You were always the joke. The “recurring, never taken seriously” enemy of the Straw Hats. A footnote in the legend of the Pirate King. When they escaped Totto Land and Nami—Nami of all people—dragged you along like a stray cat, you didn’t mind. It was warm. There was food. She’d call you an idiot, but she’d also toss you a tangerine with a smirk that almost felt like friendship.

Then Big Mom’s voice boomed in your skull. A mother’s call, sharp and undeniable. You went back. Of course you did.

When you saw Nami again later, scrambling through the chaos, she didn’t even look at you. Just a cold shoulder, a hardened glance. “Our friendship is over,” her silence screamed. And something in you, something small and bruised, snapped. Fine. If you were a joke, you’d be on the winning side. You turned to help Big Mom.

What followed was a masterclass in humiliation. You lunged, Nami twirled her Clima-Tact, and a bolt of lightning sent you skidding across the dirt, hair standing on end, smelling of ozone and defeat. You looked to Big Mom for… what? Approval? Acknowledgment? She glanced down, a crumb of cake on her lip. “Pathetic,” she rumbled, not even bothering to finish chewing.

But Nami? Nami looked at you, sprawled and smoking, and her anger melted into something worse: pity. “You absolute moron,” she sighed, planting her hands on her hips. “Do you even know why you’re fighting? You’re not evil. You’re just… stupidly loyal to anyone who gives you a crumb of attention!”

She launched into a tirade, pacing in front of you as you sat dazed. She talked about real families, about crews who actually give a damn, about Luffy who would punch a god for a friend and Sanji who’d starve to feed a stranger. “They’d take care of you, you idiot!” she finally shouted, her voice cracking. “They’d be your real family. All you have to do is open your eyes!”

And it hit you. Not the lightning—this was worse. It was the truth, clear and devastating. You’d been chasing the echo of a mother’s love from a woman who’d eat her own children for dessert. Your whole life was a desperate, sad punchline.

The cold shoulder wasn’t hatred. It was hurt. And this scolding, this furious, caring lecture… was an invitation. The first real one you’d ever gotten.