Normally, this would be the part where Gale's mind short-circuited, his jaw went slack, and he muttered something like, "No way… It's you?!?"
But not this time.
Sure, he'd been dense about it at first—but no one could be that dense forever. Pirate. Surgeon. Miracle worker. North Blue. Throw in "constantly looks like he's five seconds away from stabbing someone," and it was practically a character profile on the guy.
So by the time he slipped past guards, shadowed his way through the underground halls of the auction house, and saw the cuffed figure in that holding cell, Gale didn't even flinch.
He'd already connected the dots on the way here, mentally slapping himself with every step. "Should've known." "It was obvious." "Note to self: when someone says 'slave surgeon from North Blue,' maybe don't wait three days to do the math."
Across the cell, the man in question—Trafalgar Law—was staring at him. Hard. Like he was trying to laser-cut through the dragon mask with sheer suspicion. Short black hair, those sharp eyes, and that permanent frown like he smelled something bad and expected it to be your fault.
"Who are you?" Law asked flatly, voice even but laced with a quiet edge.
Gale felt the urge to sigh. Hard. Like a deep, soul-cleansing, 'why am I doing this again?' kind of sigh. But he resisted. Game face, remember?
He let the silence hang for a moment. Just long enough to be dramatic but not awkward. Then he spoke in a low, clipped voice—the kind of tone you used when you wanted to sound mysterious and slightly unhinged.
"It doesn't matter who I am," Gale said. "What matters is what I'm capable of. And right now, what I'm capable of… is getting you out of here."
Law's frown deepened. If he narrowed his eyes any harder, they'd be closed. "What do you want?"
Under the mask, Gale smirked. But outwardly, he kept the same cold stoicism, pretending like he hadn't just internally fist-pumped for delivering that line perfectly.
"Questions," he said simply. "A few, first and foremost."
Law didn't answer right away. Just stared at Gale through the dim lighting, those cold gray eyes of his squinting like he was trying to pierce the mask right off his face.
Gale resisted the urge to fidget. He hated being stared at like that. Like he was homework that needed checking for hidden math errors.
So he leaned back against the wall with exaggerated casualness and said, "I'll take that silence as a yes. First question—how'd you end up in here?"
Now, if Gale were to be honest, that wasn't actually important. It wasn't some crucial piece of information Gale needed for the mission.
It wouldn't help with logistics or timing or breaking Law out of seastone cuffs or anything practical like that.
But still…
Law wasn't supposed to be here.
Last Gale checked—y'know, back when he was watching this whole world unfold from the comfort of a screen—Trafalgar Law should still be doing shady surgeon stuff in North Blue. Scheming in the background. Gathering strength. Probably throwing dramatic tantrums about revenge or something.
Not…
Sitting here. In a cell. Bound. Waiting for some greedy freak in a bubble suit to slap a price tag on his forehead like he was a fancy melon.
Something had changed.
No. Gale knew what had changed.
Him.
His existence.
Some tiny butterfly-effect domino set off by his presence must've rerouted the timeline, and now Law—who should've been chilling out and plotting long-term moves—was stuck in a cage.
Still, even knowing that, Gale wanted specifics.
Why?
Because why not.
He was insanely curious, and curiosity was his fatal flaw, right up there with impulsive sarcasm and a face that screamed "punch me" whenever he opened his mouth.
Back in the cell, Law finally spoke. "How do you think?" he said dryly. "I was defeated and brought here."
Gale's brow twitched. He barely resisted the urge to strike a dramatic pose and cry out, "Gee, who would've known! Such depth! Such nuance! I'm practically drowning in details!"
Instead, he settled for a dry scoff. He was wearing a mask and playing mysterious masked vigilante tonight, so he had to stay in character. That meant no sarcasm. Or at least… less of it.
"I need specifics," Gale said, his voice flat now. "Who. Why. When."
Law's eyes narrowed again. "You really care that much?"
Gale tilted his head. "This is usually the part where I say, 'I'll be the one asking the questions,'" he said, doing a dead-on impression of a smug anime rival voice. "But just this once, I'll answer."
Law waited.
"I want to get the measure of you," Gale went on, voice low and serious. "See if you've got what it takes. I don't help people for free, after all."
Total bullshit, of course.
He just wanted to know. No secret plan, no strategic reason.
He was just a guy who'd read Law's backstory on a wiki page once and now had the chance to get the extended director's cut.
And maybe—just maybe—there was a part of him that wanted to know if Law still had the same fire as the one he watched from afar, or if this version had lost or gained something somewhere along the way.
Law grunted low in his throat. "I don't buy it," he muttered, eyes never leaving Gale's mask. "But if you want to know so badly… fine. I'll talk."
He shifted, the clink of his seastone cuffs echoing faintly through the underground cell. The chains scraped the floor like a dragging sigh. Then, finally, he spoke.
"It was a setup," Law said. "One of Doflamingo's brokers. Fat bastard goes by the name Magnon."
Gale let out a groan so deep it came from the soles of his boots. He slapped a gloved hand against his mask with the weariness of a man personally haunted by terrible memories. "Oh, that oily blob again…"
Law raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"
"Unfortunately," Gale muttered, already flashing back to Centaurea—and that unholy cologne smell that could probably kill a small elephant. "I ran into him back in Centaurea. Let's just say we didn't part on the best of terms."
Law tilted his head slightly. "Funny you should say that. Word is Magnon really screwed the pooch back in Centaurea. Something about blowing a huge deal, and nearly getting caught by some very unhappy members of the Donquixote family."
"Yep," Gale said, popping the 'p' with no shame whatsoever. "That might've been… partially my fault. Maybe. Allegedly."
Law gave him a very slow, very pointed look.
"Hey, don't look at me like that," Gale said, lifting both hands. "I wasn't trying to ruin his career. I just wanted to ruin his day. The rest was bonus material."
Law blinked. "Well. Thanks to that little bonus, Magnon went running to the North Blue with his tail between his legs, looking for a way to get back in Doflamingo's good graces."
Hearing that, Gale's smirk faltered. His stomach dropped just a bit.
Wait. Wait, what?
"You're saying… because I botched his plans in Centaurea, he fled to the North Blue… and found you?"
"Apparently," Law said flatly. "We crossed paths. He needed someone with both brains and brawns to help him and I…" He trailed off, then shrugged. "I had my own business with Doflamingo. So I played along. Thought I could drain him for intel. Maybe find a weakness in the Donquixote family."
Gale stared, feeling an awkward squirm in his gut. A new, uncomfortable realization was settling over him like a wet blanket.
He scratched the back of his neck.
'Great. Just great.'
He knew this world had a butterfly effect thing going on—he'd accepted that. One misplaced boulder rolls down the wrong hill and suddenly someone who was supposed to become Pirate Jesus is now a background extra with a price tag.
But now it wasn't some vague chain of events or hypothetical causality.
Nope.
This was direct. Traceable. Personal.
Gale had kicked over a bucket labeled "Magnon" in Centaurea, and it spilled all the way into Law's life like a busted sewage pipe.
Law, again blissfully unaware of the existential guilt-crisis happening behind Gale's dragon mask, continued.
"It was going well," he said, his voice low but steady. "While I was working jobs with Magnon, I managed to uncover almost all of Doflamingo's North Blue contacts."
"Every smuggler, every dirty noble, every port rat funneling weapons and slaves through his network. I was about ready to ditch the act. Cut ties, burn bridges, and ruin a major deal Doflamingo was negotiating with the North Blue crime families."
He let out a breath, the sound edged with disappointment. "That was the plan, at least…"
Gale tilted his head ever so slightly. He could already feel the warning signs—the and then everything went to shit part of the story was coming up.
"But then," Law went on, "someone attacked a Celestial Dragon. Nearly killed the bastard. Word got out fast. All of a sudden, experienced surgeons—ones with a record of miracle work—became hot commodities. For the first time in decades, the Celestials realized they were just… flesh and blood."
'Oh no.'
'No no no no.'
Under the dragon mask, Gale was sweating bullets.
That incident. The Reverie. Alma plunging a blade into the bloated belly of Shepherd Vlancio.
That hadn't happened in the anime. It wasn't canon. It was another butterfly wingbeat that somehow turned into a hurricane. A direct consequence of his arrival in this world… maybe. Probably.
Okay, he couldn't say for sure, but the timing lined up, the people lined up, the victim lined up.
Gale was now two for two on accidentally derailing Law's life. At this rate, the guy was gonna need therapy just from being adjacent to him.
He seriously considered doing a backflip right then and there and landing in a full-on dogeza pose.
"I'm sorry, Trafalgar D. Law, sir. Please accept my humble apology and also this complimentary fruit basket."
But alas, mysterious masked vigilantes didn't grovel. That would ruin the aesthetic.
So instead, he gave a little cough and sat through his guilt like a professional idiot.
Meanwhile, Law carried on, completely unaware of the chaotic storm brewing on the other side of the room.
"That last job?" Law said. "The one where I was gonna pull the plug? That was the setup. Turns out Magnon had gotten wind of the attack on the Celestial, and the fact that the auction house in Sabaody was struggling."
Gale's expression continuously shifted under the mask as Law spoke. 'God damnit, that's also my fault... just why is it that everything I do somehow seems to screws over this guy... I'm basically setting him up failiure by just existing...'
"So he pitched the idea of rebranding," Law said, his tone sharpening. "Of shifting the product line. Rare people. Skilled people. And he sold Doflamingo on the idea of making me the first display item."
He glanced down at the seastone cuffs around his wrists. "And doflamingo agreed."
At this point, Gale wasn't just sweating. He was emotionally drowning in guilt. It felt like he had pushed a single domino a year ago, and now that same domino had flattened an entire city.
"Congratulations, Gale, you've achieved peak butterfly effect. Law's in chains, Alma's a revolutionary terrorist, and you still haven't filed that paperwork from Marine HQ."
He wanted to scream. He wanted to dig a hole and bury himself in it.
Preferably with a drink.
But, y'know—mysterious.
He cleared his throat again and straightened up a little. "Interesting…" he said, trying not to sound like his soul was dying inside.
There was a long pause.
"Now," he said at last, "for the final question…"
...
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