Chapter Text
As Ichiji waits to die he wonders if his thoughts should be more profound. He’s read biographies before where the authors would describe their near death experiences as ‘their lives flashing before their eyes’ with all the additional self-reflection that apparently accompanies such a thing. Some of them described (often in language so flowery it gave Ichiji a headache) significant personal realizations in those moments, ones that reprioritized their entire world views, while others suddenly had deep insight into the inner workings of the universe.
However as Ichiji continues to sit there he receives no world-shattering revelation, unless one could count the idle thought about how sticky and disgusting his skin felt under all the hardened candy locking him in place. That probably wasn’t the deep realization all those authors were referring to, though it’s highly likely that many of them were simply embellishing their own memories for the sake of higher book sales. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he realizes that’s probably the case.
Ah well, it’s not like he was expecting there to be much meaning in his own death anyway.
Ichiji supposes he’s marginally disappointed that he’s not going out in a blaze of glory, some high adrenaline death on the battlefield where he can at least die with the blood of his enemies on his hands, but even that irritation is relatively minor. The truth is he’s never really given much thought to how he would die. That’s not to say he thought he’d never die, of course he knew he’d die some day, but it’s more like he just doesn’t have any strong opinions on how he goes out.
Be it on the battlefield or at some candy-coated wedding party turned assassination plot, Ichiji just doesn’t care if this is his final moment. He doesn’t care if he dies now, or tomorrow, or fifty years down the line. It sounds nonsensical that someone like him, someone created to theoretically be the peak of human evolution, doesn’t care if he’s wiped from the face of the earth but he truly can’t work up even the smallest iota of emotion about his impending demise.
At least he’s not completely alone in such sentiments.
A glance at his brothers reveals that Niji and Yonji are laughing as they crack jokes about their situation. It’s no different than the usual banter they trade over the dinner table, as if this whole thing is just an extended prank. Ichiji knows it’s not denial or any other pathetic coping mechanism though. He knows his brothers have grasped the severity of the situation and approaching deaths just as much as Ichiji has, but they just… can’t express it.
It’s apparently jarring enough that one of the Charlotte’s- he can’t even remember all the spawns’ names- behind Niji starts to look uncomfortable and then irritated with their behavior. He nudges the barrel of his gun against Niji’s head with a scowl. “This isn’t a laughing matter,” he snaps, “You won’t be walking away from here.”
Niji cranes his head back as best he can with a grin on his face. “Yeah, yeah, just shoot me already and get it over with.”
“This is serious!”
“Whatever,” Niji says, and Ichiji can practically hear the way his brother rolls his eyes. Niji seems further amused by the way the pirate’s face turns bright red and starts laughing all over again.
“You should shoot him the mouth,” Yonji jokes, “You'd be the first person to get him to shut up then.”
“Hey, fuck you!”
Their blasé attitude makes more than a few of the pirates exchange uncertain glances. Ichiji’s sure that some of them are worried they’re overlooking something, thinking that Germa might have some hidden ace up their sleeves still, but Ichiji knows they’ve been well and truly cornered. There’ll be no help coming for them. That much is obvious to him from the way their father is sobbing and has been doing so for at least ten minutes at this point.
‘It’s really starting to become annoying,’ Ichiji thinks as he stares at his father. He can hardly believe that the same man that so thoroughly detested any displays of emotion could sob so openly without being disgusted by himself.
“Stop laughing!” Judge snaps at all of them through his tears. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Ichiji glances to the side as he sees Reiju frown out of the corner of his eye. He knows what she’s thinking. He’s seen it in the way she’s always looked at him and their brothers, even if she’s gotten better at hiding it over the years. She stares at them like she doesn’t think they’re human, like they’re something cold and alien wearing the skin of a person. He supposes he can’t blame her, especially not now.
Even animals ran, hid, or fought in the face of death. If the three of them couldn’t even do that, what did that make them?
He stares down the barrel of the gun across the table pointed at his forehead dead center. He knows it’s not the only weapon trained on him, knows that when Big Mom gives the command he’ll be riddled with bullets from head to toe, but he regards the cold metal directed at him and tries to feel anything at all.
There’s still nothing. Not anger or regret or, god forbid, fear. He just feels indifferent. For a moment it’s like he’s floating outside his body, watching the gun lined up at someone else in his position, and then he snaps back to the reality in front of him and becomes all to aware of his body and surroundings.
His arms and neck are starting to twinge from being held in the position. It smells sickeningly sweet from all the candy and pastries. The air is full of barked orders from Big Mom’s officers and stage whispers from the other guests. There are far too many eyes on them. And everything is still too goddamn sticky. At this point Ichiji might be happy to die if it would just get him out of this uncomfortable situation.
He has about half a second to think as much before the wedding literally explodes.
Cake is everywhere. Pirates are everywhere. Both the guests and hosts alike are running around like headless chickens and the bride and groom have disappeared from view. Ichiji hears someone yelling something about Big Mom and a broken picture and then…
The worst sound Ichiji has ever heard in his goddamn life shatters the air.
Literally shatters it.
It’s like a hundred war horns blaring at once. The vibrations alone are enough to crack the dishes on the tables around them. Ichiji’s head rings like a struck bell, the cacophony of the wailing shaking his body so violently it feels like his brain is turning to gelatin inside his skull. Around him he can see people slumping to the ground, foaming at the mouths, as the full force of Big Mom’s Haki hits them.
His vision dizzyingly blurs, darkening at the edges (or maybe it’s just his eyes shaking in his head), and then for a second he thinks he’s hallucinating. Maybe Big Mom’s Haki has hit him hard enough that he’s started seeing things, but he could swear…
He could swear…
He could swear his stupid failure of a brother is racing toward their table. His first thought is: How the hell is that failure still moving though this Haki onslaught? And more importantly, what the hell is he doing coming toward us?
If that idiot had any common sense he should be running away, taking advantage of this momentary distraction and fleeing this farce of a wedding with his crew as fast as his legs could carry him. He sees the other’s mouth open, thinks he’s saying something, but there’s no way Ichiji can make it out when his own ears are practically bleeding from the Emperor’s screeching.
He sees it then, the way the other’s eyes are locked on Reiju, and he realizes what the failure’s doing. Of course his brother would come back for their sister, the one who’d stuck her neck out and nearly had it cut off for the crime of setting their brother free all those years ago. His stupid brother and his stupid notions of love and honor had him running straight back into the jaws of death to repay a debt over a decade old. As ridiculous as such a notion was to Ichiji, it’s something that suits his failure of a brother perfectly.
What doesn’t make sense though is the brief moment when his brother’s eyes skirt toward Ichiji’s own, or the way those same bright blue eyes widen in fear and horror. For a second Ichiji wonders if that’s just Sanji’s natural reaction to seeing him, after all it was the expression he usually saw on his brother’s face back in Vinsmoke castle, but he quickly realizes that his brother is looking at something behind Ichiji and not Ichiji himself. As he slowly turns and follows his brother’s line of sight he realizes exactly what the younger had been looking at.
Though most of Big Mom’s crew had been incapacitated by her scream, a number of her children remained standing through the Haki onslaught. Though they are clearly disorganized, her children have yet to lower their weapons. The one next to Ichiji still has his gun barrel trained on Ichiji’s head, finger resting on the trigger.
In a flash, Ichiji knows what is going to happen.
His gaze swings back to his brother. He’s not sure why. He should be staring down his killer instead of his brother, but his head turns back almost involuntarily. Is it weakness? An instinctive refusal to face his own death?
How pathetic.
Sanji still looks frantic, racing across the party grounds, dodging pirates and guests alike, and jumping overturned tables and fallen decorations. For a second their eyes meet again over the edge of Ichiji’s sunglasses and all Ichiji can think is… why?
Why do you look so scared for me?
Why do you care if I die?
Wasn’t I terrible to you?
Didn’t I hurt you?
Why do you care about everything so damn much?
It shouldn’t be possible. They were all designed to be completely emotionless, practically machines, and yet somehow his little brother had always, always been too soft. Even when they were children he was so weak and pathetic and full of love for the world around him. It had been something Ichiji had despised.
He’d tried to beat it out of his younger brother, tried to show the other that the world was a cruel, callous place where the strongest stood at the top. And yet nothing, not beatings, or insults, or even that terrible dungeon his brother had been locked in seems to have dampened the curse his brother called compassion. It’s still present in his brother, obvious in the way he can reach out to the monsters he called family after everything they made him endure.
It’s so useless. It’s so pointless.
Why does he look worried for the people he hates?
‘Run away,’ Ichiji wants to say, ‘Stop wasting your time. Stop caring about anyone but yourself. You’re safer that way. Stronger that way.’
Ichiji hears the unmistakeable click of the gun’s hammer being pulled back. His brother looks like he cares more about what happens when that trigger is pulled than Ichiji ever could. He’s running fast, faster than any normal human should be able to, but Ichiji already knows it’s not fast enough. His brother looks desperate. Ichiji frowns.
‘I don’t understand you. I can’t understand you.’
Ichiji hears the bang, but like everything else in his life he doesn’t feel it.
When Ichiji opens his eyes again he’s moderately surprised to be doing so. His brain is slow to process, only managing to register the blank cream colored ceiling above him at first. In stages afterward he gradually realizes that he’s lying in a bed, not a very comfortable one at that, and he’s surrounded on all sides by metal rails and gently beeping monitors.
He tries to sit up reflexively, but stops at the familiar tug of the IV needle stuck into his arm.
“His Highness is awake!”
A dark shape he hadn’t even noticed before darts out of the corner of his vision. There’s a clamor as someone, presumably the nurse, rushes outside the room before the noise cuts off as the door swings closed behind her.
Some of the synapses in his brain finally begin to fire, and his mental processor whirs to life as he fully absorbs his surroundings. He’s in a room in the medical ward in Germa, he quickly realizes based on context clues. It looks different than what he remembers from the last time he was inside the ward, but it’s also been a couple years since he was sent anywhere except the labs for repairs and assessments.
And if he’s in the ward then…
Well, he must have made it off Whole Cake Island somehow. He thinks he should probably be more relieved than he actually is, only a dull sense of acceptance permeating through the haze of what he now realizes is probably a potent cocktail of painkillers. The last thing he remembers is, well, being shot in the head. It makes sense that even he’d be down for the count after that. It’s probably a miracle he survived at all.
Strangely enough though, there’s no lingering ache in his skull from the place he knows the bullet would have entered. Maybe the painkillers he’s on are more effective than he thought. His throat is extremely dry though, and while he can see a pitcher of water and a glass on a table a few steps from the bedside, there’s no way he can stand up and get it.
He reaches for where he knows the call button is on the bed, only to freeze as his hand moves in the corner of his vision. Ichiji pauses. Then lifts his hand slowly.
It’s…
It’s smaller.
He flexes his fingers as a test, confusion increasing as the smaller hand in front of his face moves obligingly. For a second Ichiji is frozen, staring blankly at his own hand like an idiot before it processes that no, he’s not hallucinating, that is in fact his hand and it does actually appear to be smaller. Maybe his depth perception needs recalibrating?
He then abruptly notices that not only does his hand appear smaller, it’s also strangely softer. It no longer has the hard won calluses from training and the battlefield before his exoskeleton had fully come in or residual burns from his lasers before their output strength was perfected. Now it’s all pale smooth skin like he had never seen a day of hard labor in his life.
“What…?” The word comes out higher than expected, his voice cracking from disuse. There’s something building deep in Ichiji’s stomach, some fluttering, uncomfortable sensation that he hesitates to name.
He reaches for the call button once more before he can think about it too hard, ready to demand an explanation from whatever unfortunate soul is on duty, but is beat to the punch by the door to the room slamming back open and three more nurses quickly entering.
“Your Highness, you’re awake!” One of them exclaims.
Another holding a clipboard is busily scribbling down the readouts on the monitors. The third is already rushing toward the water pitcher to pour him a glass (thank god someone knows their job around here). She’s quick to lift it to his lips and help him drink it. Though usually he’d protest about being treated like a child, he’s too off balance from staring at his own hand to really process it. The water at least provides some measure of relief and gives him some time to think, not that it does much for him.
“Do you know where you are, Your Highness?” The first nurse asks as the glass is taken away.
“The medical ward,” Ichiji replies, eyes narrowing as the high pitched sound of his voice doesn’t abate. What’s wrong with him? Did they have to reconstruct his throat?
“That’s right,” the nurse says obliviously, “And do you remember what happened before you were here?”
“I got shot in the head,” Ichiji says plainly.
All three nurses freeze. Their eyes are wide and shocked.
“Ah…” the first nurse says, “N-no, Your Highness. You were brought in for an operation. Don’t you remember?”
Ichiji scowls. “I know what happened, you don’t have to lie.” God, he really needs someone to look at his throat if everything he says comes out sounding this strange. He can only hope his voice will be fixed before his brothers hear him or else he’ll never live it down.
“I-I’m not lying, Prince Ichiji,” the nurse says, now looking alarmed. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine,” Ichiji says.
“T-then…” She glances uncertainly at the other nurses, but neither of them seem to know what to say, “P-perhaps you had a bad dream?” She winces the moment she suggests it, as if she already knows it’s a misstep.
Ichiji narrows his eyes at the woman. “I haven’t had a dream since I was six. That should have been noted on my assessments a decade and a half ago.” Is she trying to imply that he’s defective?
There’s another awkward silence and round of furtive exchanged glances.
“Your Highness,” the nurse says tentatively, “How old do you think you are?”
‘What a ridiculous question,’ Ichiji thinks, making a mental note to have the woman fired as soon as possible. “I’m twenty one.”
“Prince Ichiji…” She hesitates, “You…you just turned five last week.”