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✏︎(y/n)=your name
✏︎(l/n)=your last name
✏︎(h/l)=hair length
✏︎(h/c)=hair color
✏︎(e/c)=eye color
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⋆The words in italics represent thoughts.⋆
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✎Requested by Rengoku_Darling
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Characteristics of the reader:
✏︎Bold
✏︎Loud
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Resume of the situation the scenario happens in
⋆ So after Whole Cake, Ceasar escaped to then form NEO MADS, a research institute organization made by Vinsmoke Judge and Ceasar Clown, using Germa 66 resources. In this scenario, our reader is also a world-known scientist and is also one of the members of the previous organization, MADS. So also a founder of the new one, NEO MADS.⋆
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The lab hums with the low, constant buzz of machinery, the air thick with the sterile scent of chemicals and metal. You sit hunched over your workstation, shoulders stiff, fingers stained with ink and something far less identifiable. A half-finished blueprint is sprawled out before you, edges curling where you've absentmindedly tapped at them with restless hands.
Your hair falls in unruly strands over your forehead, sticking slightly from the heat of concentration, enhancing the grey hair of time. You push it back absently, leaving a smudge of graphite near your temple. The light overhead flickers—cheap maintenance, no doubt—and you sigh, rolling the tension from your neck before scribbling down another adjustment.
Then, footsteps. Measured, purposeful. You know who it is before you even glance up.
Vinsmoke Judge.
The door hisses open, and there he stands—posture rigid, expression unreadable but undoubtedly unimpressed. He steps inside with that signature air of authority, his gaze sweeping over your workstation, then landing on you. A single slow blink, and then—there it is—the look. The same look he always gives you.
"You were always the messiest of us, scientists," Judge remarks, arms crossing over his broad chest.
You smile, leaning back slightly in your chair, hands spreading in mock invitation. "Lucky for you, it is my mind you need. My pristine, tidy mind of a genius and... of course, the info I've got."
Judge exhales, unimpressed but not dismissive. You both know the truth of it—his precision, his meticulous engineering, his relentless drive. Just as much as your insight, your instinct, your ability to know exactly what matters, when it matters.
It's not a contest. Just a matter of skills—different, but equally necessary.
Your Devil Fruit is proof of that. 5 things, living or not, scattered across the world, all connected to you by an unseen thread. The moment something notable happens to any of them, you know. Instantly.
And Judge knows the weight of that. Which is exactly why he's here.
Before either of you can speak again, the lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then a sudden draft snakes through the vents—sweet, cloying, tinged with something volatile.
The air begins to shimmer.
A low, gleeful chuckle bubbles up from nowhere. Wisps of lilac-colored gas coil into the center of the lab like a summoned specter, twisting and solidifying into a tall, grinning figure.
"Miss me, boys?" Caesar Clown declares, arms flung wide like a showman taking center stage. His wild hair flicks upward, coat billowing in ghostly plumes of vapor. "I was passing through and thought—surely this sad little dungeon could use some brilliance."
You glance up just long enough to register him before returning to your notes. "You're banned from vent entries, Caesar. I told you. The pressure systems hate it," the King spits beside you.
"I hate the stairs," Caesar pouts, slumping with exaggerated flair against a rack of delicate instruments. They wobble alarmingly. Judge's gaze sharpens to a needlepoint.
"You here for something useful, or just trying to lighten the air quality?" you ask mildly, not bothering to hide the faint curl of amusement at the corner of your mouth.
"I felt something in the air," Caesar says, puffing up. "Thought maybe one of your little ghost-threads twitched. Kaido? Big Mom? You know I like to stay informed when the heavyweights fall."
You arch a brow. "That was days ago, Caesar."
He freezes mid-hover. "Oh."
"Mm." You mark a correction on the blueprint. "Try keeping up."
He lets out a laugh, too loud and too fast. "Hah! Obviously. Just testing you! Never know when one of your precious targets might suddenly drop dead, right?"
Judge exhales, long and slow.
Caesar drifts in closer, peering at the half-finished sketch in front of you. "Ooooh, is this new? Something dangerous?"
"Something delicate," you reply, sliding it a little farther from his reach. "Which is why it'll survive longer without your fingerprints."
"Touchy," he hums, backing off—not insulted, just already distracted. He floats lazily upward and lounges midair, arms tucked behind his head like he's settling in for a nap.
Judge clears his throat. A sharp, intentional cough. The kind that means focus.
You glance his way. "Oh right. You didn't tell me what you needed from me yet."
"Repair some weapons for the soldiers," he says. His tone leaves no room for delay. "Urgent. Check it out."
You nod once, already half-rising from your chair. "Fine. Let me finish this line."
Judge mutters something under his breath about professionalism and moves to one of the consoles.
You sit back for just a moment longer, letting the graphite settle on the page. The faint scent of gas still clings to the air like an old joke.
Just another day in the lab.
[★]
The lab doors slide open with a soft hiss.
You step out, arms stretched overhead, the stiff ache in your shoulders finally beginning to ease. The last of the weapons have been checked, reinforced, recalibrated—at least enough to keep the soldiers from blowing off their own limbs. You're still thinking about the blueprint back on your desk when you catch sight of two familiar figures waiting near the corridor's end.
Ichiji stands with his arms crossed, posture stiff and impassive, a gleam of faint disdain never far from his expression. Beside him, Reiju leans casually against the wall, her hair catching the low light, her smile faint but not unfriendly.
"I assume everything's in order?" Ichiji asks, not even bothering with preamble.
You nod, brushing your hands off on your coat. "Done. Everything's functional. If they break again, it won't be my fault."
Reiju tilts her head. "You don't look thrilled."
"I'm tired," you correct, giving her a half-smile. "Tell your father the issue's handled. I'm going to sleep before someone else brings me another half-melted rifle."
Ichiji gives a short nod. "We'll inform him."
You turn to go, bones heavy, mind slowing. The corridor lights hum gently overhead as your steps echo down the steel floor. Just a few more turns. Just a few more—
It's gradual at first, like a creeping fog, too subtle to notice at first. Then—there. A sharp, jarring pressure settles between your temples. A slow-building ache that starts as a nuisance but then begins to expand, like a vice tightening over your skull. The faint ringing in your ears starts low, almost imperceptible.
Your steps falter.
You stop. The ache intensifies, and suddenly, it's a full-blown hammering in the back of your head, radiating outward, pulling your senses into sharp, staccato bursts. The world blurs. You blink—once, twice.
But all you can hear is it—
The twitch.
One of the threads.
You know it.
Something just happened.
Something's wrong.
And then, a blur of lilac gas materializes beside you, sharp against the air, a sickly sweet scent curling in with it.
Caesar Clown is standing there, grinning from ear to ear, as if he's been waiting for this moment.
"Well, well, well," he announces, arms flung out in exaggerated delight. "For once, I'll berhe first to know...After you."
Your hand presses to your forehead, eyes squinting against the stabbing pain. You don't bother to respond to his theatrics, but your voice is sharp, strained. "What would you know?"
Caesar gives an exaggerated shrug, floating closer as his laughter dances in the air. "Ah, no need to be coy. I felt it too. A change. You can't hide it, you know."
You blink rapidly, trying to shake the fog clouding your mind, but the thread's tug is unmistakable. You know it now. Something's happened. Someone's target has shifted.
And it's just... too much.
The headache floods back, and you stagger, grabbing hold of the wall to steady yourself.
Caesar watches, a gleam in his eyes. "Thought so. You're all over it now, huh? It's your thread, after all. Which means—guess what, friend? You'll know the worst before anyone else does."
You steady yourself against the wall, the ache pounding through your skull like a steady drumbeat. Caesar hovers in that lilac haze, far too pleased with himself, his grin stretching just a bit too wide.
"Huh," you mutter, glancing sideways at him with a half-lidded stare, "you think you're smart, huh?"
He perks up, floating a little higher, mist curling around his ankles. "I mean, obviously."
You tilt your head, the ghost of a smirk playing at your lips despite the pain. "Wanna learn something that'll break your little heart?"
He blinks, caught off guard by the sudden softness in your tone.
"I'm not suicidal, Caesar," you purr, low and razor-edged. "If CP0 is attacking Vegapunk—and they are—that means they're not following protocol anymore. He's under the government, and they're still going after him. You think there's anything stopping them from turning on us next? You think they draw lines?"
Caesar's grin wavers. "Wait—what?"
You push off the wall, voice silk over steel now. "I want to live, sweetheart. You and Judge can play your little kingdom-of-madmen games, but if this ship starts sinking? I'll be the first one off. No pride, no loyalty. I'm not going down with either of you."
He stares, open-mouthed, sputtering.
"What? I'm a coward? Realist?" you cut in, smiling now. "Pick one. I'm gorgeous either way."
He makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a whine, arms flailing a little as if that might help him regain control of the moment.
"Mmhm. And you're always the last to know," you whisper sweetly, tapping your temple. "Vegapunk's under attack right now. Which means... tick-tock, darling."
"You can't!"
"Huh? Or else what? You'll get rid of me? Don't mock me. I'm the informant. You need me but me...." you raise your arms up. "I only need the equipment. Besides, I never made any promises."
Caesar goes quiet, the mist curling tighter around him as the full weight of the situation finally clicks.
You turn away, headache still blooming behind your eyes, but your voice drips sugar over venom as you go:
"Better float fast, gas-man. Things are about to get ugly...and I won't be there to see it."
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PATHETIC CEASAR
Pathetic Ceasar
He got humbled
I also really love the devil fruit I used here...hm.....yeah....I LOVE IT. Might reuse it someday.
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