands feel a little numb, but he is not going to wait for the tap to warm up- there are sandwiches to eat.

The towel, of all things, feels nostalgic. Everything gets printed with the marine logo, of course. Towels are a recruit's best friend. Keeping dry, avoiding trenchfoot, cleaning duties, smacking each other in the locker room... After drying his hands, Cora runs them across the textured surface. Pirate or marine? This world is so familiar, yet so alien.

The small groan he utters as he squats on a chair across from the tray does not do wonders for his self-esteem. Hazel is too preoccupied in peeling fruit to notice, though. He shovels fistfulls of neatly cut triangle sandwiches into his mouth. Oooh, fish paste and cucumber- yummy!

More life juice and apple slices later, he leans back and pats his stomach. Food is good.

The nurse giggles with delight.

A second later, he feels his stomach gurgle. Oh, that's right- bread.

Cora has to use the bathroom. He has to use it now! He is not going to shit himself infront of this nurse.

He struggles to his feet, clutching his stomach. Was he really that out of it that he would eat the one thing that goes right through him? Dammit kid, he was so happy he forgot- it's all your fault.

Leaning on the wall and squeezing his buttcheeks, he waddles towards the door. Upon crossing the threshold, he hears, "Oh crap! That was on the diet list- how did these get through?"

The world shifts into a blurry focus. There's a plastic mask over his face and an uncomfortable weight in his throat that suggests a tube in his stomach. Hospital... Awesome, guess that means... What. What???

"Law!!!"

Even after all this time, the connecting cables are no match for the gangly arms connected to them. Tha dazed man crashes unceremoniously to the floor.

Several terrified nurses scramble to pull him upright and stub the bleeding from a pulled IV in his wrist. Greasy hair falls across his face. Letting out a sigh, he resists the urge to sweep it away and lets them do their job.

Instead, he tilts his head back. Urgh- big mistake. The tube hits his gag reflex and and a wave of nausea floods his system. Tensing his jaw, he fights the urge to vomit. The nurses mutter something about solid food and breathing. Please, for the love of God, remove this damn thing.

Out of habit, silence forms around his face. In a hoarse whisper that noone else can hear, he lets out a string of complaints and curses. Ah shit, they saw his mouth move.

"..."

"..... us-"

"Hello? Sir, can you hear me?"

Cancel. Nothing to write with. He can't use his arms with them pawing at them anyway, "Yes, hello."

Several of them take a step back. The tiny women are like little white rodents, wide-eyed and jumpy. The man wonders if they preferred him asleep, most people do.

The seemingly head nurse takes a shaky step forward, bowing her head behind a trembling clipboard. Her voice barely above a whisper, she stammers, "G-oOd morning, s-siR...!"

What's with all this 'sir' crap? His bleary eyes drift around the room until they land on the mark of the blue seagull. Ah, marines- gotcha. What was his rank again? He had never bothered to remember, especially as it kept changing. Undercover agents are kind of a special case anyway.

"What day is it?" Wait, no. Better question, "How long have I been out?"

The nurse regains her composure, taking a deep breath before answering, "I'm afraid we're going to have to do some... tests, b-before I can answer that."

Standard. That means it's been a helluva long time. Don't wanna shock the patient when he's just woken up. Great, wonderful, perfect. Steady your breathing, steady it dammit.

She takes another step. Don't yell at this random woman. She's kept you alive- her team has kept you alive. You're okay, you're safe. He can't get you. Can he get you? Fuck, how long has it been?

A soft whumf and the nurse takes a seat next to him. She stops just shy of touching, allowing her presence to be checked for threat. She's a marine med, of course she has experience with shell shock. Despite the poised and deliberate movement, the large man can still sense her fear. The bed practically vibrates with it.

Come on, she's meeting you halfway. Just say something, anything-

"Is Sengoku still around?"

Anything apart from that, you moron.

She softens, like she was expecting this, "He's already been contacted. If you do the tests, you'll definitely be able to see him."

Oh-thank-god.

Rosinante lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Fine, tests it is then.

Hours later, after being poked and prodded with every object known to man, the tube is finally removed. Cora is about ready to cry. Moving his neck has never felt so good.

The tension in the room has almost entirely dissipated. It is as if the head nurse (who's name is Florence, by the way) has diffused a ticking time bomb. Once the others were sure that he wouldn't lash out in panic, they relaxed into a professional rhythm. To their credit, nothing they did was prolonged, it just felt like it. Questions, notes scribbled on clipboards, eye tests, motor function tests, more questions.

Rosinante knows his height is intimidating, even without his background or rank. He had broken out of the restrains on his bed without even meaning to, just by waking up. The fact that this team was warming up to him so quickly was a credit to their experience and talent, not to mention bravery.

By the end of the day, he has proven that he can eat solids and use the bathroom by himself. Much to his chagrin- the idea of making these angels wipe his ass makes him want to die in a hole. Odd really, given what he thought was his recent habit of burning down hospitals.

He knows Sengoku probably won't appear the same day, but Rosinante still pouts about it. He tries not to let it show, but he hears Florence tittering about it anyway. Part of him reconsiders rescinding his cooperation, but on the other hand, he just wants the day to be over.

They plop him into the biggest wheelchair they can find and wheel his butt over to a new room.

This room is a lot more comfortable than the other one. The bed is still plain and white, but there are none of the sectional dividers or monitoring machines. It even has a corner with a coffee table and chairs. There several cabinets crammed with books, paper and utensils. Fancy. He is really getting the gold star treatment, huh.

The blonde wakes with a start. Silence. He yawns and stretches within his little bubble. Man, he feels rough. Who kicked his ass again? Doffy? Those damn kids? Urgh, cancel.

He scans the room for a clock. It reads 5:40-ish. They'll all sleep till mid morning anyway. That's enough time to get the kid to another hospital before they get run out of town. He'll give his report later.

Wait. Wait a minute.

He shakes his head as if to clear it. What's going on? What is he doing? Where is he?

As if on cue, his side twinges. Bang! The heat of lead and the steam of a muzzle. The cold wet floor of snow. Doffy stares down at him with signature smile. No, that's not right. He's not smiling. His face is twisted into an ugly grimace. Slouch, lay down. Distract him from the wood at your back.

You can't use it. You have to listen to his monologue. After all, these are the last words you'll hear, the last ones your family will leave you with. The chair scrapes and shifts from under him. Stay still, kid. It's nearly over. You're nearly home free.

There's a clatter and a crash. Did he lose consciousness? Did it deactivate? Shit! The best he can do is throw his body between them. Grab his ankle, his ankle- stop him!

A rush of pain floods his senses as something large and flat collides with his face. Take that, bastard. Go on, kick me. See what good it will do.

"RUN!!!" He screeches, hoarse voice echoing off the white empty walls. Another shrill voice joins his,

"Oh god, sir! Are you alright? Sir!!!"

The angel effortlessly flips him onto his side, levering his own limbs in order to do so. Tiny hands cup his cheek. A cloth dipped in something wipes a trail of soft stinging next to his ear.

"No..." tears form streaks down his face, smearing the makeup, "Take the fruit... Leave me... Please kid..."

She pauses for a second. Then leans down to whisper, "It's okay Cora, we're safe now. He can't get us."

Another pause, "We have the fruit. We did it. We really did it."

That snaps him out of it. He's heard those lines before. Lines you tell dying men so they can rest easy. He lifts his head to see the nurse looking down at him with a gentle expression. For a brief second, he wonders who she really sees when she comforts people like this, before once again surrendering his limp body to her professional hands.

"... and I can't believe you didn't even break your nose!" Florence continues, "Really? Falling asleep at a desk after waking from a coma- who does that?"

She has been on his ass ever since his tiny saviour did her handover. In an effort to appear like he actually gave a shit about this lecture, Rosinante opted not to use his power. Though the repetitive hen-pecking was really testing his patience.

"I'm pretty sure it was a flashback-" interjects another nurse, playing with her hair.

"Of course it was a flashback," Florence stands dramatically with her hands on her hips, "And that's why needed something soft to land on."

"Like a bed..." he admits.

"Like a DAMN bed!" She says in unison.

Their chatter is interrupted by a slight knock. It was so quiet and polite that one could've mistaken it for a footstep, if not for how rhythmic it was.

"WE'RE ON ROUNDS!!!" yells the head nurse, not bothering to turn her head. The others turn slightly, and one breaks off to check. Cora isn't quite sure, because she's so quiet, but he thinks her name is Hazel. Fitting, given her hair colour.

The door cracks open and she squeaks in surprise, "Inspector general! Oh!"

Inspector general? Who-

"My apologies for interrupting your rounds. I came as soon as I could." Yet another man to tower over them, poor girls. Hazel stands aside, and the shadow of the other man crosses her face and slips to the floor as he ambles into the room.

Is it really him? Here already? Wait... Inspector General, how-

Rosinante's face lights up at the familiar voice. So many calls, so many reports. About the only constant thing in his life after the death of his parents, here in the flesh.

And then it falls. Deep set wrinkles scar his face. His once dark hair now faded into a grey white. Where once stood a clean cut, prim and proper marine admiral, a decrepit old man remains. How can this be? His voice still sounds the same! What the hell happened?!?

Sengoku gives an indignant huff, upon seeing his subordinate's face fall, "I'm not that old! I'll have you know this is all due to stress! STRESS!!!"

Cora can't help but chuckle. Yelling like an old man sure as hell isn't helping your case, "... old man." He mutters.

"I heard that!" The general stomps over to one of the chairs and throws himself down, "See if I ever pay your medical bills again, cheeky brat..." He rests his feet on the coffee table, earning a look of distain from Hazel.

Ah, that's why his room's so fancy.

"All hail my lord and saviour with deep pockets." He says deadpan, as he mimes praying, then kneeling. The mattress creaks under him.

"Thank Florence and her team if you're ever really feeling grateful." Sengoku waves his hand lazily.

"Already did, many times..." Rosinante swings his legs over the side of the bed and presses his hands into the mattress to get a firm grip.

"What was that?"

"THANK-YOU FOR THE CARE!!!!" The lankey man gets caught between standing up and trying to bow, the momentum sending him careening face first towards the ground.

Florence tries her best to catch his head, but she trips at the last second, leaving some the others to try and scramble over her. The effect is similar to someone knocking over bowling pins. After the dust settles, Cora is laid face down over the bodies of three nurses.

He tries to pry himself off them. Though that proves quite difficult due to the many hands holding him in place.

"Don't move!" The head nurse's muffled voice comes from beneath the pile. Several other voices chime in, telling him to stay put.

"Sorry- I'm really so- Look, I must be heavy-"

Sengoku bursts into raucous laughter, "Oh-ho my, should I leave?"

After thoroughly extracting him from the nurses and floor, Sengoku reaches into his coat and hands a stack of newspapers to Rosinante. The medical team fusses about, clearly unsure if he is ready for it, but their superior dismisses them, "Wanna know what's been going on in the world?"

"Fuck. Yes. Please." He knew he wouldn't disappoint. The next best thing would have been a cigarette, maybe later.

Cora lays them out across the coffee table. His commander picks one up and examines the date before placing it back down, "This one is the most recent."

Thirteen years, damn. That is, if this accurate. The headline reads 'Worst generation topples Kaido and Big Mom alliance'. Alliance? Huh... Rosinante slowly picks up the paper and rifles through it. Suddenly, his eyes stop focusing. Wait. What.

"Thirteen years?!?"

"Not such a spring chicken yourself, huh." Sengoku chuckles, "I know it's a lot to take in. Keep these. I'll come back and visit."

"You can't just leave..." Cora protests, "What about the-" He stops, his mind catching up with him. Why hasn't he said anything? Does he know what happened? He must do. There's no way he could be alive otherwise. Unless, this feeling of familiarity is just... It's fake. That's it, it has to be. Then again, what right did he have to expect anything else after what he'd done? Oh god-

"I knew this was a bad idea." Florence clinks a tray of tea onto the table, "Quit agitating our patient." She quickly corrects herself, "... Sir."

He ignores her, "It was a miracle I was able to get here at all, considering everything going on right now." He lifts the cup to his mouth, stopping to blow on it slightly. Doing so fogs up his glasses.

No, wait. Argh. Rosinante feels something crack in his head. Ah. Right, if course. No need to beg, no point. Sengoku just doesn't care. He woke up at the worst time possible and now he's being updated out of obligation. It's not fair. He's scared, he just wants- Just-

White hot anger bubbles under his skin, only barely being held back by his clenched fist and gritted teeth. The paper crumples and tears under his nails. A large vein pulses on his forehead. He's shaking, feeling all of the muscles in his body flexing simultaneously. The table begins to tremble. Hah... hah...

Silence.

Breathe. Get your bearings. He forces air into his lungs. In... out... in... out...

Sengoku says something, but he can't hear it. He closes his eyes and continues to focus on calming down. There's a weight on his shoulder, whatever. Hit him, he doesn't care. That's probably what he came to do anyway- to punish him for being a traitor and a drain on resources.

The breathing isn't working. His chest feels tight. Tighter than with that accursed tube. He's going to be dropped. Hunted, he's going to be hunted again. Noone will catch him this time. He can feel the warmth of torches and the vibration of mud against boot. Maybe he can buy some time, maybe he will- Keep it in, keep it in. Breathe, breathe- BREATHE!!! Why isn't it WORKING?!?!

He can't open his eyes, he can't move, he can't breathe. Doffy help-

Out. His body ragdolls against the strong shoulder next to him. Pitch black.

Urghhh... Cora shifts in bed. He thought waking up the first, no, the second time, was bad. This is worse. It feels as if he has been dragged underneath a ship. His head is pounding.

Where is he? Hospital, marine base. Okay, no more of this. The nightmares and memories have never been this close together before.

Argh. Another painful throb. If it really has been thirteen years, he has to be pushing 40, right? Probably why that stupid panic attack gave him the equivalent of a damn hangover.

A few minutes later, the door clicks open. The quick quiet tap of flats draw close to the side of his bed. He lays still. A gentle hand lays over his chest, moving with each rise and fall. Another hand presses to his neck, right under his jaw. Rosinante cannot help his heartbeat jumping. Anyone touching his neck would have had the same reaction. She leans back and sighs, "I know you're awake."

Even cracking his eyes open hurts. They're dry and swollen. Oww...

"Gimme a minute." Is the only thought he can manage to string into a sentence.

"I'll get you a glass of water, kay?" Before he can respond, she turns quickly and the tap-tap-taps fade.

Not Florence, not Hazel, this nurse is... uhh... Isla! That's right, she's the one with the mole. She returns with a glass of the best drink he has ever had. It's as if all the moisture that had been previously sapped out of his body is being shwooped directly into his veins. Wow. Good old-fashioned life juice, can't beat it.

The Moled woman quietly watches him down several glasses, her stare permeating through him. He finally takes beat to catch her eye, "Thank-you, miss."

It's a small moment, but it holds his dignity. She smiles, "No problem! Thought you might be thirsty."

The lull leaves time for Cora's eyes to wander. The room is meticulously tidy- they definitely cleaned while he slept. The logbook he'd been using has been leaned against the back wall on top of the desk, complete with a dip pen and spare sheets of paper. The front of it shows some splatters of ink, but it looks as if someone has wiped it to the best of their ability.

There's a conspicuous box next to the book, with some files poking out of the top. As soon as Isla spies him looking at it she mumbles, "Don't look at that yet."

The words feel automatic. She must be trying to avoid another incident. He nods, "...Okay." This is so awkward. Make conversation. You do remember how to do that, right?

"So uh, how long you been working here?" Smooth, very smooth.

She cups her chin, thinking, and shrugs, "Around three years, I think?" She muses idly, "I was pretty green before the attack..."

Which attack? Where even is this base? He wants to know. He wants to know so badly, but his stupid brain is on a hair trigger. Instead, "Well, you seem pretty practiced now, definitely better than a field medic at least."

That earns an airy laugh, like the soft bell of a windchime. The smile that forms is slight but sweet nonetheless. What battles have you seen, love? How many men have you saved with that smile?

He changes track, "Don't wanna assume, but I don't think I've seen any doctors around."

She nods, "That's right. We were told to keep the team to a minimum- well, at least while you were comatose."

"And now?"

Isla wrinkles her nose, "I don't see why that has to change, to be honest." Oops, he didn't mean it like that. Backtrack, backtrack.

"I didn't-"

"Nah, I get it." Her eyes flick upwards, reaching back into her memory, "From what I was told, you went into surgery when you first arrived- waaaay before my time." She cringes, "Oops, no offence!"

He's so old now. This woman is so pretty and he is so old. Haha, everything is pain.

"None taken." Rosinante tries to fake a laugh. If she notices, the nurse doesn't comment.

"I think you had specialists working on ya for a good few months, until they realised you were long-term..." She produces a pen from somewhere and uses it to tap her lip, "... Aaaand then you got bounced around a few times. You've only been here for a year or so."

She gives him an expectant look, like he was supposed to remember any of this. He does not. He runs his hand through his hair. It was washed in a sink a day ago, after all the tests. He tries not to think about how many hands have washed him in thirteen years- which proving a very hard to do.

He sighs, "So, a small team cos I didn't change much?"

Isla flashes a devilish grin, "Actually, that's the thing, you shouldn't have a dedicated team at all."

"What... do you mean... by that?" The hell? Just how much money has Sengoku dropped on him? Why didn't he just stick him on a ward with a bunch of- oh. Oh yeah.

"Well, I recon you gotta be someone with pretty high profile for the Inspector general to vouch for you for so long." She leans in close to whisper, "I shouldn't ask this, but are you being hunted? Are you an ex pirate?"

Yes, and yes.

"It's better you don't know, if you haven't been told."

"I knew you'd say that." She pouts, and the moles move with the balloon of her cheeks. Huh, cute. The nurse gestures to the mystery box, "I've been dying to read those files all morning, but the Chief said I'd lose my job if I did, soooo..." Smart. Discretion is always your friend, especially as a marine. Stay in your lane, and you don't get dragged into shit.

"You thought you'd ask me? If that's the case, why'd you stop me from reading em?"

"If you start reading them, I have to leave! There's a video transponder snail in here!" A whine creeps into her voice, "It's not fair! I wanna seeee!"

So there is. Cora can't help but grin. What a bad girl- she wasn't trying to avoid an incident at all. She was just trying get in before anyone else. Too bad.

"I'm not promising anything. You really should try and keep your job."

She opens her mouth to protest, but is interrupted by an- "ISLA!!! I KNOW YOU'RE SLACKING OFF AGAIN- WHERE ARE YOU?!?"

He cocks his head, his grin widening, "I think you should go."

The moment that she is out of earshot, Cora bolts for the box. Sorry dear, but you are far too sweet to be involved in anything to do with... Well, whatever's in here.

He carefully lifts the flaps to see that it is stacked to overflowing with thick bound folders, all numbered with colour-coded tags. The tags near the top have long since faded, but still retain their original numbers. The top label reads '#1 Dressrosa'.

The second he feels his heart jump, he panics and grabs the edge of the desk. The bed. Yes, the bed. If he falls, it will be soft. The huffing and self-talk feels cringey, like he's talking to a child. But he'll be damned if he gets interrupted again.

The sweaty blonde struggles a little with the box. It's humiliating, considering that he was able to break restrains and tubes while only semi-concious. Was it the constant flashbacks that'd exhausted him? Or had his muscles really wasted that much?

Finally, he plops down on the matress and dumps the contents. One... Two... Three... Five. Five total files, all of varying different sizes. Settling himself down, Rosinante takes a second to lay them out in order and position some pillows behind him. Perfect.

The files, in order, read: #1 Dressrosa, #2 The Heart Pirates, #3 World events, #4 Medical history, #5 Setup.

The 'World events' file has been recently opened, and he can see the crumpled edge of some newspaper. Oh, so that's where they came from.

Welp, since they've been arranged so nicely... He reaches over to the 'Dressrosa' file and slowly unbinds the string enclosing it. The stiff card creaks, scattering paper dust all over his hands. This one definitely hasn't been opened in some time.

There are several divider tabs within: Leadership, Successor, Census, Connections.

The first thing he notes is how general the labels are. Anyone around who might have felt the need to peek could be put off by seemingly superfluous information. They may discard this folder entirely. Not this marine though, well, if he can still be called that.

In overview of the first tab, there was an incident involving king Riku- his eyes widen- a mass gathering of money, followed by a massacre on an impossibly large scale. Seriously? That... No, he'd never. It can't be. Don't tell him that-

He quickly flips to the next tab. The 'Successor' is-

Donquixote Doflamingo.

He can't even react. He failed. He fucking failed. Of course he did, the message never got through. What else? What has he done? His eyes dart from page to page. Warlord, saviour- the words make him feel sick. That wasn't ours. You had no right to do that!

"Get them before they can get us". He can hear his brother's laugh in the back of his head, "That was always the plan, no?"

The next, Census. Comparisons of citzen numbers, compared with birth records and firsthand accounts. The notes get gradually more and more frantic, with many corrections being tacked on. The tapestry of scribbles and paperclips devolves into one message: 'MISSING!' It has been circled and underlined enough to leave holes in the paper.

Holy shit. Keep going.

Connections. There's a list of personnel reports, all detailing their relation to the Donquixote pirates. Some he recognises, some he doesn't. Though they are all undoubtedly big names. All trapped in his web, acting as both workhorse and shield. There are a few addendums, noting bounties and current status. The numbers just keep getting bigger and bigger.

So that's it then. Conquer all of Dressrosa, subjugate the people, build your army. All according to plan. It's not enough. It'll never be enough for you, will it?

"Of course not", he responds, "Not until Mary Geoise, not until it all burns."

He closes the folder in disgust. Cora is about to move on when he notices a small note attached to the back. It reads 'continued in World events'. Oh?

The Heart Pirates, huh... Good name. Let's see what you have to do with this.

This folder is relatively new. He gets the feeling it must have been replaced many times, due to the several pieces of tape keeping the sides together. The string is sturdy and mostly white, only yellowing around the points where it has rubbed on the edges. There is less trepidation opening this one.

The bold 'WANTED' peeking over half open folder flap catches his attention. He can see in the corner that several of the posters have been tacked together with a small metal twist tie. There are other loose ones behind it. So, who are these? With rustle, he shakes them loose.

Face to face, the picture is T- Tuh-

The- The picture... is-

"Kid!!!"

Those deep set eyes, that pale tanned skin, the little dimple he would always get when his mouth streched wide... It's him, it has to be. Cora can even see the slight traces of discolouration from the white blotches on his skin. They're faint, but still there.

It gotta be you, kid.

Silence.

He throws his head back and lets out the biggest wail of his life. His chest heaves with each sob, and tears gush down his cheeks. Here, in his little bubble, the sounds of compound forgotten years: relief, regret, love, fear, longing, joy.

Thank god you're alright. All these years you've spent without me. You made it. Look at you, all grown up. How recent is this? Are you alright? I wanna see you. I wanna hug you. I wanna tell you just how proud I am. You're the best kid, I love you. I can't- I'm so happy- I can't-

The remaining files are blown to the side as he flings his arms open. All that remains are the attached bounty posters clutched in his hand. The bed groans in protest as he throws his head back and releases a hysterical laugh, "You did it", his once stoic face stretches into the biggest beam it has ever formed, "You really DID IT!!!"

On the monitor, the silent revelry earns a facepalm. Sengoku knew the kid was important, but Rosinante's display of emotion stung a bit. Was he really worth so little, compared to Law? Perhaps he should have waited for their reunion until after he'd read these. It wasn't his fault he was so anxious to see him. The recruit was practically his son, after all.

"You did this to yourself." Mutters Florence.

The officer huffs and tears into a packet of rice crackers, "Shaddup."

After calming down somewhat, Cora picks up the remainder of the folder. He has to know everything.

He flicks through the leaflet of posters, all different pictures and bounties of the same Law. The loose posters show other pirates, presumably his crew. The uniform is adorable- they're all in boiler suits! And a polar theme, too. The orca and penguin additions to the hats are a nice touch. Oooh, a mink, so fluffy. He really wants to pet him. Would that be rude? And the ship- she's a submarine. That's so smart, super practical.

There's a series of reports on theories of when they were formed, and excerpts from the newspaper of incidents involved. Quite the rap sheet. So many run-ins with the marines. The dates stretch further and further into the future. What a life you've lived, kid! Knew you'd leave your mark on the world.

Oh, oh shit. Oh shit. One of the later reports makes his eyes boggle. The excerpt reads: 'TROUBLE AT SABAODY AS PIRATES HOLD CELESTIAL DRAGONS HOSTAGE'. What? No no no no. Huh??? 'Strawhat Luffy, Eustass Captain Kid and The surgeon of death, Trafalgar Law stand their ground as marines lay siege to the auction house'.

He struggles to ground himself. The rooms spins around him. That'll get admirals pulled on you, Law, what the hell are you doing?!?

He hurriedly scans the rest. Escape... escape... c'mon, kid, you're killing me here. Yes!!! 'After commandeering captives from the auction house, Trafalgar Law and the heart pirates have been seen fleeing the island. Current whereabouts: unknown'. Oh-thank-god.

What were you thinking? Is the will of D truly that strong that you couldn't resist antagonising them? He knows what really goes on in those 'auction houses', but still... And these others... Strawhat Luffy and Eustass 'Captain' Kid... Did they put you up to this?!?

The world shifts into a blurry focus. There's a plastic mask over his face and an uncomfortable weight in his throat that suggests a tube in his stomach. Hospital... Awesome, guess that means... What. What???

"Law!!!"

Even after all this time, the connecting cables are no match for the gangly arms connected to them. Tha dazed man crashes unceremoniously to the floor.

Several terrified nurses scramble to pull him upright and stub the bleeding from a pulled IV in his wrist. Greasy hair falls across his face. Letting out a sigh, he resists the urge to sweep it away and lets them do their job.

Instead, he tilts his head back. Urgh- big mistake. The tube hits his gag reflex and and a wave of nausea floods his system. Tensing his jaw, he fights the urge to vomit. The nurses mutter something about solid food and breathing. Please, for the love of God, remove this damn thing.

Out of habit, silence forms around his face. In a hoarse whisper that noone else can hear, he lets out a string of complaints and curses. Ah shit, they saw his mouth move.

"..."

"..... us-"

"Hello? Sir, can you hear me?"

Cancel. Nothing to write with. He can't use his arms with them pawing at them anyway, "Yes, hello."

Several of them take a step back. The tiny women are like little white rodents, wide-eyed and jumpy. The man wonders if they preferred him asleep, most people do.

The seemingly head nurse takes a shaky step forward, bowing her head behind a trembling clipboard. Her voice barely above a whisper, she stammers, "G-oOd morning, s-siR...!"

What's with all this 'sir' crap? His bleary eyes drift around the room until they land on the mark of the blue seagull. Ah, marines- gotcha. What was his rank again? He had never bothered to remember, especially as it kept changing. Undercover agents are kind of a special case anyway.

"What day is it?" Wait, no. Better question, "How long have I been out?"

The nurse regains her composure, taking a deep breath before answering, "I'm afraid we're going to have to do some... tests, b-before I can answer that."

Standard. That means it's been a helluva long time. Don't wanna shock the patient when he's just woken up. Great, wonderful, perfect. Steady your breathing, steady it dammit.

She takes another step. Don't yell at this random woman. She's kept you alive- her team has kept you alive. You're okay, you're safe. He can't get you. Can he get you? Fuck, how long has it been?

A soft whumf and the nurse takes a seat next to him. She stops just shy of touching, allowing her presence to be checked for threat. She's a marine med, of course she has experience with shell shock. Despite the poised and deliberate movement, the large man can still sense her fear. The bed practically vibrates with it.

Come on, she's meeting you halfway. Just say something, anything-

"Is Sengoku still around?"

Anything apart from that, you moron.

She softens, like she was expecting this, "He's already been contacted. If you do the tests, you'll definitely be able to see him."

Oh-thank-god.

Rosinante lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Fine, tests it is then.

Hours later, after being poked and prodded with every object known to man, the tube is finally removed. Cora is about ready to cry. Moving his neck has never felt so good.

The tension in the room has almost entirely dissipated. It is as if the head nurse (who's name is Florence, by the way) has diffused a ticking time bomb. Once the others were sure that he wouldn't lash out in panic, they relaxed into a professional rhythm. To their credit, nothing they did was prolonged, it just felt like it. Questions, notes scribbled on clipboards, eye tests, motor function tests, more questions.

Rosinante knows his height is intimidating, even without his background or rank. He had broken out of the restrains on his bed without even meaning to, just by waking up. The fact that this team was warming up to him so quickly was a credit to their experience and talent, not to mention bravery.

By the end of the day, he has proven that he can eat solids and use the bathroom by himself. Much to his chagrin- the idea of making these angels wipe his ass makes him want to die in a hole. Odd really, given what he thought was his recent habit of burning down hospitals.

He knows Sengoku probably won't appear the same day, but Rosinante still pouts about it. He tries not to let it show, but he hears Florence tittering about it anyway. Part of him reconsiders rescinding his cooperation, but on the other hand, he just wants the day to be over.

They plop him into the biggest wheelchair they can find and wheel his butt over to a new room.

This room is a lot more comfortable than the other one. The bed is still plain and white, but there are none of the sectional dividers or monitoring machines. It even has a corner with a coffee table and chairs. There several cabinets crammed with books, paper and utensils. Fancy. He is really getting the gold star treatment, huh.

The blonde wakes with a start. Silence. He yawns and stretches within his little bubble. Man, he feels rough. Who kicked his ass again? Doffy? Those damn kids? Urgh, cancel.

He scans the room for a clock. It reads 5:40-ish. They'll all sleep till mid morning anyway. That's enough time to get the kid to another hospital before they get run out of town. He'll give his report later.

Wait. Wait a minute.

He shakes his head as if to clear it. What's going on? What is he doing? Where is he?

As if on cue, his side twinges. Bang! The heat of lead and the steam of a muzzle. The cold wet floor of snow. Doffy stares down at him with signature smile. No, that's not right. He's not smiling. His face is twisted into an ugly grimace. Slouch, lay down. Distract him from the wood at your back.

You can't use it. You have to listen to his monologue. After all, these are the last words you'll hear, the last ones your family will leave you with. The chair scrapes and shifts from under him. Stay still, kid. It's nearly over. You're nearly home free.

There's a clatter and a crash. Did he lose consciousness? Did it deactivate? Shit! The best he can do is throw his body between them. Grab his ankle, his ankle- stop him!

A rush of pain floods his senses as something large and flat collides with his face. Take that, bastard. Go on, kick me. See what good it will do.

"RUN!!!" He screeches, hoarse voice echoing off the white empty walls. Another shrill voice joins his,

"Oh god, sir! Are you alright? Sir!!!"

The angel effortlessly flips him onto his side, levering his own limbs in order to do so. Tiny hands cup his cheek. A cloth dipped in something wipes a trail of soft stinging next to his ear.

"No..." tears form streaks down his face, smearing the makeup, "Take the fruit... Leave me... Please kid..."

She pauses for a second. Then leans down to whisper, "It's okay Cora, we're safe now. He can't get us."

Another pause, "We have the fruit. We did it. We really did it."

That snaps him out of it. He's heard those lines before. Lines you tell dying men so they can rest easy. He lifts his head to see the nurse looking down at him with a gentle expression. For a brief second, he wonders who she really sees when she comforts people like this, before once again surrendering his limp body to her professional hands.

"... and I can't believe you didn't even break your nose!" Florence continues, "Really? Falling asleep at a desk after waking from a coma- who does that?"

She has been on his ass ever since his tiny saviour did her handover. In an effort to appear like he actually gave a shit about this lecture, Rosinante opted not to use his power. Though the repetitive hen-pecking was really testing his patience.

"I'm pretty sure it was a flashback-" interjects another nurse, playing with her hair.

"Of course it was a flashback," Florence stands dramatically with her hands on her hips, "And that's why needed something soft to land on."

"Like a bed..." he admits.

"Like a DAMN bed!" She says in unison.

Their chatter is interrupted by a slight knock. It was so quiet and polite that one could've mistaken it for a footstep, if not for how rhythmic it was.

"WE'RE ON ROUNDS!!!" yells the head nurse, not bothering to turn her head. The others turn slightly, and one breaks off to check. Cora isn't quite sure, because she's so quiet, but he thinks her name is Hazel. Fitting, given her hair colour.

The door cracks open and she squeaks in surprise, "Inspector general! Oh!"

Inspector general? Who-

"My apologies for interrupting your rounds. I came as soon as I could." Yet another man to tower over them, poor girls. Hazel stands aside, and the shadow of the other man crosses her face and slips to the floor as he ambles into the room.

Is it really him? Here already? Wait... Inspector General, how-

Rosinante's face lights up at the familiar voice. So many calls, so many reports. About the only constant thing in his life after the death of his parents, here in the flesh.

And then it falls. Deep set wrinkles scar his face. His once dark hair now faded into a grey white. Where once stood a clean cut, prim and proper marine admiral, a decrepit old man remains. How can this be? His voice still sounds the same! What the hell happened?!?

Sengoku gives an indignant huff, upon seeing his subordinate's face fall, "I'm not that old! I'll have you know this is all due to stress! STRESS!!!"

Cora can't help but chuckle. Yelling like an old man sure as hell isn't helping your case, "... old man." He mutters.

"I heard that!" The general stomps over to one of the chairs and throws himself down, "See if I ever pay your medical bills again, cheeky brat..." He rests his feet on the coffee table, earning a look of distain from Hazel.

Ah, that's why his room's so fancy.

"All hail my lord and saviour with deep pockets." He says deadpan, as he mimes praying, then kneeling. The mattress creaks under him.

"Thank Florence and her team if you're ever really feeling grateful." Sengoku waves his hand lazily.

"Already did, many times..." Rosinante swings his legs over the side of the bed and presses his hands into the mattress to get a firm grip.

"What was that?"

"THANK-YOU FOR THE CARE!!!!" The lankey man gets caught between standing up and trying to bow, the momentum sending him careening face first towards the ground.

Florence tries her best to catch his head, but she trips at the last second, leaving some the others to try and scramble over her. The effect is similar to someone knocking over bowling pins. After the dust settles, Cora is laid face down over the bodies of three nurses.

He tries to pry himself off them. Though that proves quite difficult due to the many hands holding him in place.

"Don't move!" The head nurse's muffled voice comes from beneath the pile. Several other voices chime in, telling him to stay put.

"Sorry- I'm really so- Look, I must be heavy-"

Sengoku bursts into raucous laughter, "Oh-ho my, should I leave?"

After thoroughly extracting him from the nurses and floor, Sengoku reaches into his coat and hands a stack of newspapers to Rosinante. The medical team fusses about, clearly unsure if he is ready for it, but their superior dismisses them, "Wanna know what's been going on in the world?"

"Fuck. Yes. Please." He knew he wouldn't disappoint. The next best thing would have been a cigarette, maybe later.

Cora lays them out across the coffee table. His commander picks one up and examines the date before placing it back down, "This one is the most recent."

Thirteen years, damn. That is, if this accurate. The headline reads 'Worst generation topples Kaido and Big Mom alliance'. Alliance? Huh... Rosinante slowly picks up the paper and rifles through it. Suddenly, his eyes stop focusing. Wait. What.

"Thirteen years?!?"

"Not such a spring chicken yourself, huh." Sengoku chuckles, "I know it's a lot to take in. Keep these. I'll come back and visit."

"You can't just leave..." Cora protests, "What about the-" He stops, his mind catching up with him. Why hasn't he said anything? Does he know what happened? He must do. There's no way he could be alive otherwise. Unless, this feeling of familiarity is just... It's fake. That's it, it has to be. Then again, what right did he have to expect anything else after what he'd done? Oh god-

"I knew this was a bad idea." Florence clinks a tray of tea onto the table, "Quit agitating our patient." She quickly corrects herself, "... Sir."

He ignores her, "It was a miracle I was able to get here at all, considering everything going on right now." He lifts the cup to his mouth, stopping to blow on it slightly. Doing so fogs up his glasses.

No, wait. Argh. Rosinante feels something crack in his head. Ah. Right, if course. No need to beg, no point. Sengoku just doesn't care. He woke up at the worst time possible and now he's being updated out of obligation. It's not fair. He's scared, he just wants- Just-

White hot anger bubbles under his skin, only barely being held back by his clenched fist and gritted teeth. The paper crumples and tears under his nails. A large vein pulses on his forehead. He's shaking, feeling all of the muscles in his body flexing simultaneously. The table begins to tremble. Hah... hah...

Silence.

Breathe. Get your bearings. He forces air into his lungs. In... out... in... out...

Sengoku says something, but he can't hear it. He closes his eyes and continues to focus on calming down. There's a weight on his shoulder, whatever. Hit him, he doesn't care. That's probably what he came to do anyway- to punish him for being a traitor and a drain on resources.

The breathing isn't working. His chest feels tight. Tighter than with that accursed tube. He's going to be dropped. Hunted, he's going to be hunted again. Noone will catch him this time. He can feel the warmth of torches and the vibration of mud against boot. Maybe he can buy some time, maybe he will- Keep it in, keep it in. Breathe, breathe- BREATHE!!! Why isn't it WORKING?!?!

He can't open his eyes, he can't move, he can't breathe. Doffy help-

Out. His body ragdolls against the strong shoulder next to him. Pitch black.

Urghhh... Cora shifts in bed. He thought waking up the first, no, the second time, was bad. This is worse. It feels as if he has been dragged underneath a ship. His head is pounding.

Where is he? Hospital, marine base. Okay, no more of this. The nightmares and memories have never been this close together before.

Argh. Another painful throb. If it really has been thirteen years, he has to be pushing 40, right? Probably why that stupid panic attack gave him the equivalent of a damn hangover.

A few minutes later, the door clicks open. The quick quiet tap of flats draw close to the side of his bed. He lays still. A gentle hand lays over his chest, moving with each rise and fall. Another hand presses to his neck, right under his jaw. Rosinante cannot help his heartbeat jumping. Anyone touching his neck would have had the same reaction. She leans back and sighs, "I know you're awake."

Even cracking his eyes open hurts. They're dry and swollen. Oww...

"Gimme a minute." Is the only thought he can manage to string into a sentence.

"I'll get you a glass of water, kay?" Before he can respond, she turns quickly and the tap-tap-taps fade.

Not Florence, not Hazel, this nurse is... uhh... Isla! That's right, she's the one with the mole. She returns with a glass of the best drink he has ever had. It's as if all the moisture that had been previously sapped out of his body is being shwooped directly into his veins. Wow. Good old-fashioned life juice, can't beat it.

The Moled woman quietly watches him down several glasses, her stare permeating through him. He finally takes beat to catch her eye, "Thank-you, miss."

It's a small moment, but it holds his dignity. She smiles, "No problem! Thought you might be thirsty."

The lull leaves time for Cora's eyes to wander. The room is meticulously tidy- they definitely cleaned while he slept. The logbook he'd been using has been leaned against the back wall on top of the desk, complete with a dip pen and spare sheets of paper. The front of it shows some splatters of ink, but it looks as if someone has wiped it to the best of their ability.

There's a conspicuous box next to the book, with some files poking out of the top. As soon as Isla spies him looking at it she mumbles, "Don't look at that yet."

The words feel automatic. She must be trying to avoid another incident. He nods, "...Okay." This is so awkward. Make conversation. You do remember how to do that, right?

"So uh, how long you been working here?" Smooth, very smooth.

She cups her chin, thinking, and shrugs, "Around three years, I think?" She muses idly, "I was pretty green before the attack..."

Which attack? Where even is this base? He wants to know. He wants to know so badly, but his stupid brain is on a hair trigger. Instead, "Well, you seem pretty practiced now, definitely better than a field medic at least."

That earns an airy laugh, like the soft bell of a windchime. The smile that forms is slight but sweet nonetheless. What battles have you seen, love? How many men have you saved with that smile?

He changes track, "Don't wanna assume, but I don't think I've seen any doctors around."

She nods, "That's right. We were told to keep the team to a minimum- well, at least while you were comatose."

"And now?"

Isla wrinkles her nose, "I don't see why that has to change, to be honest." Oops, he didn't mean it like that. Backtrack, backtrack.

"I didn't-"

"Nah, I get it." Her eyes flick upwards, reaching back into her memory, "From what I was told, you went into surgery when you first arrived- waaaay before my time." She cringes, "Oops, no offence!"

He's so old now. This woman is so pretty and he is so old. Haha, everything is pain.

"None taken." Rosinante tries to fake a laugh. If she notices, the nurse doesn't comment.

"I think you had specialists working on ya for a good few months, until they realised you were long-term..." She produces a pen from somewhere and uses it to tap her lip, "... Aaaand then you got bounced around a few times. You've only been here for a year or so."

She gives him an expectant look, like he was supposed to remember any of this. He does not. He runs his hand through his hair. It was washed in a sink a day ago, after all the tests. He tries not to think about how many hands have washed him in thirteen years- which proving a very hard to do.

He sighs, "So, a small team cos I didn't change much?"

Isla flashes a devilish grin, "Actually, that's the thing, you shouldn't have a dedicated team at all."

"What... do you mean... by that?" The hell? Just how much money has Sengoku dropped on him? Why didn't he just stick him on a ward with a bunch of- oh. Oh yeah.

"Well, I recon you gotta be someone with pretty high profile for the Inspector general to vouch for you for so long." She leans in close to whisper, "I shouldn't ask this, but are you being hunted? Are you an ex pirate?"

Yes, and yes.

"It's better you don't know, if you haven't been told."

"I knew you'd say that." She pouts, and the moles move with the balloon of her cheeks. Huh, cute. The nurse gestures to the mystery box, "I've been dying to read those files all morning, but the Chief said I'd lose my job if I did, soooo..." Smart. Discretion is always your friend, especially as a marine. Stay in your lane, and you don't get dragged into shit.

"You thought you'd ask me? If that's the case, why'd you stop me from reading em?"

"If you start reading them, I have to leave! There's a video transponder snail in here!" A whine creeps into her voice, "It's not fair! I wanna seeee!"

So there is. Cora can't help but grin. What a bad girl- she wasn't trying to avoid an incident at all. She was just trying get in before anyone else. Too bad.

"I'm not promising anything. You really should try and keep your job."

She opens her mouth to protest, but is interrupted by an- "ISLA!!! I KNOW YOU'RE SLACKING OFF AGAIN- WHERE ARE YOU?!?"

He cocks his head, his grin widening, "I think you should go."

The moment that she is out of earshot, Cora bolts for the box. Sorry dear, but you are far too sweet to be involved in anything to do with... Well, whatever's in here.

He carefully lifts the flaps to see that it is stacked to overflowing with thick bound folders, all numbered with colour-coded tags. The tags near the top have long since faded, but still retain their original numbers. The top label reads '#1 Dressrosa'.

The second he feels his heart jump, he panics and grabs the edge of the desk. The bed. Yes, the bed. If he falls, it will be soft. The huffing and self-talk feels cringey, like he's talking to a child. But he'll be damned if he gets interrupted again.

The sweaty blonde struggles a little with the box. It's humiliating, considering that he was able to break restrains and tubes while only semi-concious. Was it the constant flashbacks that'd exhausted him? Or had his muscles really wasted that much?

Finally, he plops down on the matress and dumps the contents. One... Two... Three... Five. Five total files, all of varying different sizes. Settling himself down, Rosinante takes a second to lay them out in order and position some pillows behind him. Perfect.

The files, in order, read: #1 Dressrosa, #2 The Heart Pirates, #3 World events, #4 Medical history, #5 Setup.

The 'World events' file has been recently opened, and he can see the crumpled edge of some newspaper. Oh, so that's where they came from.

Welp, since they've been arranged so nicely... He reaches over to the 'Dressrosa' file and slowly unbinds the string enclosing it. The stiff card creaks, scattering paper dust all over his hands. This one definitely hasn't been opened in some time.

There are several divider tabs within: Leadership, Successor, Census, Connections.

The first thing he notes is how general the labels are. Anyone around who might have felt the need to peek could be put off by seemingly superfluous information. They may discard this folder entirely. Not this marine though, well, if he can still be called that.

In overview of the first tab, there was an incident involving king Riku- his eyes widen- a mass gathering of money, followed by a massacre on an impossibly large scale. Seriously? That... No, he'd never. It can't be. Don't tell him that-

He quickly flips to the next tab. The 'Successor' is-

Donquixote Doflamingo.

He can't even react. He failed. He fucking failed. Of course he did, the message never got through. What else? What has he done? His eyes dart from page to page. Warlord, saviour- the words make him feel sick. That wasn't ours. You had no right to do that!

"Get them before they can get us". He can hear his brother's laugh in the back of his head, "That was always the plan, no?"

The next, Census. Comparisons of citzen numbers, compared with birth records and firsthand accounts. The notes get gradually more and more frantic, with many corrections being tacked on. The tapestry of scribbles and paperclips devolves into one message: 'MISSING!' It has been circled and underlined enough to leave holes in the paper.

Holy shit. Keep going.

Connections. There's a list of personnel reports, all detailing their relation to the Donquixote pirates. Some he recognises, some he doesn't. Though they are all undoubtedly big names. All trapped in his web, acting as both workhorse and shield. There are a few addendums, noting bounties and current status. The numbers just keep getting bigger and bigger.

So that's it then. Conquer all of Dressrosa, subjugate the people, build your army. All according to plan. It's not enough. It'll never be enough for you, will it?

"Of course not", he responds, "Not until Mary Geoise, not until it all burns."

He closes the folder in disgust. Cora is about to move on when he notices a small note attached to the back. It reads 'continued in World events'. Oh?