Trebol was having a very bad day.
Screams echoed through the streets. Explosions rattled the ground. Strange, animalistic howls rang out in the distance. Dressrosa was falling apart — it was the goddamn apocalypse.
And who, by the benevolent decree of Doflamingo himself, was tasked with protecting this crumbling kingdom?
Of course — Trebol.
It wasn't that Trebol didn't want to act. He could act. He was one of the elite officers of the Donquixote Family — feared, respected, and very much capable of turning any upstart crew into a pile of regret and body parts.
But none of that mattered anymore. Because Trebol had just seen a ghost.
It had appeared out of nowhere, drifting inches from his face. Grinning. Mocking. Glowing faintly like a candle about to go out.
And what did the ghost do?
It reached out — slowly, deliberately — and offered him its translucent hand.
And what did Trebol do?
What he always did: he got way too close and violated its personal space, hoping to creep it out. Wouldn't it be funny, he thought, if even ghosts were disgusted by him?
But the ghost didn't flinch. Instead, it reached past the dripping mucus curtain that usually protected Trebol's real body — and touched his face.
Then it vanished.
Trebol didn't scream. Not right away. But what followed was... messy. A spiral into depression. Maybe one or two failed suicide attempts. But that wasn't the issue anymore.
The issue was that the curse never left.
The chaos had only just begun.
First, Trebol tried to leave the palace to gather his bearings — and promptly slipped on his own mucus. Again. And again. For thirty minutes straight, like a man caught in a slapstick nightmare loop. And that shouldn't even be possible — his mucus was sticky, not slippery.
None of it made any sense.
Then came the statue.
The snot perpetually leaking from his nose began to gather... and sculpt itself. Into a statue. Not just any statue — a disturbingly detailed, eerily majestic figure of Doflamingo himself. It even captured his smug little smirk.
Sugar took one look at it and nearly vomited. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and stormed off to fight the intruders herself.
Another disaster. His primary mission was to protect Sugar, but now the brat had abandoned him in his misery.
And then — as if on cue — someone tossed a lit cigarette through the window.
It arced gracefully through the air... and landed in the outstretched, gelatinous hand of the Doflamingo statue.
His mucus had the delightful property of turning small flames into large regrets.
BOOM!
The explosion was massive. Trebol was thrown backward, his robes shredded, his mucus armor obliterated. He lay flat on the floor, dazed, smoke rising from what little remained of his clothes. The roof above him was gone, torn away by the blast.
And from his new vantage point, Trebol saw something terrifying in the night sky.
A bolt of lightning — no, a beam — thick and blinding, surged down from the heavens like the wrath of an angry god. It crackled with divine fury, and its destination was clear: the palace.
Specifically, him.
Trebol couldn't even move. His limbs were numb, his body spent.
He stared up, eyes wide.
"Oh, dear Doffy," he mumbled, barely above a whisper. "I think I really screwed up."
And then the lightning struck.
Everything was obliterated.
…
"I cannot believe what you did to our territory," Giolla snarled, fury burning in her eyes. She glared at the two women before her like they were personal insults brought to life.
One was blonde, with small wings fluttering behind her back — deceptively delicate. The other had light pink hair and a presence so commanding, it felt like gravity bent around her.
"Hina finally gets a good fight," the pink-haired woman grinned, cracking her knuckles.
Giolla returned the grin, hers far more twisted. "Oh, honey, there won't be a fight. Not a long one, anyway. I can smell how green you are. This is the New World — you're out of your depth."
Around them, a small army of Doflamingo Family subordinates circled — at least two hundred strong. Each one smirking like they'd already won.
Giolla raised her hand dramatically as a swirling, colorful cloud began to form above her palm.
"Become art, you miscrea—"
CRACK!
Her sentence was cut short — and her face was smashed into the dirt with brutal force.
Standing over her, foot still planted on the back of her skull, was a woman in a flowing flamenco dress. Viola. Her heels came down again. And again. And again — each stomp driving Giolla's head deeper into the ground until only a frazzled mop of hair was visible above the dust.
"Damn," Viola exhaled, stepping off the living crater she'd created. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to stomp that ugly face into the earth."
"Viola!" Hina barked. "You can't just steal Hina's fights!"
But before Viola could respond, everything changed.
Conis's eyes lit up — literally. Lightning surged from her pupils like stormclouds given form.
A ring of raw electricity spun around her slender frame, humming with power. It grew, expanding outward in a blinding flash — then exploded in a perfect 360-degree arc.
Every enemy in sight was vaporized in an instant.
Smoke curled through the air. The battlefield fell silent.
Viola and Hina stared, jaws slack, at the sudden absence of enemies.
"CONIS!" Hina screamed, her voice cracking. "YOU COULDN'T HAVE LEFT SOME FOR HINA?!"
Conis blinked, putting a hand to her lips in mock innocence. "Oh! I'm so sorry." Then she extended a finger. On it was a tiny, almost invisible cut. A single drop of blood shimmered.
"But look!" she added sweetly. "You can heal me!"
"AAAAAAAAAARRRGGHHHHHHHH!"
It was in that moment — as her voice echoed through the smoking ruins — that the proud warrior Hina finally, completely, and utterly lost her mind.
…
"I have to admit, Bull..." Thunder Soldier muttered, glancing at the mighty creature beside him. "These people are alarmingly efficient at kidnapping."
Before them stretched a chaotic sea of thousands of toys — all sentient, all screaming, cursing, rattling with frustration — and all neatly rounded up in record time.
"MOOOOOOO!"
"Oh — right, right," Soldier nodded. "Ezio named you Ucy. I'll stick with that. You've earned the dignity."
Ucy lifted his chin proudly and let out a more contented "Mooo."
Just then, Rebecca appeared, a grim expression on her face. "We've got a new order. Ghosty sent another letter." She handed over the parchment, its edges still faintly glowing with whatever magic Ghosty liked to use for dramatic flair.
Thunder Soldier took it, unfolded it, and read in silence. Then sighed — long and deeply.
"What is wrong with Plot Armor United?" he groaned. "Another kidnapping mission?!"
"MOOOO?!" Ucy bellowed in disbelief.
"It's not Plot Armor United anymore," Rebecca corrected. "They're going by The Misfortune Society now. Rebranding or something. Who's the unlucky target this time?"
Ucy snorted in frustration, stomping one hoof.
"They want us to kidnap... civilians," Thunder Soldier said slowly. "Ordinary citizens — but all of them have something in common. Each one has lost someone close to them. A mother, a son, a brother, a wife... always under mysterious circumstances."
"MOOOOOOOOOO!"
"I know, Ucy," Rebecca said, narrowing her eyes. "Smells like a conspiracy to me too."
"And they're trying to frame it as part of that ridiculous Bad Luck Redistribution Program again," Soldier added, folding the letter. "You know — BLRP."
"BLRP was already rejected unanimously by the organization!" Rebecca snapped. "You can't just say redistribution and pretend it's not kidnapping!"
"MOOO!"
"Yes, BLRP is still a terrible acronym!" Rebecca huffed.
"Back to the point," Soldier said, trying to stay focused. "They want us to capture every single person on this list. All people marked by tragedy. But they won't tell us why."
The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of the request sinking in.
"Well," Rebecca finally said, cracking her knuckles, "at least we've got the full support of the Tontatta Kingdom. If anyone can steal people without being noticed, it's these little guys."
They turned to watch the dozens of Tontatta soldiers nimbly darting through the crowd, effortlessly roping up and stacking animated toys like a well-rehearsed circus act.
"Moooo?" Ucy tilted his head.
"Yes, Ucy," Thunder Soldier said, grimly thoughtful. "We're definitely in too deep."
It was at that moment Gatz, Tonta-Chief Gacho, and former King Riku Doldo returned — each of them lugging several screaming, wriggling toys like overworked babysitters at the end of their rope.
"Mission complete!" Gatz panted, a triumphant grin on his face as a toy knight tried to bite his ankle.
"My bones are officially on strike," King Riku muttered, rubbing his back. "This is not how I imagined my retirement."
"I must say," Gacho added, adjusting his oversized helmet, "whether it's stealing shiny trinkets or screaming toys, the technique's pretty much the same."
Before they could celebrate further, Thunder Soldier stepped forward with a grim look, holding up a crumpled letter glowing faintly at the edges.
"Hate to spoil the moment," he said, voice heavy, "but I've got bad news."
When the three old men heard the new orders, they stared at the letter in stunned silence — as if the words themselves had personally insulted their sanity.
"WHAT IS THIS PLAN?!" Gatz exploded. "ARE THEY TRYING TO STEAL THE ENTIRE POPULATION OUT FROM UNDER DOFLAMINGO?!"
King Riku just blinked. "At this point, why not take the buildings too? Maybe the weather while we're at it."
Tonta-Chief Gacho slumped to the ground. "I miss the days when stealing meant shiny coins and unattended snacks…"
"Mooooo," Ucy sighed, with the weary exhale of a bull who had seen too much.