Chapter Text
He is painstakingly hauled up from the ruins, four Marine cadets flanking him on either side. They are inexperienced and wide-eyed, and their faces shine with sweat. Another four follow suit, their guns leveled – a useless gesture, given the bulky Sea Stone shackles encasing his wrists and ankles. If he were in a clearer state of mind, Doflamingo might have sneered at this tepid show of cowardice, at the embarrassing behemoth of inefficiency that is the Navy.
Everything he’s worked to build these last ten years has been reduced to the rubble around him. Vice Admiral Tsuru watches on as they load him into the covered wagon. Her arms are folded, her lips pursed shut. Their gazes meet only once. Doflamingo’s one eye searches hers for a scintilla of disgust or hatred or pity – any sentimental opening he might be able to wrest to his advantage later on, but she won’t even give him that much. All he can discern is a frigid annoyance. She is uncompromising in her detachment, stalwart and inaccessible.
He isn’t even disappointed.
A hard boot slams into his spine, and she is gone. Doflamingo lands at the base of the wagonbed, his cheek colliding against the rough hewn boards. His lacerated intestines churn; the strings lodged in his flesh slither and swarm, their movements made sluggish via the Sea Stone cuffs. A hollow, festering pain pulsates from within, burrowed deep beneath layers of skin and torn muscle. A reminder of Law’s parting gift.
A maddened giggle burbles up and dies at Doflamingo’s bloodied lips.
They are turning him over. Someone barks in his ear to hold still. A makeshift gag is forced into his mouth and pulled taut between his teeth, dinting deep into the corners of his lips. The old cloth smells filthy and tastes even worse, inducing that impossibly stifling feeling at the back of his throat. Doflamingo almost wishes they went with a blindfold instead.
The Marines take their time. They clamber in and take their seats on the benches, pistols still drawn, the leader barking orders and conferring with the driver. With the gag in his mouth, Doflamingo is as good as invisible (and perhaps this is the greatest injury). He lays mute at their feet, a caged animal, stewing in his pain and hatred and indignation. He feels a steady pounding in his ears, a thrumming in his neck and forehead; frenzy threatens to overtake him.
They are taking him to the harbor down south, where a Navy carrier is docked. There, he will be stripped and processed and secured for transportation. The bowels of Impel Down await him.
This is the future Rosinante so lovingly envisioned for him thirteen years ago.
A lifetime as a fallen god – years on the run, decades of careful evasion and contingency plans – and by what seemed like a mere fluke, the World Government has finally managed to capture him. Doflamingo is powerless and alone, rendered as vulnerable as that screaming child left thrashing on the wall all those years ago. Hysteria rises in his throat, and he gnaws his teeth into the gag. Deep inside, very distantly, he registers a raw, primal fear starting to unearth itself. He savagely presses it down, tries to focus on the pain instead. He will not lose control here. Will not allow himself to. Blood and saliva steadily dribble down his chin.
The ride to the harbor is long, and the choking sensation from the gag keeps him alert and on edge for the entire way. The Marines are quiet and keep mostly to themselves, never addressing him. With that and the gag, Doflamingo wonders if they’ve been given direct orders not to engage him.
As they are forcing him up the gangway to the carrier, a sudden commotion causes them to turn.
Gladius has been dragged into the clearing, both arms wrenched behind his back. His goggles are cracked and hang uselessly around his neck. His eyes are wild and bloodshot, housing a maddened fury. Doflamingo almost doesn't recognize him.
He surges forward, the two flanking Marines struggling to hold him back.
“Young Master!” Gladius howls.
He thrashes against his restraints, spewing curses and spittle. Even manages to kick one of his captors to the ground. The other Marine shouts in alarm and clubs him in the face, but he simply refuses to let up.
Doflamingo watches. His thoughts are utterly incoherent, untamable; they have warped and melded together into one long, internal scream.
The Marines are wrestling Gladius to the ground.
“Young Master…!”
He kicks up a cloud of dust, manages to slip one of his cuffs and clocks one of them in the jaw with a closed fist. A Marine in an officer’s uniform jumps in to help. They curse and spit and grapple for leverage – pinning his limbs, double cuffing his wrists.
A rifle barrel prods between Doflamingo’s shoulders.
“Hey! That’s your subordinate, right?” the Marine hisses. “He’s out of control. Order him to stand down!”
“Don’t you dare touch him, you piece of shit! I’ll… I’ll kill you! Fucking kill all of you!”
Gladius’ voice is starting to break. He almost sounds like a child again.
A strange sound slips past Doflamingo’s lips, an aborted giggle – his voice frayed, as thin as thread. There is a sudden tightness in his throat which threatens to unspool. He cannot bring himself to listen, much less speak.
“No, he’s what’s riling him up, can't you see? Get him out of here!” another Marine says, cocking his head.
“No! Let him go!” Gladius screams from the ground. “Young Master!”
That strangled giggle wells up, overflowing into gales upon gales of compulsive laughter. The microscopic strings lacing Doflamingo’s viscera pull taut. The blood comes up, wet and slippery, glutting his throat, and he is forced to confront that burning pain. The subsistence of it.
Doflamingo laughs. He laughs and he laughs. Blood spumes from his gaping mouth. His chest is cracking open, and he feels something terrible and deeplaid and unnamable being yanked from its roots, and he still continues to laugh. He cannot stop laughing, even when it hurts, even when it is slowly killing him – just as Gladius is powerless to stop what is coming.
The Marines exchange nervous glances, sweat trickling down their necks. An officer barks an order, and Doflamingo is yanked up the gangway without further ceremony – still laughing uncontrollably, his chains jingling merrily.
Their footsteps echo off the metallic hull. Gladius’ angered screams die away behind them as Doflamingo is whisked away to the cold, dark underbelly of the ship.