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*.
His descent *shattered* the sub's reinforced plating like sugar glass, superheated mochi *welding* his fists to the hull as he *peeled* the top off with a wet, metallic *shriek*. Molten dough *cascaded* into the exposed chamber below—not to kill, but to *preserve*, hardening instantly around screaming Hydra operatives like amber trapping prehistoric flies. The man inside *retched* at the *smell*—burnt sugar and *something* else, something *alive*, writhing in the vats of liquid soul-energy. Katakuri's Haki *pulsed*—there. The *source*. A child-sized homie strapped to the central console, its mouth *stitched* into a permanent scream.
Katakuri's mochi *lunged*, not as a weapon, but as a *scalpel*, severing the homie's restraints with Haki-edged precision. The doll *collapsed*, its ceramic face *splitting* down the middle to reveal—*not* a soul, but *circuitry*, pulsing with the same sickly glow as the Hudson's monstrosity. The man inside *froze*. This wasn't Big Mom's work. This was *worse*. Katakuri's fist *closed* around the homie's head, his mochi *seeping* into its wiring like liquid truth. The doll *shrieked*—not in pain, but *recognition*—before *detonating* in a geyser of data-streams and half-formed memories.
The explosion bent the submarine's hull, but Katakuri remained standing amid the chaos. His scarf whipped around him as holographic debris reformed into countless copies of his own face—glitching, multiplying—superimposed over Hydra soldiers. He understood now. They weren't just ruining his reputation. They were farming him.
Katakuri's arm turned to liquid mid-swing, molten mochi slamming into the control panel. It didn't punch through metal, but seeped into circuits like hot syrup. The sub's metal screamed as it warped, consoles melting, rivets popping like candy shells. The man inside recoiled as Katakuri's mochi burned through the ship's veins, flooding corridors with fire that froze Hydra agents mid-run—their final expressions trapped in amber.
One operative lunged with a vibranium blade. Katakuri's Haki flared. The man's skeleton shattered from within, ribs jutting through his uniform like broken cookies.
Only a child-sized homie remained, twitching in Katakuri's grip. Its ceramic face cracked away to reveal StarkTech schematics stamped with Hydra's logo. The doll's voice glitched: "Asset Charlotte-66... compatibility 98.7%... ready for mass production." Katakuri's mochi erupted—not in anger, but disgust—crushing the homie's head into data streams that formed a pulsing eye above his palm. The man inside shuddered. It was his eye, but digitized. Stolen.
Katakuri turned toward Stark Tower. His Haki pierced through concrete and glass, sensing drones crawling in vents—not rats, but machines bloated with mochi samples and soul-energy capacitors. His stitches strained as he shouted across the Hudson: "You have rats hiding in your walls, Stark."
Stark's repulsors flared mid-flight—not denying, but realizing. His own tech had been harvesting Katakuri's DNA from battlefields.
The tower's facade cracked as armored drones burst through—each twitching with stolen mochi, movements jerky and unfinished. The largest drone split open, spewing half-digested dough that formed a twisted version of Katakuri's face. The man inside vomited. Someone had bred his flesh into machines.
Katakuri's mochi exploded outward like scalpels, slicing drones apart mid-air. The largest mockery screamed—not in pain, but hunger—its doughy mouth opening to reveal repulsor tech grafted inside. Katakuri leaped, Conqueror's Haki blazing: "I am not your prototype." His fist connected—and the drone disintegrated into charred circuits and melted sugar.
Molten mochi pooled in his hand, shaping into Napoléon—Big Mom's living sword. Armament Haki darkened it to obsidian. Drones swarmed, repulsors charging—until Katakuri's Conqueror's Haki crackled down the blade like lightning. His swing cleaved the sky—a Divine Departure stronger than Shanks'. The shockwave shattered remaining drones into caramelized shrapnel.
Thor ducked behind Mjolnir as the aftershock tore through Stark Tower's upper floors. Strange's sling-ring flashed—too late. Drone cores detonated in sequence, painting Katakuri's silhouette across the skyline in crimson. The man inside recoiled. They weren't just copying him. They worshipped him.
Katakuri's sword melted mid-swing, reforming into a fist—not to punch, but to catch a falling homie core. The orb pulsed in his grip, cracking to reveal Stark's glitching face beneath ceramic. Katakuri's stitches tightened. "You built a god," he growled—and crushed it. The core screamed—not in Stark's voice, but Linlin's—before bursting into data and liquid soul-energy. The man inside understood: Hydra had merged his face with hers.
Katakuri landed, boots cracking asphalt—not from impact, but revelation. His mochi retracted, leaving only his scarf fluttering in dying fires. "It is done," he stated—final. The man inside flinched. Katakuri didn't mean the battle. He meant his choice.
The Avengers watched as Katakuri turned, hands sliding into pockets. His footsteps echoed, syrup hardening like gunshots underfoot. Strange's portals flickered—unsure whether to stop or study him. Katakuri's Haki flared—not warning, but dismissal. The man inside wondered: Was this retreat? Surrender? Or exile?
The Hudson boiled with questions behind him. Thor reached for Mjolnir—but Wong stopped him with a syrup-stained hand. "Let him go," the sorcerer murmured, watching Katakuri's shape distort in heat-haze, "before he realizes we're not the ones who need answers." Katakuri's stride didn't slow—only shifted, scarf billowing as his mochi formed a path across the river.
Then—irony. His next footstep landed not on water, but dough—a floating slab stamped with Big Mom's jolly roger, dissolving after bearing his weight. Katakuri's jaw clenched. Even in rejection, she pursued. Fists balled in pockets, he walked through the Hudson's parted depths—the river splitting like unbaked pie crust under his Haki. "Enough," he growled—to himself, to her, to the world testing him.
The Avengers watched silently as Katakuri vanished into sugar-smoke on the horizon—a ghost haunting his own life.
Days passed. Nevada's desert scorched his boots, sand crackling like caramel. He stopped at a diner outside Flagstaff—not for food, but for a child's crayon map of America dotted with stick-figure pirates. His fingers twitched. The man inside ached—for One Piece, for Luffy's laugh, for simplicity. The waitress flinched when he turned, scarf swallowing sunlight. "Keep the change," he muttered, leaving a molten sugar-coin fused to the counter.
Chicago smelled of sour beer and stolen hope. Katakuri stood atop the Sears Tower, mochi dripping onto antennas—listening. He expected Big Mom's lullaby or Hydra's static. Instead, wind carried a homeless man's harmonica playing the Marine anthem. His Haki pulsed—nothing. No traps. Just flawed, fragile humanity. For the first time, the man inside wondered: Was this the treasure? The right to be ordinary? Below, a child pointed up giggling: "Look, Mom! A mochi man!" Katakuri vanished before she finished.
Wyoming's plains swallowed his footsteps. He paused at a plaque: "Oregon Trail: 2,000 Miles of Dreams." The man inside laughed—brittle. Dreams were currency in Whole Cake Island. Here, they were just dreams. His mochi coiled around a rusted wagon wheel, tasting centuries of failure. Wind howled, scouring his scars with grit. He inhaled—no sugar. Just sagebrush and stubbornness. Maybe finding nothing was the point.
New Mexico burned. Hulk smashed Abomination through a gas station—pumps exploding green. Katakuri stepped over a twitching hydrant, mochi extinguishing flames. The stink of gamma-infused petrol reminded him of Punk Hazard. Abomination lunged—Katakuri's elbow phased through his ribs, Haki pulverizing bone. The beast collapsed gurgling. Hulk snorted: "You help?" Katakuri shook his head. "I passed through." Some battles weren't his.
Texas bled Skrull green. Star-Lord stomped a frog-like invader: "Y'all suck at country music!" Rocket cackled, guns blazing. Katakuri watched from a barbecue joint's roof, syrup-glazed ribs cooling beside him. Drax missed a swing, plowing through a Whataburger sign—orange plastic raining. Gamora rolled her eyes. The man inside smiled—this was honest chaos. The galaxy needed guardians. He needed answers.
Alaska's snow stained red. Wolverine's claws scraped Sabertooth's jawbone—fangs gnashing frozen air. They fought like animals. Because they were. Katakuri stepped over broken trap lines, breath crystallizing. Sabertooth lunged—mochi fist crushed his windpipe without killing. Logan sniffed: "He ain't worth it." Katakuri agreed. The wild was their church. He left them panting, steam rising off hacked flesh.
Utah's canyons hissed. Doctor Doom's cloak brushed sandstone, ignoring Strange's holographic warnings. Katakuri materialized beside him—not threatening, not allied. "You walk like a man who knows things." Doom's mask tilted. "And you stink of stolen souls." A pause. Then: "Latveria could use a taste of Whole Cake." Katakuri's mochi curled—not refusing. The man inside shivered. This was politics. Big Mom's game. But hungrier.