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Chapter Text

Doflamingo didn't know why he wasted money on that scrappy kid, but such a pretty piece of trash. The gold he'd pierced his ears with was the best. He couldn't be seen with alloy or tin draping his arm, and Law's fruit was powerful. It deserved a noble metal complement. Too good for him really.

The kid knew from the books he spoon-fed him that his fruit was something else—seemed too that Cora had let him in on more than he should've. Every now and then he thought Law even knew about the perennial youth operation. Let him be a worthy accessory until that knowledge was required. Until he was sturdy enough, old enough, loyal enough to gift his rightful king his life. Until it was as natural an action as breathing.

In a manner, Law had made him shoot Cora, and Cora had made him shoot their father, and their father had killed their mother through his neglect, and commoners like Law—despite being the son of doctors—were the reason everything was fucked. Commoners and celestials. Everyone was fucked but him.

Sometimes when Doflamingo leant and breathed over that frightened, blank or hateful face, (he really got the treatment when it was hateful, so that didn't happen often), all he saw were the jeers and rumble of indignation—the vigilantism—that glinted and flinted off the fire and pitchforks the rabble had used to back the Donquixotes up to the tower, where they suspended him, and his brother and their father. That useless waste of space in the middle, Cora to his father's right.

He should've left Homing up there. It was only Cora's pleading that had him pull him down. Snivelling twit.

Conqueror's haki didn't work on the kid, on Law. That was extraordinary. Even Gladius had swayed when he was that age. Not to say Law remained totally unaffected but he remained conscious. Gladius had been older. Baby 5 had grown used to it in training, but it had regularly wiped her out once. Buffalo couldn't handle it. Doflamingo's closest and oldest were fine with it. To Lao G it was like passing wind.

The villagers, that night, were all reflected in Law's gold. Of course his own ears sported hoops as well, but a king had no need for ostentation, duplication. There was only one ruler, born into glory. All Law had were his wits, his brains, his looks, like the merchant class prostituting itself at a whiff of popularity.

His training once he got old enough was an asset. His simple-mindedness. In slave terms, like all animals, maturation was attained once the creature gained height and filled out, as Law did so beautifully with the training Doffy allowed.

The benevolence of the heavenly demon, and the double piercing indicative of the valet class of his mother's clan in Mariejois, was fitting. Law's trinkets demonstrated both. The slaves had died out on the maternal line, or were sent into exile, or sold to the knackers, or whatever you did with the washed out and weary, once the matriarch, the last of that line (not having any sons), passed away.

Doflamingo remembered the loyal valet from when he visited his grandmother. Obsequious. Trailing behind his younger self as he carelessly carried a salt shaker, demanding that not a grain fall to the ground or … what? A whipping. A footstool. Piggybacks for the rest of the week? Something dull and childish no doubt, but that man grovelled, bent in two, with his hands cupped under the shaker Doflamingo held upside down. He'd stepped so heavily that more than a pinch or two left the container.

The valet wore doubled up hoop earrings. Law should know his place. No-one else in the Family, in the circles of executives and officers, had ever been re-admitted as a slave, and Law never really was. Reassigned, perhaps. If he hadn't eaten that fruit his fate would've been worse.

Vergo did the brand. That was early days, the boy still covered in white marks, though he gradually learnt how to remove them. It was a fine balance — developing his strength and not letting him get too robust. No point in him having the fruit but dying from Amber Lead or fleeing before he could use it.

Doflamingo had no interest in exploiting children until they were man enough to be resilient, but pliable, under his power. And he worked within the definitions of the current legislation of just what was expected of a slave. They were branded as children in the way that the iron was pressed into the hide of a cow when it was older than two months, younger than six. Sure, a baby wasn't the same as a calf, but they could survive the iron from about eight years onwards. The property laws for livestock and vassals fell under the same umbrella.

So much was convincing the captives of the great honour to be had in serving, and that they brought any shame they felt upon themselves. Law had reminded him of himself, but that's where the comparison stopped. Had. That bandolier of grenades and the drive to destroy everything. Cora had leached the killing instinct from him.

People with strength and will and the right to govern became kings, like him. Those destined to obey joined his family. It was a good life. The rules were clear. Those who didn't know their place died alone in the snow, as much as it pained him, or were put in their place. Like Law. There was no escape.

Doflamingo had enjoyed branding day on Mariejois. Both Homing and his mother tried to prevent the children from witnessing it, and though Cora loved gold you couldn't get him to visit the stockyards. Not all belongings held equal weight. The kids fascinated Doflamingo. Dressed neatly, plainly. Usually clean if they'd come straight from the auction house, scrubbed up for the bidding.

Some were about the same age, but they weren't kids really, and they were humans, not gods. Whining products for the use of gods. When the iron sizzled into flesh, the kids cried out the most, but were the quickest to recover. Adults cried out less, and many were tight-lipped until beaten into a response.

The fishmen were the most stoic. The older subjects often fell to infection. It was worth observing to know which stock to breed with which when the times were right to propagate a tough, durable and loyal workforce.

Slaves branded fellow slaves. That was standard practice. Very few wanted to do the children, but some did it to minimize the pain. It was rumoured that Roswald, that fool, got in there with the branding iron on one of the recently netted mermaids. He ruined her beauty as her scales fell away, and ruined any functionality or hope of survival she may have had. His family threw her back into the ocean, wrote off the loss.

One of the Donquixote slaves had worked up the ranks. A brutal guy. He taught Doflamingo a lot. So little regard for his fellow captives. He let Doflamingo hold the branding iron once or twice. Well, Doffy insisted. That slave he branded didn't survive, and even at that age the future king hated to see capital squandered, so he observed closely how to mark and maim effectively.

Vergo was good at what he did. Law was still weak and would always be a traitor. It didn't take much to hold him down and press the brand into his skin just below the hipbone. They applied the colour later when he graduated into his speciality, keeping within government regulations for pleasure slaves. Doflamingo made sure he was old enough to not only bear it, but to be good at it.

Baby 5 didn't want to watch the branding though she'd warned Law what would happen if he betrayed any of the family. Buffalo winced, but yeah, the kid had been cautioned. Gladius loathed anyone who bit the hand that took him in and fed him very generously. And as for the executives. Law was both a threat and saviour for the young master. He had no choice but to accept his post.

On its way out, Amber lead ripped through his system. The iron pressed into his skin. Beatings purpled his body, and later his new position brought attention that turned his stomach. Law often thought the only way through was out. To give up. To end it.

He'd thought he'd only had a few weeks to live when he was with Cora, severely reduced from a few months, and he'd been at the end of the diagnosed three years of life left for him. When he first walked through the Family's doors he'd been preparing to die. He'd hardly had a second to understand he'd been given a chance after Cora shoved the devil fruit down his throat, before the man was taken from him. Law was then captured and here he was, Doffy's slave.

But, there was possibility now, as fucked as everything was. Dying sometime soon wasn't inevitable. Cora told him to heal. Heal others. Like his parents. He had a window if he could only open it. Law couldn't say he'd been through worse, but he'd waded through pig shit and minefields, and though he wasn't given a moment to think straight once his 'official' duties came in to play, there was part of him that played Cora's words over and over.

And how disappointed would he be if Doflamingo managed to wipe out the two of them? How disappointed would Cora be with what he'd become? The lowest of the scrapheap. Doflamingo said he brought it on himself. That he crawled right back where they'd found him.

He wasn't strong enough to flee yet, but, as his power developed, he'd fire up a small room and replace a book from the pile on the edge of his desk—his designated weekly reading— with one of those Doffy kept off-limits in his library. Only when the executives went out onbusiness and Law's sole duty was to study. And he did. He turned pages quickly, memorising the depths and reach and limitations of the ope ope no mi, paying special attention to parts Doffy had asterisked with the Donquixote Jolly Roger. Causes fatigue. That explained a lot.

He read beyond these items. Always careful to swap out just one item with another, and to leave a good hour either side of the transaction. He procured inside reports on the World Government, on the ruling class, past and present, of Dressrosa. Ohara. Just what had happened there?

The documents he read on the regulations governing ownership of slaves stated there wasn't much protection of property, except if someone else hurt or used him in a way his owner hadn't granted prior permission for. Slave and property were interchangeable. Human was saved for the non-dragons, Gods for the celestials. Law guessed he should be grateful the world nobles hadn't got him. He couldn't imagine his life as much worse, but the tales his fellow drudges told him prickled the skin along his arms.

He didn't know about, or how to find, the top secret reports of the young boy, (a very short eighteen year old boy), who'd been taken in by the marines. Sengoku had grilled the kid about his connection with Rosinante. He was in bad shape, though not dying, and it was soon established that he was Barrels' son. Doflamingo wasn't sure why Sengoku was so interested.

Law didn't discover the classified knowledge Doflamingo had brought back from Mariejois when he'd presented the Nobles with the head of his father, though not on a plate. It'd be many years before the then Heart captain heard any of that from the man himself, fighting on the roof of the Dressrosan palace, the reasons for Joker's other moniker, Heavenly Demon, revealed.

With the new age, Robin, Franky, Doflamingo, and Luffy himself all held some key to the puzzle, but Law had never pieced together the whole. The celestial dragons lost their divine status, but they still governed behind the scenes. Why? None of them had cracked it.

As a young man, a boy, sitting in his room, the open door inviting him to stroll the mansion or ship, within the confines of his role, he studied as much as he could about his power. He held out hope of defeating Doflamingo and the World Government, even if people like Cora had fought for them, even if he was both a Donquixote and a marine. One day, beyond his captivity, he held hope.

Shachi swore by him, and the redhead was a good kid, had inked over those giveaway Doflamingo brands on the back of his friend's thin hands with skill and artistry. The price the pawnbroker gave him for the gold was below market, but with those earrings the kid was blatantly property and hunted. He ran a huge risk helping him.

The posters were tacked to the walls of a few places but no-one was a fan of Doflamingo, no matter how poor they were, and Shachi had the trust of the town. Particularly with his fortune-telling skills. Could read your hand, your leaves, the cards. Even your Turkish coffee. Was a pretty good barber too. He vouched for the runaway kid but he wouldn't part with the hat, and he then went on to replace that gold with four almost identical earrings. If he was trying not to look like his poster he flat out failed.

The Family descended on the town every now and then and brought with them an entourage of slaves and lackeys. The slaves, along with being branded, wore double hooped earrings. Around the world, people wore the same style for many reasons, but in this region it marked you as belonging to Donquixote. Possibly as a runaway. Man, the government had hefty fines for assisting a fugitive. The kid didn't part with the shiny stuff though.

He gained strength. He'd been a skinny runt when reports came in there were malingerers on the edge of the forest. That bear helped hide him, and his medical skills really were pretty good. They were without a doctor for a spell. He was quiet and guarded and downright creepy when angered. The two older boys did nearly anything he asked and none of his requests were outlandish.

There for as short a period as it took to get the cash for the gold, some warm clothes for Law, and to figure the best way to traverse a semi-safe passage, by the time someone desperate for money tipped the Family off, Law and his crew were long gone.

The pawnbroker had the gold melted down, along with a bunch of other loot. Proxies for Joker occasionally sent work his way, so Law's former slave identifiers were amalgamated into an ingot of gold, the mark of the Donquixote Jolly Roger rendered invisible. The kid got lucky.

Chapter Text

Risa combed out a few strands of her daughter's fine hair and snipped it. She'd done the same for Law some years before, just before his first haircut. They'd grown his hair long, the tradition for baby boys in Flevance.

Her mother had done it for her and her husband's mother had done it for him. Just after Law's third birthday they'd sat him in a chair and cut off his baby locks. She and her husband took turns to clip his curls. The neighbours popped in too and, wielding the scissors, snipped his crown here and there, but mostly she or her husband did the job.

Lami was the more outgoing of the two, but she wanted only her mother to touch her hair when it came her time to have it cut, and Risa had obliged.

She'd braided the strands, as fine as they were, removed the back of a hooped earring and eased the weave under the gold. She'd had the earrings made in Flevance's headier days and one was inscribed with the ferocious mother seal—representing herself, her mother, and her mother before her — wrapped around a pup. The motif graced items, like placemats and cutlery, about the place. But this was private. Between her and her children. The pattern etched into the inside hoop.

She wore the earrings containing her own locks and her husband's—not everyone chose to display them. She kept Lami and Law's aside for when they were a little older and could make a choice.

Then they'd fallen sick. The town had fallen sick. The royal family deserted them. Despite her husband's and her own best efforts to find a cure for a non-contagious condition, the profiteers said Flevance was a bearer of plague and they opened fire on its citizens. Promised evacuation while torching the buildings.

Risa wanted to see her children live to an old age or to die fighting the disease, not fighting soldiers sent to exterminate them. Neither option was good. It snowed. It never stopped.

When it seemed genocide was going to get them before weakened immune systems could, she removed and retrieved the earrings and sewed them into the lining of Law's hat. The kid loved that seal fur bowler, and it would encase the mother and her pups until the time was right. Law cared so much for his sister and had a way of slipping out of sight whenever he was needed for anything, so she had to put faith in the slim chance he'd survive.

"Don't lose the hat, Law. It's special." She pulled it so hard on his head it slipped over his eyes.

Bepo had sniffed out the gold. He, Penguin and Law chatted with the new member of their crew, Shachi. Shachi—a tattooist, a hairdresser, a fortune teller, and caster of spells. Only, his spells never worked, but it was fun to have your palms read, and his inking skills were impressive. He saw hope in Law's hand. Trouble too. It was enough for Law. To have a trace of breathing space. Enough for now. Having Doflamingo's brand on the back of his hands inked in did the same.

Penguin sat at the edge of their small group in a tumbledown shack on the border of the forest. Shachi had brought them some blankets, and they'd knocked the twigs and nests down from the long unused chimney and lit a fire in the hearth. A stash of dry wood covered by a tarpaulin, pooling water and leaves, sat just outside the door. Luck was on their side. The tarpaulin owner didn't show their face, and time hadn't weakened the vinyl. After a few attempts the flue drew the smoke, and the boys managed some kind of cooking and warmth. Bepo's fishing skills kept them full.

Penguin watched the light from the fire flicker over Law's face, and the small smile that tipped the corner of his mouth before he caught himself, and worry and disinterest replaced it. He brought his blanket closer around him. He was putting on weight. He'd filled out a little with training, but Doflamingo was all about uneven footing. No rations, or bread rations, was commonplace. For Law. Not for the rest of them. He was creeping up in height too. Would soon shadow Penguin.

It was a waste of their very limited funds, but Law had spied a pair of jeans patterned with black patches. They'd entered town to bargain for goods with the few things they'd lifted from the ship before escape. He bought them and, in the safety of the shack, changed into them almost immediately. Bepo gazed with a carnivore's hunger. Penguin too, if he was honest.

Along with the bowler, the jeans gave the boy, the young man, a completeness. They sat well on his long legs. Kikoku— the sword Diamante had practically thrown at him as a punishment— rested nearby. She didn't swing with anyone else.

The Family had found it hilarious. When Law was younger, the sword eclipsed its puny, sickly, owner in height. The visual had been too hard for them to resist, and a traitor didn't deserve leniency. Rather, better to make sure he was further handicapped in training and competition. Then he'd never have the confidence nor thought to use the weapon against them. He'd struggled even to remain upright while holding the nodachi.

She sang to Law though. And berated him. She was as bad as they were at times. But Diamante couldn't help but teach properly, even while he undermined him in every other way. Pushovers were no fun. And as Law gained power over his fruit—from Doflamingo's own urgings and as his scalpel-wielding puppet, and also from Law's own quiet acts of subterfuge—Kikoku became as much a part of him as his hat.

In the shack, fire crackling, Bepo sniffed around the seal fur. The animal skin made the Mink uncomfortable, but it was practical. It kept Law warm and there was an energy which shielded the kid, safeguarded him almost. Against what he wasn't sure, cos he'd plainly gone through a lot, but that hat was important.

"Anything hidden in this, Law?" He wasn't their captain quite yet.

Law looked up as the bear loomed over him. He sank a little into his seat. Bepo was kind, but huge. Law was through with people crowding his space. It never ended in his favour. But, it was Bepo. He hadn't known him long, but he treated Law with respect. Bit of a strange concept.

He'd been practicing his "Room" technique. His training with Doflamingo was thorough but now, away from the influence of seastone and strings, he really let rip.

Law shook his head in answer to Bepo's question.

"There's something, about here." Bepo lifted the hat, too curious to think about his actions. Law raised his arms to stop him, but let them drop. Bepo showed Law the underside, pointed a claw to a space where the material was a different shade.

Law took the hat, and really, he'd held it in his hands many times over the years, this one thing from Flevance other than himself, searching for any trace of who he'd once been. He knew every square millimetre. But Bepo was right. There was an indigo patch, slightly darker than the material surrounding it, sewn into the lining.

Tracking device? He looked toward the window, the cloudy skies. Perfect weather for Joker to traverse the Heavens. Everything tightened.

Bepo noticed the flash of alarm. "Not harmful." He took the hat again and studied the lining. "The stitching isn't new." It was good though. Very thorough.

The stitching didn't have to be new. Law'd been with the Family a lot of years now. But, he believed the bear's words. Didn't know why. Bepo put the bowler back on his head and Law moved it to his lap. He couldn't sense any darkness, any black hole that might absorb him. Just as well, considering how rarely he left the room without it.

He arched his fingers. A small blue dome lit up and spluttered. Strange. He wasn't tired. He'd had the fruit three years now. Doffy wanted Law to forfeit his life to prolong his own of course. Training was intense. Law had to be on top of his game—to make is seem as if he'd be willing to sacrifice himself, and to make sure he never did. He turned the hat. The stitchwork was neat, precise and regulated. Familiar.

Just not concentrating enough. Removing the amber lead from his body had really required intense focus. So he gathered all his strength, as he had then, like a drawstring, then loosened and dissipated it throughout his body, imagining the flow aligning with the objects and space around him. He tipped his fingers and ignited the blue sphere. Penguin, Shachi and Bepo looked on. The wind pushed at the carboard they'd fitted into a broken frame, licks of fire danced into the room from the hearth.

The dome died at the ends of his fingers. Law looked at the bunch of damn worms. He'd get them tatted. Visuals helped him direct his fruit. The hat didn't have the same uneasy depletion as seastone on his energy, but this patch wasn't going to cooperate with his powers.

He torched up a larger Room. The hat floated. Bepo and Shachi stepped back. It landed on the bear's head, then Law curved his fingers before he could pull it securely over his furry skull. "Takt." It rested a lopsided jumble on whatever mess of a cap Shachi was wearing, the redhead kid batting at it like a fly. Law brought it back to where he sat.

Okay. So his powers were okay. He could transport the hat, as he had a thousand times in the past. He dropped his Room. Looked like he'd have to do this the old fashioned way.

They hadn't pawned the knives he'd liberated from Doflamingo. It was on the list, eventually, but they'd been designed to match Law's skill, and Doflamingo used only the best materials. Still, he knew that if he were caught he'd be arrested as an escaped slave and a thief. A thief carrying dangerous weapons, with the intent to harm. And whatever else they could inflate the charges with. God knows what powers the marines would grant Doflamingo. He already had a free and brutal hand over him.

Law stood and walked to a corner of the room. He rummaged through the bag he and Penguin had packed. Spilling the few items of clothing onto the floor, he pulled out and unfolded a belt that packed five blades. A log cracked in the fire, and Law's shadow swayed against the peeling wall of the room. He lifted a knife and his shadow peered at it, inspecting it for sharpness.

"Mother of a marine!" Shachi yelled, Penguin looking up suddenly.

"Sorry, mister! Sorry, Law!" Bepo bowed a few dozen times. Seemed to be a tic. "Didn't mean to touch your hat."

Law, squatting, returned the scalpel to its place, and spoke to the bag. "Yeah, I know it's best not to use professional equipment on items that unnecessarily dull it, but it's not that different from removing stitches."

The newcomers both turned Penguin's way. The naked eye could see that steel was capable of slitting any of their throats. Shachi's hairdresser's toolbelt had six kinds of scissors. He shot a look at the barely upright table, tottering on its three legs. He'd left his bag nearby, and crossed the floor to retrieve his tools, only to let his arm fall to his side. He'd left the belt at work. Don't talk to strangers, they said. Why did he never listen? He craved adventure. This town was so small.

"He's a doctor," Penguin said, wondering what was in the hat.

They turned back to Law. He stood, turned around, gave them a questioning glance, and Shachi and Bepo released a sigh. They weren't going to have to fight for their lives today.

Law sat back in the armchair, stuffing poking through the sides, cushion long gone. The wooden slats of the seat dug into his arse. He drew his legs toward him. Turning the hat upside down, he pulled at the careful sewing, unpicking and slicing through stitches, and removed the square of material. A piece of coarse silk, dyed indigo.

The patch had a further pocket sewn to its underside. It was slightly weighted.

"Bingo." Law looked Bepo's way and he shuffled closer.

Law returned his gaze to the pocket and tipped it over his hand. Four golden earrings fell out. He stared up at Bepo, and released them into the Mink's paw. What about them had attracted the guy's sense of smell?

When Law and Penguin had fled from the Donquixote ship they'd come across Bepo. His body colour, size and weight had provided them with shelter and disguise against the snow alone, never mind larger menaces hitchhiking clouds across the sky. He'd warmed the skinny kid, his eyes far too dark for his years.

Law had pierced ears then. Some reward or cattle tag from Doflamingo. If he'd fallen out of favour enough Law knew it'd be a bullring, or tattoos across teeth like Buffalo. Older men found beauty in his not quite adult face, but adult enough for them to think their actions were justified. The double hoops designated his trade. It made him sick. He scratched at his arms in the cosy, threadbare, shack, and stopped. He wasn't allowed to scratch.

For the thousandth time he wished he wasn't so curious and knowledgeable — beyond his years. Innocence might have saved him. Though it hadn't saved Sister and his classmates from being gunned down. How could he have got caught after Cora's death, considering all the klutz had done for him? He missed his goofy smile every night. The warmth of Penguin nearby was somehow similar but not the same.

He never forgot he had parents, even if his memory was sketchy. And he'd never forget he'd had a guardian, with two left feet. No matter how short their time together had been. Like Shachi peering at the crevices on his hand, telling him there would be peace some of the time, Cora's words and actions steadied him.

On his escape with Penguin he'd wanted to throw Doflamingo's tagging into the ocean. Doffy had called it that. Explained that Law was almost an adult and that he kept his adult cattle, his commodities, in specially built chutes with head gates when it came time to clip them, to stop them from moving too much.

Law sat in front of one of Doflamingo's grand mirrors instead, on a heart-shaped love seat, the corner of the bed reflected, the mighty curtains sweeping across the room. Doflamingo stood just behind him, and pushed his hair up, tugging the roots for a bit, and then pulled out the cartilage of his upper ear, pressing hard to signal exactly where his livestock was tagged. The pressure of his other palm against Law's frontal lobe indicated just how the cow's head was pushed down but back, to keep it docile. Law's eye and brow rose diagonally as Doffy's hand cinched his skin.

He explained that erratic movement could make a mess of things, so Law would do best to remain still and relaxed throughout the procedure, no matter what. As quiet as a mouse. "Shh," he said, letting Law's head go and putting his forefinger against his own lips. He gave the cartilage an extra squeeze and strode across the room to close the door. Baby 5 grew squeamish when it wasn't a battle. He resumed his previous position.

"Stroking the poor dumb beast's ears and muzzle helps calm it, helps it submit." Doflamingo's hand practically covered Law's face as his fingers toyed with the lobes and ridges of his ears again, and playfully brushed his nose. Law breathed into the flesh. The smell of Doffy's lunch, whoever he'd murdered, the pen he held, Law's own hair, gunpowder, the salt from his eccrine glands—all were worse than those fucking corpses. Law's breath sat like a light shawl across his shoulders. No substance against that tissue.

Doflamingo withdrew and pulled up a chair behind, and doubled right down. He rested his head on his subject's shoulder. "The cattle is far less likely to kick up a fuss if it doesn't feel frightened." He draped his arms over Law's chest. "Hemmed in."

Law willed himself not to shake. His flecked eyes stared back at him. Relax. His breathing deepened, but quickened. Quiet as a mouse. He was breathing too loudly.

Doflamingo bit his ear. Softly. He pulled away from him and walked to the bathroom to get the piercing supplies. "I insert electronics into the tags I use for my livestock. Helps keep tabs on them."

He returned. A glass bottle full of rubbing alcohol clinked against the counter. The piercing gun next to it.

"But you," He dabbed the alcohol onto a swab and sterilised the fleshy part of Law's ear. "You're not much higher than livestock, but I've got to let them roam sometime. It's necessary. They live in pastures."

The alcohol was cold and Law kept his hands on his lap, willing himself not to clench them too tightly, stared down at the laughing Jolly Roger inked into his skin, and imagined that cancel mark removed and Cora's smiling face staring right back at him. He'd cancel the smile, horizontally, if he ever got his own crew, so that there was a set of teeth.

"Your place is with me, Law. No need to roam. No need to track. Your run is necessarily limited. For your own good." Doflamingo soaked a cotton ball in alcohol. "Parts of this ship, parts of the mansion, your cell, my room, and when you're good, even your own room, but it's all that you require."

He swabbed out the kid's inner ears, Law jerking away from the touch.

"There, there." Doflamingo's hand clamped his shoulder. "Calm now." He twisted Law's face back so he'd observe his owned self in the mirror. "Just taking precautions that investments don't fall prey to infection."

Law blinked and looked down at his hands again. Doffy discarded the cotton to the side and tipped Law's chin up, straightened his face so he stared right at himself. Again.

"Thank you, Doffy," the great man warned.

Law blew out a puff of air. Doflamingo tilted his chin up as it began to drop.

"Thank you, Doffy," Law said, feeling the forefinger boring against his cheek.

"That's more like it." He planted a kiss on Law's temple. The hair on his slave's arms was standing up. Hadn't he instructed him to be placid? Well, you could lead bovines to boudoir, but couldn't convince them not to think. His grin displaced everything else in the mirror.

Doflamingo walked over to the applicator and loaded it, squeezed the handle to see that everything lined up nicely. "Calves are tagged from a day old until a few months. Guess I should have laid claim to you when you first begged to be let into my Family. It might have cured you of your more unsavoury, sentimental habits."

He marked precisely where he wanted the earrings to go with a felt tip. "I tag the cows with the Family's Jolly Roger. Anyone who wilfully takes that property without a purchase note knows it to be stolen." He marked Law's other ear.

He lined up the gun and pulled the trigger. The first stud broke Law's skin easily, and the clasp fit as it should. The other four pushed through without a hitch. It was painless. A lot less painless than Doflamingo's proximity. His steady even breath. Delight fucking lacing the concentration of his inhalations. Law not knowing if he'd be free to go once the modification was done. Free to leave the room.

"Not all farmers mark both ears, but it makes it easier to identify the proprietorship." Doflamingo placed the gun on the bench ready for sterilizing later, and once again dabbed cotton with alcohol to clean the now inflamed area. If he had to raise Law's head one more time he wouldn't take it easy on him. He'd been intending to, because a wound was a wound, even if it was a nick.

"What do you think?" He moved Law's face this way and that, and couldn't help but notice the delicious blaze of resentment the boy tried so hard to dampen. "Matches your hands, na?" So handsome.

Four smiling Jolly Rogers, a cancel mark through their visage, sat neatly against Law's lobes. "I'll take care of them for you. They can get mucky. Disinfect and turn them three times a day and always have them set the right way, or… ". He squeezed Law's shoulder again, and Law's hands cramped, he'd clenched them so tightly, unable to keep them relaxed.

"The executives, the lackeys—" the uniform police, "—they'll inform me of any infringements. Be wary." He knew the officers were not as forgiving of Law's transgressions as he was. "Appearances are important."

Six weeks later Doflamingo had replaced the Jolly Roger studs with gold hoops. It marked slaves of the highest, and often most special, order in his homeland. The Donquixote studs obviously delineated livestock too, but Law must know his toil and grind was a little more specialised.

"Do you understand the privilege that comes with wearing these?" Doflamingo had asked, clicking the hoops into place, and keeping the piercing studs aside for the next intake of captives. Law sat in front of the mirror. He'd spat out sass to Trebol the day before. His skin was nicely purpled across his clavicle, and he'd been put on bread rations, a few hours in seastone. It always made him so much more manageable. The gold was too good for such insolence.

"Thank you, Doffy." Law looked straight at his own face in the mirror as he spoke, his eyes giving nothing away, turning his head Doffy's direction, as instructed, as Doflamingo inclined it toward him.

As satisfying as it would have been to throw anything related to Doffy into the ocean as they rowed across it, hoping to hit land, Law let common sense hold out. Lucky they had. A friend of Shachi's, who knew how to keep his mouth shut, melted the piercings to a smidge of gold. They didn't get much for it, except Doffy used the best, so better than expected. It went toward a few needed supplies, the jeans he now wore.

The posters Doflamingo littered the area with clearly showed his earrings, complementing his gold-grey eyes. The group of four stayed low, kept out of sight. It was better not to wear them.

"Something's inscribed, Law," Bepo said.

He passed the hoop with the etching. Then the other three.

"A mother seal and pup," Law said, turning it, flashes of sitting on his mother's lap and playing with her hair. Of grabbing at a heart brooch she wore, the same design the Flevance miners displayed as arm tattoos.

He rotated the ring again and again. Why on the inside? The motif was his animal. Outsiders had wiped out Flevance. You didn't want everyone to know.

He ran his finger along the fine grooves, and…a bump. Tiny. He tried to use his powers to zero in on it. Nothing. Used his tactile senses. A bump, and a —?

He pulled the jewellery near, and lifted a pinky nail under a latch on the back of the earring. Lifting a minute band of gold away from the main earring, he ran his finger along a soft, textured cord.

He remembered sitting at the table watching his mother cut Lami's hair. Lami squirming in her lap, his mother held her with an arm across her chest to keep her still, much as Doflamingo had restricted his own movement.

"A rancher keeps the cow's head between his knees, Law. I know you're used to the position, but I think you're old enough to not wriggle. To buck in panic. We shouldn't need to take such measures."

He'd had to visit Doffy's office or room three times a day to have him turn the studs and to line them up just so. If Doflamingo had business, the executives took care of it. Sometimes they deliberately left the piercings askew after sterilizing the area. If Law wasn't on his toes he paid for it.

He shook his head and felt the cord, the plaited hair…that's what it was…again. Soothing. Memories of Doflamingo dispersed and he recalled Lami running away from the table to get the bowl of ice-cream she'd been promised, their aunt taking her hand and leading her from the room.

Law, precocious as ever, was busy labelling the parts of a frog from a huge book his father let him use. He glanced up at his mother.

No wonder she was a doctor. Such a precise touch. She plaited a few strands of hair together. He wasn't sure how she did it, or maybe she plaited them before she cut the strands. She then ran her fingers along the incy-wincy woven fold and tucked it– where?

The colour of the braid in front of him, in this dilapidated shack so far from his parents' home, but too near Doflamingo's, was brownish red. He located the latches on the other three earrings. Two black plaits and another red were looped into the earrings' hollows, the last so fine and soft.

"Oh fuck."

Bepo and Shachi weren't sure Law had spoken, but Penguin knew he had.

His best friend had seen Law cry. Not often, on board the pirate ship, except in physical pain, and begging. So maybe often enough, but not in sorrow. Law was forbidden to express himself, except when commanded to, or the punishment was too much to bear. He tried hard to comply. It just spelt more trouble when his pesky feelings inconvenienced Doflamingo. But he'd lost Cora, lost his childhood, to Doflamingo and the Family.

When they escaped together in the small boat they'd pinned their hopes on, battling through the dark ocean guided by the dark sky, Law had broken down. In the blackness. Sitting next to Penguin, waves tipped into the boat itself, the spray of the ocean splashing the wood. Penguin hadn't seen him tear up since. But now.

The older boy stood and walked to the other side of the room, his own shadow cast on the wall. He sat on the flat, bony edge of the armchair. Law turned his way. "My mother's hair," he said, showing Penguin the hoop. He located the latch on the next one, and opened it again. "Dad."

Then opened the next two.

"Lami and me."

Bepo confirmed from smell it was indeed the hair of his soon-to-be captain, and some furless Minks related to him. Law smiled. Fucking tears running down his face and he smiled. Penguin flopped down in the chair beside his skinny-arsed friend, glad there weren't any cushions, cos they'd be full of loosened springs. Law dropped his bent knee onto his friend's leg, and Shachi and Bepo weren't sure he was aware they were in the room.

"It'll be all right," Penguin said. He put an arm behind Law's back and slanted that black mop of misery to his shoulder. No resistance. Lots of snuffling.

He patted the spotted thigh draped over him.

"Thought there was nothing left," Law said. Leaning into Penguin for warmth as they never dared to on the ship, as they'd needed to on their getaway dinghy. He rested for a while, eyes closed, the fire spitting as a splash of rain hit the grate from the chimney.

Law heard Shachi's boots tap across the floor. He picked up the impractical lump of wood they'd been using as a poker, and stoked the flames. The fire consumed and sought anything flammable, reaching for the new log on top of the pile. Something heavy dropped to the floor. Law guessed it was Bepo.

Penguin's hand cupped his ear with none of the intent that Doflamingo's fist held.

Penguin had privileges on the ship that others didn't, having declared his lack of interest in males, and therefore Law. He'd been offered to him like a piece of meat once as a reward for actually protecting Doflamingo's property against some of the other boys a bit older than either one of them. He'd declined, stating his sexual preferences and Joker thereon trusted him around his charge. Only he determined who would abuse Law, and Penguin had proven himself unlikely to betray either.

It was a lie that helped both the boys.

Penguin came across Law in a tiny, forgotten room in the hull at times, or sometimes was on duty to bring him food as he lay curled up in Doflamingo's giant bed, beaten immobile after yet another escape attempt.

He never noticed at first. He figured Law was just being anti-social in that dark corner, or he'd really learnt how to keep his mouth shut, but there'd be no noise. No movement. Then Penguin had sat next to him once in the small room, blackness around them. The ship was going mad looking for him. Pica was going to have his hide. Penguin had put his hand on Doflamingo's chattel and felt Law tense, but also felt the tremble below the skin.

He touched his t-shirt sleeve edge and it was wet. Maybe a bit sticky. From where Law had wiped his face, not able to stop the tears. Quiet fucking silent tears. The jailbird's litany.

He'd exited the room. Told the crew he thought he'd seen him in the crow's nest and bought him some time until he could force himself to face them all again. Better that they didn't drag him out of there. It was maybe the only space he had.

In the future when he brought food to the room while Law was recovering from whatever, if Doflamingo wasn't there, he'd turn away from his friend. Not always, cos Law was ninety-nine percent grit, but if Penguin shifted a pillow he'd find it soaked.

Law wiped his forehead now, his eyes still closed, against Penguin's shoulder.

The cloth wouldn't be dry. Probably had a bit of Law's snot too. A pain when they couldn't really wash their clothes, but whatever. He kept his hand on his head, threading through, massaging his scalp. He was shaking. Slight, but it was there. He kept Law's face hidden from the other two.

Penguin knew they were all right, and Shachi at least had some idea of how cruel Doflamingo could be, but they didn't know everything. Hardly anything. They couldn't know. Law was wet but quiet, so for all they knew he'd had a drop in blood sugar and needed support.

But then. Law breathed into the side of Penguin's neck, and planted a kiss, the other two boys a little wide-eyed, but pirates were a strange creature. Law sat up. He gripped the earrings in one hand, and pulled his t-shirt up to wipe his face with the other. He secured the earring backs to cover the braids, and slipped all four stalks, one after the other, into his ears, wishing he could see them. Wanted posters for escaped slaves be damned.