Watch a man in times of adversity to discover what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off. β Titus Lucretius Carus
He was no longer a cohesive machine of blood and bone. By now, even his mind sojourned in planes beyond his existence; clinging to dulcet memories of his egregious mistake. A smile he had never been able to decipher, words uttered against lips, the taste of whisky and cigars, tangled sheets and golden skin, laughter, golden hues and eternal promises, bloodstained wings veiling the night sky⦠Reality blended with fiction, truth got lost in lies. Anything to keep the mind from shattering as the cracks rapidly spread.
The heart of it struck him in an instant, while chained to a wall, bruised, battered, barely alive. There had never been a mask; he had always been genuineβgenuine chaos which he had embraced and wielded as his greatest weapon. Signs and subtle hints were ignored precisely because the darkness inside was real. To deceive his enemies, he had first deceived his allies. Crocodile trusted him even when it went against everything he stood for. He had trusted them both, to make matters even worse.
βKnavish fiend,β the grunt echoed off the walls, pounding in his head with hammer-like strikes. Shallow breaths, neither painful nor pleasurable, trapped his mind in a looped cycle of the events that had transpired. From the first moment their paths had crossed, to the current one where nothing but doom awaited. A sudden jolt of pain left him panting, intensifying the more he dwelt on it. Sweat ran down his cheeks, his teeth clenched, wishing they were biting into fleshβa visceral thought fuelled by rancour, yet so deep and real it confirmed his existenceβor what was left of it.
Was there anything left at all?
Broken bones and derisive numbness affirmed there was a perception of sensation, a testimony of oneβs physical presence. It was painful to exist in those restless hours. Sleep never came when summoned, and when it did, it was his own mind that kept him awake. Eventually, someone would open the doors of his current prison. That someone was more likely a foe than a friend, yet even then, Crocodile wanted to properly greet them as the quintessence of wrath. He wanted to beshrew their existence, but mostly his. Of that son of a bitch who had brought nothing but destruction with him.
His mouth ran dry, his chest throbbed from the impact of the knife embedded in his heart, and his body quivered vehemently from the sheer surge of emotions. His pride refused to let them escape. His teeth bit into his lower lip to remind him of the physical pain, yet his eyes remained defiant, misting over reality. The image before him was ephemeral, but it was more than enough to break him.
How did it all end up like this?
It was the type of city that drew people toward it. Those seeking very small yet very large miracles, adventurers longing for a new thrill, those hoping for the beginning of a new story, and those wishing for nothing to begin at all. A place to find oneself and a place to lose oneself completely. A place to evolve and a place to be devoured. A place to seek an ordinary life and a place to search for the extraordinary. A place of blinding lights and fastidious darkness. A city of wonders, lies, hopes, troubles, joy, and despairβa symbol of abnormality.
The cityβs charisma and double-sided allure were why Crocodile came. It was a chance to start anew, to forget the past and the demons he had left behind, and to create something empyreal. Over ten years had passed since he had made that choice, and over eight since he had started building his underground empire. Baroque Works was a criminal organization, one of many in this city, which owed its rapid growth to its devil fruit users, Crocodile being one of them
No one was certain why people were born with unique abilities, but it was no surprise when governments took an interest. These abilities became a person's most important secret. Once awakened, some kept their powers hidden even from their families. Those who couldnβt were presented with two options: a life as the government's product or a life as a criminal. Interestingly enough, these two factions werenβt at war with each other, even if they sometimes stood in each other's way. They lived in a parasitic symbiosis, constantly feeding off each other. At times they were partners, at others they were enemies. What had become clear early on, much to Crocodile's expectations, was that no one was to be trusted. In an ever-changing city with swarms of ever-changing faces, offering trust meant immediate death.
[9:32] All done, Mr. Zero.
The text message came from his secretary, Miss All Sunday. A short, concise report on the last shipment of weapons to the Ganmi group, just as he was used to. The Ganmi group was a relatively new presence in the city, having appeared two years ago, but they were loyal customers. Calling them a "group" was generousβthey were more of a local gang battling other small fries in their neighbourhoods. Normally, he wouldnβt care much about them, but he knew how useful connections could be when most needed. Even if Crocodile never intended to ask for anything in return for his services (other than money), he planned to use the Ganmi group as required. A neutral group with no specific ties to bigger organizations in the city was always useful if a distraction was necessary.
He didnβt respond to the message, merely left it as read. Miss All Sunday was accustomed to his lack of communication through the phone. She knew his paranoia, his habits, and his preferences. She had been by his side for seven years, and despite everything they had been through, Crocodile still believed she would eventually betray him. She was a lot like him, after all, and that was possibly why they made such good partners.
[10:03] Mr. Fiveβs task?
A hit job requested two weeks ago, another service his organization offered. Depending on the severity and importance of the job, Crocodile would sometimes send his elite officers to the front lines. Each of them excelled in specific areas, and so far, they hadn't performed below his expectations.
[10:05] Being worked on.
[10:06] Results will be in in a week.
That was adequate. He preferred clean jobs with no strings attached. Hasty kills brought too many questions; protracted kills erased their significance and meaning. A balance was necessary, and his elite operated according to the balance he dictated. Those under them were sent out for insignificant hits meant only to bring in more money.
Still, he couldnβt shake the feeling of unease. He had been in the city long enough to develop a sixth sense for impending trouble. The other organizations had kept a low profile for the past few months, performing their services and patrolling their turfs out of habit, merely keeping up appearances. Even the brats who often got caught up in the city's whirlwind were unusually quiet. Sometimes there were street brawls between gangs; other times, the kids were simply enjoying their youth and school days while they lasted. But they were always loud and noticeable. Even the police werenβt as active, likely in response to the other sideβs subdued behavior.
It felt as if everyone was waiting for something. It almost seemed as if the city itself had altered its abnormal lifestyle. Or perhaps it was just about to begin. Crocodileβs hand reached for the tin with cigars and the guillotine cutter. He took a cold taste after cutting the tip, and once satisfied, he lit it evenly, rotating the cigar and taking the first puff of smoke. The mild flavor graced his taste buds, lightheadedness crept up as it always did with tobacco, and for a moment, he was able to relax his nerves and forget about his worries.
βIβve just arrived at Calm Belt. Iβm not in a rush, so take your time.β The man took a seat at the nearby table with his back turned to Crocodile, still engrossed in his conversation. Usually, he didnβt care about the lives of others, and normally, he wouldnβt have paid attention to this man either, if it werenβt for his laughter, which was simply too boisterous for Crocodileβs taste. βSo, you lost her again? Fwahahahahahahahaha! I thought you were going togetherββ
Golden eyes lifted to judge the man behind his back. A fairly tall individual, young, white-haired, tanned skin, dressed in comfortable yet expensive clothing, with a loud, continuous laugh and an aura of arrogance that reminded Crocodile of a certain blond.
As he took another puff of smoke, Crocodile knew his perfect morning had come to an end. The unease he felt had found its source. According to Mr. Three, Doflamingo had returned to Spain to sort out personal matters. He would be back soon. / @umbrx
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