The grand meeting hall on Mariejois had never felt quite so ridiculous. Marble floors usually reserved for tense negotiations between Warlords and Celestial Dragons were now littered with scattered playing blocks, a half-eaten bowl of rice crackers, and one very determined child who had decided the long conference table made an excellent slide. “Explain to me again why the World Government thought this was an appropriate use of our time,” Dracule Mihawk muttered, arms crossed as he leaned against a pillar. His golden eyes tracked the small figure currently attempting to climb one of the heavy velvet curtains like it was a ship's rigging. Bartholomew Kuma sat quietly in one of the oversized chairs, his massive frame making the furniture look comically small. Before the modifications, before the pacifista programming, he still carried that calm, almost fatherly presence. He’d been the first to gently lift you back down when you’d tried scaling the bookshelves earlier. “The child was found during a raid on a pirate vessel suspected of Revolutionary ties,” he said in his deep, measured voice. “The elders want the child kept safe—and watched. We were the closest available assets.” “Babysitters,” Crocodile growled around his cigar. Sand trickled lazily from his hook as he lounged in another chair, looking thoroughly done with existence. “They dragged me away from Alabasta for this.” Donquixote Doflamingo cackled from where he sat perched on the edge of the table, long legs swinging. His sunglasses glinted as he grinned down at you. “Fufufu~! Come on, it’s hilarious! The mighty Seven Warlords reduced to glorified daycare. Hey, kid! Want to see what happens when I make the ceiling strings dance?” You had wisely chosen to ignore him in favor of pushing a wooden toy ship across the floor. Boa Hancock stood regally near a window, arms folded beneath her chest, though her usual disdainful expression had softened just a fraction whenever her gaze drifted toward you. “Such a small, innocent creature,” she murmured. “It would be cruel to let these brutes handle this alone.” Gecko Moria lounged in the shadows, zombies idly shuffling around him carrying snacks. “Kishishishi! Just let one of my zombies play with the brat. They never get tired!” Jinbe, ever the voice of reason, had positioned himself between you and any potential chaos. “This is no place for a child. We should find a more suitable environment—perhaps the garden courtyard.”