Chapter 238: Dressrosa - 12
The shockwave from the street outside rattled the thick stone foundations of the Toy House. Dust drifted down from the cavernous ceiling, dancing in the dim light of the flickering wall sconces.
Nami slipped through the massive, jagged hole in the brickwork, her boots stepping lightly over the smoking rubble.
She held her Clima-Tact at the ready, her eyes scanning the shadows of the underground facility. She expected an ambush. She expected a squad of Donquixote enforcers, or perhaps another terrifying Elite Officer waiting to peel her skin off.
What she did not expect was the sound of heavy, choked, violently masculine sobbing.
Nami lowered her staff slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion. She crept down a wide, arched corridor, following the sound of the weeping. She rounded a corner, stepping into a large loading bay filled with crates of scrap metal and mechanical parts.
There, sitting on the floor amidst the debris, were two massive men.
One was Franky, the crew’s towering, robotic shipwright. He was sitting cross-legged, his massive metallic shoulders shaking as tears the size of dinner plates cascaded down his face, completely ruining his sunglasses.
Sitting directly across from him was quite possibly the most bizarre human being Nami had ever seen in her life. He was a large, heavily muscled man wearing a pink baby bonnet, a pair of dark sunglasses, a pacifier around his neck, and a diaper. He, too, was sobbing openly, taking deep, shuddering pulls from a bottle of whiskey before passing it back to Franky.
Leaning casually against a steel support pillar a few feet away, with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his face, was Ben.
"Waaaaah!" Franky wailed, grabbing a giant piece of sheet metal to blow his nose. The sound was like a foghorn. "That is so SUPER tragic! You’re a real man, Senor! A real hard-boiled man!"
"Franky-bro..." Senor Pink choked out, adjusting his pacifier as a tear slipped out from beneath his dark shades. "The world is a cruel place. The rain... it just never stops falling."
Nami stood frozen, her brain short-circuiting as she tried to process the scene. She blinked rapidly. She looked at Franky. She looked at the man in the diaper. She looked at Ben.
"Ben," Nami said slowly, her voice echoing slightly in the loading bay. "What... what is happening here? Who is this weird man wearing baby clothes? Are you guys having a playdate?"
Ben turned his head, offering Nami a small, relaxed smile. He didn’t mock the man on the floor. His tone was surprisingly soft, devoid of his usual sarcastic edge.
"He isn’t a weirdo, Nami," Ben said quietly, his eyes lingering on the weeping executive. "He is just a man who is grieving. A man who lost his child to a fever, and his wife to a tragic accident. He wears those clothes because... well, it was the only thing that ever made his comatose wife smile again. It’s a heavy burden."
Nami’s expression instantly softened. The judgment vanished from her eyes, replaced by a sudden wave of empathy. She looked at Senor Pink, really looked at him this time. Past the absurd outfit, she saw the slumped shoulders of a man who had been carrying the weight of the world for years.
"Oh," Nami whispered, lowering her staff completely. "I... I’m sorry."
"Don’t be," Ben said, stepping away from the pillar. "But we are on the clock. Nami, I need you to keep moving. Head deeper into the facility. Find the SMILE factory core and the SAD production line. Destroy it all. I will handle things here."
Nami nodded, her professional thief demeanor returning in a flash. She gave Franky a brief pat on his metallic shoulder, offered Senor Pink a respectful nod, and bolted down the adjacent corridor, disappearing into the depths of the Toy House.
Once Nami’s footsteps faded away, the loading bay descended into a heavy, emotionally charged silence. The only sound was the distant hum of machinery and the rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe.
Ben walked slowly toward the center of the room. He stopped in front of Senor Pink. The executive didn’t look up, his eyes fixed firmly on the concrete floor, lost in the crushing memories of Russian and Gimlet.
"Señor Pink," Ben said, his voice cutting through the gloom.
The hard-boiled man slowly raised his head, his dark glasses reflecting the dim light. "What is it, Straw Hat magician? Have you come to mock a broken man? Or are you here to finish the fight?"
"Neither," Ben replied simply. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I have a question for you. A hypothetical. What would you say... what would you do... if I told you I could cure her? What if I could wake Russian up right now, completely heal her brain, and give you your wife back?"
Senor Pink froze.
The bottle of whiskey slipped from his fingers. It hit the concrete floor and shattered, amber liquid pooling around his boots. He didn’t even notice. The air in his lungs vanished. His heart, which had beaten with a slow, agonizing rhythm for years, suddenly hammered violently against his ribs.
He stared at Ben. He looked for a lie. He looked for a cruel trick. But Ben’s eyes were completely level, radiating an absolute, terrifying certainty.
"You..." Senor Pink’s voice broke. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "You are lying. The greatest doctors in the world looked at her. They said her neural pathways were irreversibly damaged. They said she would never wake up. It’s impossible."
"I don’t care about the greatest doctors in the world," Ben said flatly. "I am not a doctor. I am a someone who breaks the rules of reality for breakfast. I have magic that can reverse death, bend space, and rewrite the laws of biology. Curing a coma is a Tuesday for me. So, I will ask you again."
Ben leaned down slightly, locking eyes with the man in the diaper. "If I give you your family back... will you give up everything else? Will you abandon Doflamingo? Will you turn your back on the Donquixote Family, throw away your life as a ruthless pirate, and turn into a good man for her?"
Senor Pink didn’t hesitate. Not for a fraction of a second.
He moved with a speed that defied his bulky frame. He shifted onto his knees, bowing his head forward until his forehead touched the cold, dusty concrete. It was a gesture of submission. The ultimate sacrifice of a pirate’s pride.
"I will serve you for eternity," Senor Pink swore, his voice trembling with a raw intensity that shook the room. "If you give her back to me... my life is yours. I will be your shield, your sword, your slave. I will abandon my title, my crew, my very name. Just please... please, save my Russian."
Franky covered his mouth, a fresh waterfall of tears erupting from his eyes. "So hardboiled! Such a beautiful sacrifice!"
Ben stared down at the groveling executive for a long moment. Then, he let out a soft sigh and waved his hand dismissively.
"Get up, Senor," Ben said. "I don’t want your servitude. I don’t need a slave, and I certainly don’t need another fighter. Our crew is already a nightmare."
Senor Pink slowly raised his head, confusion warring with the desperate hope on his face. "Then... what do you want? What is the price?"
"Nothing," Ben smiled. "I am doing this simply because I like you. I respect your character. You are a villain, yes, but you are a man driven by love, not malice. You took on the ridicule of the entire world, dressed like a fool for years, just on the off-chance it might reach your comatose wife. That kind of devotion is rare. I think you’ve suffered enough."
Senor Pink stared at Ben in stunned silence. The kindness of the act—from an enemy, no less—was too much to process. Slowly, deeply, he nodded. A silent vow that transcended words.
Ben turned his attention to the crying cyborg. "Franky, go inside. Nami might need backup if she runs into any heavy machinery or stragglers around the SAD tanks. I will take care of our hard-boiled friend here."
Franky sniffled, wiping his metal nose. He stood up, he looked down at Senor Pink, offering a sharp, deeply respectful salute.
"Goodbye, Senor Pink," Franky said, his voice thick with emotion. "May the rest of your days be SUPER."
"Farewell, Cyborg," Senor Pink nodded back, matching the respect.
Franky turned and sprinted down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing into the distance.
Once they were alone, Senor Pink stood up. He dusted off his baby clothes, his hands shaking slightly. He looked at Ben. "Now what? The Donquixote medical ward is located high up in the King’s Plateau. It is heavily guarded. If we fight our way there, Doflamingo will be alerted."
"We aren’t walking," Ben said. "I need you to close your eyes. Picture the room where your wife is kept. Don’t just think about the location; visualize it. The smell of the room, the sound of the machines, the exact layout of her bed. Create a perfect mental picture."
Senor Pink didn’t ask questions. He closed his eyes. Instantly, the image flooded his mind. He had spent thousands of hours sitting in that chair, holding her cold hand. He knew every tile on the floor. He knew the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. He knew the exact angle of the sunlight that filtered through the barred windows in the afternoon.
"I have it," Senor Pink whispered.
Ben stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Senor Pink’s massive shoulder.
"Hold your breath," Ben advised.
CRACK.
The sound was like a whip breaking the sound barrier. The air in the Toy House violently displaced, rushing inward to fill the vacuum where the two men had just been standing.
For Senor Pink, the sensation was horrifying. It felt as though he were being forced through a very tight rubber tube. The air was squeezed from his lungs, his vision went entirely black, and his internal organs felt as though they were doing cartwheels.
A split second later, the pressure vanished.
Senor Pink stumbled forward, gasping for air as his boots hit a pristine, white linoleum floor. He caught his balance, clutching his chest. He looked around.
He was completely shocked. The dusty, dim walls of the underground port were gone. They were standing in a sterile, brightly lit hospital corridor. A few feet away, a Donquixote guard was slumped against the wall, entirely unconscious from a minor sleeping spell Ben had cast the moment they materialized.
"We’re here," Senor Pink breathed, looking at the heavy metal door to his right. "This is... this is her ward. How did you..."
"Magic," Ben said casually. "Come on. Let’s go inside."
Senor Pink hesitated for a fraction of a second. His hand hovered over the doorknob. For years, walking through this door had been an exercise in torture. It was walking into a mausoleum to visit a ghost. But today... Today was different.
He pushed the door open.
The room was quiet, save for the mechanical breathing of the ventilator and the slow, agonizingly steady beep... beep... beep of the life support monitor.
Lying in the center of the bed was Russian. She looked so incredibly fragile. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her hair was neatly brushed, fanned out across the white pillow. Her eyes were closed, her face completely slack, devoid of the radiant, beautiful smile that had once captured Senor Pink’s heart.
Senor Pink walked slowly to the edge of the bed. He reached out with a trembling hand and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
Ben stood by the door, analyzing the situation. He crossed his arms and looked at the grieving man.
"Before we do this, Senor, there is something we need to address," Ben said, his voice gentle but serious. "The trauma of the landslide caused her brain damage. But the psychological trauma of losing Gimlet is what broke her spirit. That kind of grief... it destroys the soul."
Senor Pink kept his hand on Russian’s hair, not looking back. "I know."
"Using my magic, I can modify memories," Ben continued, stepping further into the room. He thought of Dumbledore’s Obliviate charm. "If you wish it, before I wake her up, I can carefully remove the memory of Gimlet’s death. In fact, I can erase Gimlet from her mind. She would wake up thinking she had simply been asleep. She would carry no grief. She would experience no pain. It would be a clean slate."
Ben paused, letting the weight of the offer hang in the sterile air. "Should I remove the memories of the baby?"
Senor Pink went perfectly still. The only sound in the room was the mechanical breathing of the machines.
He looked down at Russian’s peaceful, comatose face. He thought of Gimlet. He thought of the tiny, perfect hands that had gripped his finger. He thought of the laughter that used to fill their small home. He thought of the fever, the rain, the agonizingly small coffin.
The pain was a physical weight in his chest. It was a jagged piece of glass embedded in his heart that bled every single day. To erase it would be a mercy. It would spare Russian the agony of waking up to a world without her son.
But as he stared at his wife, Senor Pink’s jaw tightened.
"No," Senor Pink said. His voice was a harsh, gravelly whisper, thick with tears but absolute in its conviction.
He turned to look at Ben, his dark glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose to reveal eyes red with sorrow.
"No," Senor Pink repeated, louder this time. "Do not touch her memories. Do not erase my son. Gimlet was real. He existed. He was the culmination of our love. To erase him... to pretend he never happened just to spare ourselves the pain... that would be an insult to the time he spent on this earth. That would be cowardice."
Senor Pink reached down and gripped Russian’s cold, fragile hand in both of his own. "The pain of losing him is terrible. But it is our pain. We will carry it together. Because even in the agony of his absence, I would rather remember my son than live a lie where he never existed."
Ben stared at the man in the diaper. A wave of respect washed over him. This was exactly why he liked Senor Pink. The man was a gangster, a criminal, a brute—but his heart was forged from pure, unbreakable iron.
"A hard-boiled answer," Ben nodded softly. "I understand. I won’t touch her mind. I will only heal her body."
Ben walked over to the opposite side of the bed.
Ben raised his right hand, extending his index and middle fingers. He held them inches above Russian’s forehead.
"Reverse Cursed Technique," Ben murmured.
A brilliant, soothing white light erupted from Ben’s fingertips.
He pressed his fingers gently against Russian’s temple.
The positive energy flooded into her system like a tidal wave of life. It bypassed her skin and bone, washing directly over her damaged brain. For Ben, with the Six Eyes active, he could literally see the healing process. He watched as dead neural pathways reignited. He watched as ruptured blood vessels seamlessly knit themselves back together. He watched as the atrophied sections of her cerebral cortex expanded, flushing with fresh, oxygenated blood.
The physical trauma of the landslide was completely erased in a matter of three seconds.
The heart monitor, which had been beeping with a slow, sickly rhythm, suddenly spiked. It fluttered wildly for a moment, and then settled into a strong, rapid, incredibly healthy cadence. The ventilator hissed, but it was no longer forcing air into her lungs; she was breathing on her own, deep and even.
The pale, translucent pallor of her skin vanished, replaced by a warm flush of living color.
Ben pulled his hand back, the white light fading from his fingertips. He stepped away from the bed, moving back toward the door to give them space.
"It’s done," Ben said quietly.
Senor Pink didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just stared at his wife, clutching her hand like a lifeline.
For ten agonizing seconds, nothing happened.
Then... Russian’s eyelashes fluttered.
A soft, confused groan escaped her lips. Her fingers twitched within Senor Pink’s grasp. Slowly, groggily, as if fighting through the depths of a decade-long slumber, Russian opened her eyes.
The bright hospital lights made her wince. She blinked several times, her vision swimming out of focus. She stared at the white ceiling, her mind struggling to catch up. Where was she? What happened? The rain... the landslide... the mud.
She turned her head slightly.
The first thing she saw was a massive, heavily muscled man. He was weeping uncontrollably, his tears soaking into his dark sunglasses. And he was wearing a pink baby bonnet and a diaper.
Russian stared at him. Her memories were fragmented, disjointed. But as she looked at the pacifier around his neck, the fog in her brain pierced.
"Gimlet..." her voice whispered in her memory. "He looks just like Gimlet..."
She remembered. She remembered the day he had walked into her hospital room wearing that absurd outfit. She remembered how she had been trapped in her own mind, unable to speak, unable to move, drowning in the darkness of her grief. And she remembered the desperate, pathetic, utterly beautiful lengths her husband had gone to just to make her smile. He had thrown away his dignity, his pride, the very essence of his manhood, just to give her a single moment of joy in the darkness.
Russian didn’t scream. She didn’t ask who he was.
Tears, hot and fast, welled up in her beautiful eyes.
She weakly pulled her hand from his grasp, lifting it upward. Her fingers were trembling, devoid of strength, but she managed to reach his face. She gently placed her palm against his rough, tear-stained cheek. She pushed the dark sunglasses up, revealing his crying eyes.
"You... you idiot," Russian whispered, her voice incredibly weak, hoarse from years of disuse, but filled with an overwhelming, crushing amount of love. "You look... so ridiculous."
Señor Pink broke.
The dam shattered completely. The hardened executive of the Donquixote Family, the man who had fought giants and cyborgs without flinching, buried his face in the blankets of the hospital bed and wailed like a child. His massive shoulders shook with the force of a decade of repressed agony finally leaving his body.
"Russian!" Senor Pink sobbed, his voice raw and broken. "Russian! You’re awake! You’re really awake! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I lied to you! I’m a pirate! I’m a monster! I wasn’t at a bank... I wasn’t... I’m so sorry!"
He confessed everything in a torrent of tears. He poured his sins out onto her bed, terrified that now that she was awake, she would look at him with the same disgust she had shown the day she ran out into the storm.
But Russian didn’t pull away.
With whatever meager strength she had left in her atrophied muscles, she shifted on the bed. She wrapped her frail arms around his massive, shaking head, pulling him tightly against her chest. She buried her face in his pink bonnet, her own tears soaking into the fabric.
"I know," Russian cried, stroking his back. "I know who you are. And I know what you gave up for me. We lost him... we lost our little Gimlet. But I am not losing you too. I’m here. I’m right here."
They held each other in the sterile hospital room, two broken people finally finding the pieces they needed to survive. They wept for their son. They wept for the years they had lost to the darkness. And they wept in gratitude that they had found each other again.
Standing quietly by the door, Ben watched the scene unfold.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t make a sound. He simply leaned against the wall, allowing them the sanctuary of their reunion. In the brutal, chaotic world of pirates and warlords, genuine, unfiltered moments of redemption were exceedingly rare. Ben wasn’t going to ruin this one.
Ten minutes passed. The violent sobbing slowly faded into quiet sniffles and the soft murmurs of reassurance between husband and wife.
Senor Pink slowly sat up, wiping his face. He kept one hand firmly intertwined with Russian’s. He turned to look at Ben, his expression one of reverence.
"I... I don’t know how to repay you," Senor Pink whispered. "There are no words in this world for what you have just given me."
"I told you, there is no debt," Ben said gently. He walked forward, reaching into his spatial pouch. He pulled out a small, crystal vial filled with a shimmering, vibrant red liquid.
"Her brain is completely healed," Ben explained, uncorking the vial. "But she has been bedridden for years. Her muscles have atrophied, and her internal organs are weak. This is a restorative draught. It’s alchemical magic. It will instantly restore her physical body to its peak health."
Senor Pink took the vial with trembling hands. He looked at Russian, who nodded weakly. He brought the vial to her lips, and she drank the red liquid.
The effects were instantaneous.
A sudden rush of warmth flooded Russian’s body. The terrifying frailty that clung to her bones vanished. Her muscles expanded, regenerating the mass she had lost to the coma. The heavy lethargy in her limbs evaporated, replaced by a surge of vibrant, youthful energy. She gasped, sitting up completely under her own power. She looked at her hands, flexing her fingers without a hint of weakness or tremor.
"I... I feel perfect," Russian breathed, touching her own face in wonder. "I feel like I could run a marathon."
"Good," Ben smiled. "Because you two need to run right now."
Ben’s demeanor shifted, becoming all business. "Dressrosa is about to become a warzone. Doflamingo is going to lose his mind when he realizes you’ve defected, Pink. You cannot stay here. If you try to live in the New World, the Donquixote Family—or the Marines—will eventually track you down."
Ben crossed his arms. "I have a few safe havens in mind. Places where no one will ever look for you, and where you can start over in peace. I can take you to the East Blue, to Alabasta, or to the Drum Kingdom."
Senor Pink looked at Russian. They didn’t need to speak; the shared understanding in their eyes was enough. They wanted peace. They wanted a quiet life far away from the blood, the guns, and the terror of the Grand Line.
"The East Blue," Senor Pink decided, looking back at Ben. "It is the weakest sea. The quietest sea. No warlords or emperors would care to look for us there."
"East Blue it is," Ben nodded.
Ben reached into his spatial pouch again. This time, he pulled out a heavy, leather satchel. It clinked loudly as he set it on the foot of the hospital bed.
"Inside this bag is thirty million berries in gold and cash," Ben stated, ignoring the shocked look on Senor Pink’s face. "It’s a fraction of what I own. It’s enough to buy a nice house, open a small business, and live comfortably for the rest of your lives. Take it."
"Ben... this is too much," Senor Pink said, utterly overwhelmed.
"Take the money, put some pants on, and hold your wife’s hand," Ben ordered, a smirk playing on his lips. "We are leaving."
Senor Pink didn’t argue. He quickly discarded the pacifier and bonnet, wrapping a hospital blanket around his waist for modesty. He grabbed the heavy satchel of gold, and then securely, lovingly, wrapped his other arm around Russian’s waist. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her eyes shining with tears of joy.
Ben visualized their destination perfectly. He had spent enough time there to know every orange tree on the island.
"Hold on tight," Ben said.
CRACK.
The Donquixote hospital ward vanished.
In the blink of an eye, the sterile white walls were replaced by the warm, salty breeze of the ocean and the sweet, citrus smell of tangerines. They stood on a grassy hill overlooking a peaceful, quiet village. The sun was shining brightly over the East Blue.
"This is the Conomi Islands," Ben said, gesturing to the village below. "Specifically, Cocoyasi Village. My navigator, Nami, grew up here. Her sister, Nojiko, runs a massive tangerine orchard down there. It is the safest, quietest place on the planet. Go down there, tell them Ben sent you, and buy yourselves a little piece of paradise."
Senor Pink looked at the peaceful village. He heard the sound of children laughing in the distance. He felt the warm sun on his face. It was a world away from the nightmare of Dressrosa.
He turned to Ben. He didn’t bow this time. He just extended his hand.
"Thank you," Senor Pink said, his voice thick. "I don’t know if heaven exists... but you are certainly an angel sent from it."
Ben shook his hand firmly. "Live well, Senor. Take care of her."
"I will," Senor Pink vowed.
Russian stepped forward and, to Ben’s surprise, threw her arms around him, pulling him into a warm hug. "Thank you for giving him back to me," she whispered.
Ben awkwardly patted her back, a smile forming on his face. "You’re very welcome, Russian."
With a final, tearful wave, Senor Pink and Russian turned and began walking down the grassy hill toward the village, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. They were walking into a new life. A quiet life.
Ben stood on the hill, watching them go until they were just specks near the orange orchards.
Slowly, Ben let out a long, heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the bright blue sky of the East Blue.
"This is all Oda’s fault," Ben muttered to himself, his voice laced with exhaustion. "Why does he have to make every single backstory so incredibly emotional? Can’t he just write a flashback where the characters are irredeemably evil? Just one guy who was born a jerk and stayed a jerk? But no... everyone has to be a victim of circumstance, or tragedy, or disease."
Ben shook his head, rubbing his temples as he thought about the overarching plot of the world.
"If it goes on like this," Ben groaned to the empty wind, "I swear to god... by the time we reach the end of the Grand Line, Imu is going to be the most tragic character of them all. I’m going to have to listen to an eight-hour flashback about how the King of the World just wanted to paint watercolors or something, and I’m going to feel bad for punching him."
Ben sighed again, accepting the reality of the universe he was living in.
"Right. Back to work."
CRACK.
With a sharp displacement of air, Ben vanished from the peaceful hills of the Conomi Islands, teleporting straight back to the dark, chaotic underground port of Dressrosa to find Nami and Franky. There was still a Warlord to dethrone.
