Katakuri's arms *uncrossed*—slowly. The spikes retracted with wet, sucking sounds. The plaza held its breath. Even Thor's groans from the subway rubble paused. Katakuri's fingers twitched. The man inside fought for control against instincts honed by decades of war. His lips moved beneath the scarf. "*Who...*" The word came out mangled, sticky with mochi residue. Strange's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward—then *flinched* as Katakuri's entire forearm *detached*, splattering against the ground like overcooked pudding. The man inside panicked (*Ohgodohgod*), but Katakuri's body merely... *regrew* it. Fresh mochi strands snaked from the stump, weaving themselves into scarred muscle.
Wong made a considering noise. "So. Sentient dough." His fingers sketched a quick circle—a portal yawned open behind him, revealing a Dunkin' Donuts counter. Katakuri's Haki *spiked* at the scent of frosting. Strange facepalmed. "Not *helping*, Wong."
Katakuri *turned*. His scarf snapped like a sail catching wind as he strode toward the subway crater, mochi feet leaving steaming prints on shattered concrete. The man inside screamed (*WHAT ARE YOU DOING*) while Katakuri's instincts growled (*Hunt the accusers*). Thor's groans echoed up from the darkness. Katakuri's shadow stretched long across the rubble—then *lengthened further*, tendrils of darkness licking at the edges like spilled ink. The man inside tasted copper—he'd bitten through his lip again.
Police radios crackled three blocks east. Katakuri's head swiveled—Observation Haki painting the scene in pulsing neon: squad cars fishtailing toward the docks, an officer shouting about "more missing bakers." The man inside *remembered* now—grainy CCTV footage of mochi-fisted figures loading crates onto unmarked ships. Katakuri's borrowed memories supplied the rest: black-market sugar trades, counterfeit Devil Fruit smugglers. His fists hardened with a *crackle* of crystallizing caramel. This wasn't his mess—but it *was* his name.
The ground *splintered* as Katakuri launched himself skyward, molten legs elongating into spring-loaded coils. Strange shouted something lost to the wind. Katakuri didn't care. Let the wizards debate multiversal ethics—he had *imitators* to crush.
Midair, Katakuri's back *rippled*. Molten dough geysered from his shoulder blades, hardening into glistening wings—not feather nor membrane, but layered sheets of mochi stretched thinner than rice paper. They *hummed* with trapped heat, warping the air like desert mirages as he banked toward the Hudson. The man inside marveled (*I'm flying!*) before Katakuri's instincts snarled (*No—*hunting*.*)
Wind shrieked past his scarfed face as the docks rushed up—warehouses, cranes, and there, between shipping containers, *movement*. Figures in tattered cloaks hauling crates stamped with Big Mom's jolly roger. Katakuri's Haki *pulsed*, confirming it: doughy limbs beneath those hoods, stolen techniques mimicked poorly. His wings *folded* abruptly, plunging him like a meteor toward the nearest imposter. The man inside had half a heartbeat to scream (*WAIT—*) before impact.
Concrete *vaporized* on contact. Katakuri rose from the crater, mochi wings dissolving into dripping tendrils. Around him, cloaked figures scrambled—some sprouting crude mochi fists, others bolting for the water. Katakuri's scarf fluttered despite the lack of wind. The man inside tasted bile—these were *children* playing pirate. Katakuri's borrowed voice rumbled through his ribs: "You use my power like infants finger-painting with blood." One imposter charged, arm elongating into a malformed hammer. Katakuri didn't even blink. His own arm *liquefied*, then *reformed* mid-swing—a perfect, obsidian-black replica of Thor's Mjolnir. The collision sent shockwaves cracking through the docks.
Splintered wood rained down as the impostor's arm *splattered*—not just broken, but *unmade*, dissolving into rancid sugar slurry. Katakuri's Haki pulsed, thick with contempt. The man inside recoiled as Katakuri's body *demonstrated*: fingers elongating into whip-thin strands that *plunged* through three fleeing figures simultaneously. Their screams curdled as mochi forced itself down their throats, expanding—*hardening*—until their ribcages cracked like overbaked gingerbread. "This," Katakuri hissed, retracting the strands with a wet *schlik*, "is what mastery looks like."
A crate toppled behind him—the last imposter triggering some hidden mechanism. Katakuri's Observation Haki flared milliseconds before the crane groaned, its rusted support snapping like twigs under the stolen cargo's weight. The man inside barely had time to panic before Katakuri's back *exploded* outward, tendrils of mochi rocketing into the air—not random, but *woven*, braiding mid-flight into thick, blackened cables reinforced with Armament Haki. The crane's collapsing shadow froze inches from a group of dockworkers, the mochi-strands vibrating under the strain but holding fast.
Silently, the man inside clutched at an old memory—Doflamingo's smirk as he demonstrated how strings could *stitch a city back together* during Dressrosa's collapse. The irony burned worse than molten sugar: Katakuri would've scoffed at borrowing from a *Warlord*, but here he was, mimicking the technique with mochi. The crane creaked ominously. Katakuri's tendrils *twisted*, Haki flaring brighter as they redistributed the weight, lowering the wreckage gently onto stacked containers like a baker setting down a delicate cake.
One imposter, braver or stupider than the rest, lunged from the smoke with a mochi knife aimed at Katakuri's spine. The man inside *flinched*—but Katakuri's elbow *melted* and *reformed* behind him without turning, the new fist clenching around the attacker's face. "Pathetic," Katakuri's voice rumbled as he *squeezed*, the imposter's skull audibly *cracking* like a stale macaron. Sugar-glazed blood dripped between his fingers. Somewhere in the distance, Wong's portal spiraled open—Strange stepping through with Thor limping behind him, Mjolnir sparking fitfully.
Katakuri's Haki prickled—not at the arriving heroes, but at the *thing* slithering out of the Hudson behind them. The water *bulged*, then *ruptured* as a gargantuan mochi limb surged skyward, its surface studded with half-digested ship fragments. The man inside recoiled in recognition: Big Mom's *homie* technique, twisted into something feral. The limb *arced* downward, casting a shadow over Strange's group—too fast, too massive to dodge. Katakuri moved before thought could catch up. His bare fist *connected* with the descending horror, flesh meeting dough without Haki, without mochi, just the raw force of a man who'd spent decades punching *harder*. The impact *sundered* the limb mid-swing, sending a shockwave that peeled the river's surface back in concentric rings.
The severed chunk *slammed* into the docks with the wet thud of a slaughtered whale, twitching as it dissolved into brackish syrup. Katakuri's knuckles throbbed—human pain, unfamiliar in this body. Behind him, Thor's hammer clattered to the ground. Strange's cloak stiffened. The man inside Katakuri *felt* their stares—the disbelief, the recalculations. Katakuri flexed his unmarked hand. "That," he growled through stitches, "wasn't mine." The river hissed as the remaining limb *retreated*, its wake frothing with unnatural colors.
Silence pooled thicker than the spilled mochi. Then Wong, wiping sugar-glazed blood off his trench coat, sighed. "So. Sentient *dough* with daddy issues." Strange's eye twitched. Katakuri's Observation Haki *pulsed*—tracking something moving *beneath* the water, something *singing* in a voice that made his borrowed marrow vibrate. The man inside recognized that tune: Big Mom's lullaby, warped through whatever dimensional tear had spat him here. His mochi spikes bristled autonomously. "She's not *my* mother," Katakuri snarled—but his body remembered the cadence of that voice, the way it could *command* his very molecules.
Katakuri *leaped*, his fist wreathed in red lightning—Conqueror's Haki crackling like a dying star. The air behind him *distorted*, warping into a swirling galaxy of pressurized mochi and concentrated willpower. The man inside *screamed* as Katakuri's stolen instincts took full control, funneling decades of battlefield dominance into a single, impossible motion. "**Galaxy Impact**," the words tore from his throat in a voice not entirely his own. The punch *connected* with the river's surface—and for one fractured second, the Hudson *stopped moving*.
Reality itself stuttered. Water inverted upward in a perfect hemisphere, suspended mid-splash like a frozen chandelier. Then the *shockwave* hit—a concentric ring of force that peeled back the riverbed in spiraling layers, exposing rusted shipwrecks and the *thing* coiled beneath them: a gargantuan homie formed from fused cargo ships and liquefied sugar, its single eye pulsing with stolen soul-energy. The man inside Katakuri *recognized* that eye—it had watched him kneel at Whole Cake Island's tea parties. Molten mochi geysered from the creature's ruptured flank as it *screeched*, the sound vibrating at a frequency that made nearby streetlights explode in showers of glass.
Strange's sling-ring flared gold. "Oh *come on*," he groaned as the homie's wounds *knitted* back together with strands of sentient caramel. Katakuri landed in a crouch, his Conqueror's Haki still arcing between his knuckles—but the man inside *felt* it now: the fissure in his control, the way Katakuri's instincts *flinched* at that familiar screech. The homie's eye locked onto him, pupil dilating into a black hole that *sucked* at his willpower. Somewhere in the depths of stolen memories, Big Mom *laughed*. Katakuri'
s fists *ignited*—not with Haki, but with desperation.
Molten sugar dripped from his gloves onto the cracked asphalt. Then—*pop*—a dozen donut holes materialized midair around the homie's bulk, each ring crackling with residual sling-ring energy. Katakuri didn't question it. His body *moved*, fists blurring forward as each punch *phased* through a different portal. The man inside marveled—his knuckles emerged from floating donuts inches from the homie's core, mochi-coated strikes landing with the precision of a master pâtissier piping cream. The homie *shuddered*, its eye swiveling wildly as Katakuri's elongated arms *warped* through space-time like threaded dough.
Caramelized viscera sprayed in arcs as Katakuri's fists became living furnaces, each impact superheating the mochi coating his knuckles until they glowed white-hot. The scent of burnt sugar thickened the air—not just sweet, but *chemical*, like a candy factory melting down. His elongated arms *whirred* through Strange's donut portals, every punch leaving afterimages of molten afterburners in their wake. The homie's flesh *sizzled* where he struck, not just piercing but *scorching*, sealing wounds shut with blackened craters of crystallized syrup.
Katakuri's scarf ignited mid-swing, flames licking upward in gravity-defying tendrils as his velocity surpassed combustion thresholds. The man inside *felt* it—the moment friction ceased to matter, when his punches started landing *before* his muscles finished contracting. Time itself *buckled* around his fists, Strange's portals warping into stretched ovals from the sheer force of his passage. Molten mochi rained downward like napalm, igniting the docks in pools of blue-flamed syrup. The homie's eye *ruptured*, not from blunt trauma but from the vacuum left by Katakuri's final punch—a strike so fast it *sucked* the moisture from the air before impact.
Strange's cloak *flared* as the shockwave hit, barely shielding Wong from the hail of superheated debris. Thor's beard steamed where stray droplets landed. Katakuri *stood* in the epicenter, fists dripping liquid fire, his silhouette warped by rising heatwaves. The homie's remains *bubbled* grotesquely, half-dissolved limbs twitching as they reformed—but slower now, *wrongly*, the soul-energy within it flickering like a dying bulb. Katakuri's Observation Haki prickled—something *else* was watching through that ruptured eye. A presence vast and *hungry*, humming along his synapses like a hive of wasps. The man inside recoiled—Big Mom's voice, but *deeper*, threaded with something older. Katakuri's stitched lips peeled back in a snarl.
Then—*movement*. His mochi *erupted* from his back in spiraling torrents, braiding midair into glistening scales, forming *wings*, *claws*, a *maw*—until a colossal dragon forged from molten sugar coiled around Katakuri, its ruby-red eyes burning hotter than the dockside fires. The man inside barely had time to process the transformation before Katakuri's instincts *roared*. The dragon inhaled, its gullet distending with blue-flamed syrup, and *fired*. The blast wasn't fire—not truly—but superheated mochi pressurized into a liquid laser, carving through the homie's twitching remains with the precision of a diamond-tipped saw. The stench of caramelized rot choked the air as the beam *pulsed*, incinerating the homie's reforming tendrils down to their stolen souls.
Thor's hammer slipped from his fingers. Strange's sling-ring sputtered mid-spell, the dragon's heat warping the very air into shimmering mirages. The homie's central eye *shattered* with a sound like a thousand candy jars exploding, its final screech warping into something disturbingly *human*—a woman's laughter, choked and breathless, echoing from the inferno even as the dragon's flames scoured the last remnants into blackened glass. Katakuri's jaw tightened beneath his scarf. The man inside *knew* that laugh better than his own mother's voice.
The dragon dissolved in a shower of embers, but Katakuri's fists remained clenched, still smoldering. The docks were silent—unnaturally so, as if the blast had vaporized sound itself along with the homie. Then, from the scorched riverbed, *movement*. A single glob of mochi—no larger than a coin—trembled, then *rolled* toward Katakuri's boot with eerie purpose.
Katakuri's glare hit it like a hammer. The blob *froze*, quivering mid-creep, its surface contorting into a crude approximation of a face—puckered lips, hollow eyes. Recognition punched through Katakuri's ribs: *Linlin's smile*. The man inside recoiled, but Katakuri's foot *lifted*, poised to crush it—until the blob *split*, spawning dozens of identical, writhing droplets that skittered away in perfect unison. His Observation Haki screamed—they weren't fleeing. They were *forming a circle* around him.
"I," Katakuri growled through clenched stitches, "will *not* become your monster again." His Conqueror's Haki *detonated* outward in a crimson nova, atomizing every droplet within fifty yards. The air itself *crackled* with the backlash, asphalt fracturing in spiderwebs beneath him. Thor's hammer *rattled* where it lay. Strange's cloak *snapped* taut like a sail in a hurricane. The man inside *felt* it—the moment Katakuri's willpower *overwrote* reality, scorching the memory of Big Mom's influence from the air.
Molten sugar rained down in blackened flakes, hissing against the ruins. Katakuri's chest heaved—not from exhaustion, but *revulsion*. His mochi *recoiled* from the scorched earth, refusing to regrow where his Haki had purged her taint. The man inside trembled; this body had *always* been her weapon, her perfect soldier. Now it *rejected* her. Katakuri flexed his fingers—clean, unmarked. No more puppeteer. No more *tea parties*.
Silence pooled thicker than the syrup coating the docks. Then Wong, brushing caramelized ash off his trench coat, cleared his throat. "So. Daddy issues *and* mommy issues." Strange's sling-ring flared gold as the last of the mochi residue *sizzled* into nothingness.
Katakuri's arm *shot* out—molten dough elongating faster than thought—his fingers cinching around Wong's throat mid-syllable. The sorcerer's boots left the ground as Katakuri *dragged* him eye-level, his mochi-coated knuckles creaking against Wong's jawline. "Keep talking," Katakuri growled, his stitches straining with each syllable, "see what happens." The man inside recoiled—this wasn't his anger, wasn't his *voice*, but Katakuri's instincts *thrummed* with the promise of shattered vertebrae. Wong's pulse stuttered against his palm, hot and *human*.
Strange's mandalas flickered—too slow. Katakuri's Observation Haki had already mapped the spell's trajectory, his free hand liquefying into a barbed spike aimed at the sorcerer's gut. Thor's hammer *hummed* behind them, but Katakuri's scarf *twitched*—a warning. One more motion, and Wong's head would *pop* like an overfilled mochi ball. The man inside screamed (*Stop!*), but Katakuri's grip tightened, his mochi seeping into Wong's collar, tasting the salt of sweat beneath the fabric.
Wong's fingers—steady despite the vise around his windpipe—twitched. A Dunkin' Donuts napkin *fluttered* from his sleeve, smearing glaze against Katakuri's wrist. The absurdity of it *fractured* the tension. Katakuri's Haki pricked—no fear in Wong's pulse, just... exasperation. "You're—*ghk*—getting frosting," Wong wheezed, "on my—*cough*—last clean coat." The mochi around his throat *stilled*. For the first time, Katakuri *hesitated*.
His head *snapped* toward Strange. The sorcerer's sling-ring spun uselessly—not outmatched, but *waiting*. Katakuri's Observation Haki painted the truth in neon: Strange's fingers weren't forming spells—they were *counting down*. Three. Two. The man inside *flinched*—Katakuri's borrowed instincts recognized a gambit when he saw one. With a sound like tearing taffy, Katakuri's arm *elongated*, hurling Wong across the docks. The sorcerer *slammed* into Strange's chest, sending both men skidding through caramelized debris. "Find a new attendant," Katakuri growled, mochi retracting with a wet *schluck*.
Strange coughed, rolling Wong off him. "He's—*ow*—my *librarian*," he muttered, rubbing his ribs. Wong, sprawled in a puddle of congealing syrup, flipped Katakuri off with a frosting-coated middle finger. The man inside *choked* on something perilously close to laughter—until Katakuri's instincts *twisted*. His mochi *exploded* outward, forming a living shield seconds before Mjolnir *crashed* into it. Thor's follow-up punch *splintered* the barrier—only to freeze mid-swing as Katakuri's free hand *phased* through his own mochi, seizing the god's wrist. "Enough," Katakuri snarled, his voice layered—the man's desperation beneath Katakuri's menace.
Thor's beard *crackled* with static. "You *butchered* my people," he roared, but Katakuri's Haki *pulsed*—revealing the lie. The man inside *saw* it now: Thor's pupils dilated not with rage, but *confusion*. The abductions, the counterfeit mochi, the homie—none of it added up. Katakuri's grip tightened, mochi seeping into the god's pores like liquid truth serum. "Your enemies," he hissed, "wear *my face*." The words tasted like liberation.
A *glint*—Strange's sling-ring, reflecting something behind Katakuri. His Observation Haki flared a millisecond too late. The hologram *flickered* to life above the ruins—a news broadcast looping footage of Whole Cake Island's collapse, *Katakuri's silhouette* clear in the flames. The man inside *recoiled*. That wasn't him. That *couldn't* be him. Yet there it was: his scarfed profile, his mochi fists, *executing civilians* as Big Mom cackled overhead. Katakuri's growl *split* the air. "Who," his voice *distorted*, stitches straining, "told you about my existence?"
Strange's cloak *twitched*—not a spell, but hesitation. "We pulled it from the *memory* of a Hydra defector," he admitted, watching Katakuri's mochi *boil* at the name. "He swore you were coming. That you'd *already* come." The hologram *glitched*, revealing the truth: doctored footage, spliced timelines, *someone's* sick fanfiction. Katakuri's fist *shattered* the projection, syrup-blood dripping from his knuckles where the pixels had *burned*. The man inside *understood* now—this wasn't just identity theft. They'd turned him into a *boogeyman*.
Thor's gauntlet creaked in Katakuri's grip. "You trust *Hydra*," Katakuri's voice *ripped* through the docks, stitches stretching with each syllable, "over your own *eyes*?" The accusation *landed* like a mochi meteor. Thor *flinched*—not from pain, but *shame*. Strange's sling-ring sputtered gold. The man inside *saw* it click: the Avengers had been *played*. Katakuri's mochi *surged*, forming a grotesque mockery of Hydra's insignia—then *crushed* it into ash. "I don't wear *collars*," he snarled.
Silence. Then Wong, still sprawled in syrup, snorted. "Yeah, but you *do* wear scarves." The tension *snapped*. Katakuri's Observation Haki *prickled*—Wong's pulse remained steady, his smirk genuine. The man inside *ached* with something dangerously close to *relief*.
Then—*movement*. The river *bubbled*, not with mochi, but with *metal*—a Hydra submarine breaching like a dying whale, its hull *crackling* with stolen soul-energy. Katakuri's Haki *screamed* a second before the speakers *blared* Big Mom's lullaby—*distorted*, *mechanized*. The man inside *knew* that sound: a *homie* factory. Katakuri's mochi *erupted* in response, not from rage, but *horror*. "No more *toys*," he growled—and *leapt*.