The transponder snail squats on Haigo's desk like a fat, gray toad, its shell polished to a dull sheen, its eyes half-lidded with reptilian boredom. The receiver in Haigo's hand feels warm against his palm—warm from the voice crackling through it, from the laughter that rumbles like distant thunder.
"—and I'm telling you, cousin, the market for Wapometal is going to triple once the word gets out that the World Government's stockpiles are up for grabs. Every two-bit warlord and would-be emperor is going to want a piece."
Doflamingo's voice pours through the snail's mouth, rich and theatrical even through the tinny distortion. Haigo can picture him on the other end—sprawled across some velvet chaise on Bootleg Island, his pink feather coat draped over the furniture like a molting bird, his sunglasses reflecting the light of a dozen candles.
"The Wapometal is already secured," Haigo replies, his baritone measured, unhurried. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "Three shipments. Two via the old Marine routes, one through the underground tunnels beneath Water 7. The forgers on Caldera Island are already preparing the molds."
"Caldera." Doflamingo tastes the word like a fine wine. "The volcanic island. I've heard stories about that place, cousin. Men who go there come back... quieter."
"They come back paid, Doffy. That's what matters."
A laugh—sharp, bright, the sound of a man who has never once doubted his place in the world. "Paid and silent. My favorite kind of business partner."
Haigo's lips curve. The Donquixote ring on his finger turns inward, pressed against his palm. A small motion. A private ritual.
"The raw materials are moving through the usual channels," he continues, his free hand reaching for the teacup at his elbow. The liquid inside has gone cold, but he drinks anyway—bitter and herbal, the kind of tea that clears the mind. "Iron from the mines beneath Caldera's northern range. Sulfur ash from the volcanic vents. The weaponsmiths on Bootleg should have everything they need within the month."
"Do you hear that?" Doflamingo's voice drops, conspiratorial. "That's the sound of my empire rebuilding itself. One shipment at a time. One deal at a time." A pause. "I've missed this, Haigo. The game. The dance."
"The dance never stopped. You were simply... between partners."
Another laugh, this one softer. "You always know what to say. That's why you're my favorite."
Haigo sets the teacup down. The porcelain clicks against the saucer—a small, measured sound.
"I have information for you," Doflamingo says, and the shift in his tone is immediate—the theatrical warmth cooling into something harder, something that glints like a blade in shadows. "About the Hitotsume."
Haigo's fingers still on the teacup's handle.
"They would make better partners than enemies, I think."
The words hang in the air. Haigo turns them over in his mind—examining every angle, every implication, every shadow they cast.
"I agree." His voice gives nothing away. "And as long as they cooperate, they may very well become partners."
"Do you hear yourself, cousin?" Doflamingo's tone sharpens with something that might be warning or might be amusement. "You sound like a man who's already made up his mind."
"Have I?"
"You've freed one of them. Given her an avatar. A vessel." The snail's eyes sharpen, reflecting Doflamingo's unseen gaze. "You won't be able to control that thing once it's close."
Haigo leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. The candlelight shifting in the gray rings around his irises—visible for just a moment before he tilts his head and the shadows swallow them again.
"This is true." He concedes the point without flinching. "However—once we have what we want, they will be a vulnerable nation in need of... support."
Silence.
Then Doflamingo laughs—a full, rolling sound that shakes the snail's shell. "I like how you think, cousin. Go in for the kill and be their savior once they're crippled."
Haigo's grin is thin and sharp. "Exactly, cousin."
"You're a monster, you know that?"
"I learned from the best."
Doflamingo's laughter subsides into a satisfied hum. "I have that intel for you. The location of Papaho Island."
Haigo's hand moves to the map spread across his desk—a chart of the new world's fractured seas, marked with notations in his own careful script. "I'm listening."
"It won't be easy to get to. The seas around it are treacherous—not the Calm Belt, obviously, that's gone—but the waters there are still violent. Unpredictable currents. Reefs that shift with the tectonic activity." Doflamingo pauses, and Haigo hears the rustle of paper on the other end. "The island itself is a fortress. Donut-shaped. Outer ring's frozen solid, inner ring's a tropical paradise. The whole thing's built around a trench so deep it might as well be bottomless. The Hitotsume's down there—Aura, they call her."
"The Hitosume of Memory."
"Memory. History. The past." Doflamingo's voice carries a note of genuine interest. "She eats it, apparently. The whole island lives in fear of her getting loose."
Haigo's eyes trace the empty space on his map where Papaho should be. "And the defenses?"
"Aside from the geography? They've got a spear. Big one. Called Vithar—supposedly a living weapon, consumed some kind of mythical Zoan. It's embedded in the highest peak, pinning the Hitosume down through sheer metaphysical weight."
"A living weapon."
"The 'God of the Iron Shoe.' Their words, not mine."
Haigo's fingers drum once against the desk—a slow, thoughtful rhythm. "Interesting."
"That's one word for it."
"It won't be easy to get to, though." Haigo repeats Doflamingo's earlier assessment, turning it over. "That's quite alright. We're an airship, after all."
Doflamingo belts out a laugh—loud enough that the transponder snail winces. "So true! I keep forgetting you've got that floating fortress of yours. Must be nice, looking down on the world from up there."
"It has its advantages."
"I'll bet it does." A pause. "I look forward to cleaning up the pieces once it's done."
Haigo's hand hovers over the transponder snail. "You'll be the first to know."
"I better be." Doflamingo's voice softens—just slightly, just enough. "Be careful, Haigo. The Hitotsume aren't like us. They don't play by the same rules."
"Neither do I."
The snail's eyes droop. The connection severs with a soft click.
Haigo sits in the silence for a long moment, his fingers resting on the cold porcelain of his teacup. The candle on his desk gutters—a draft from somewhere, perhaps, or simply the weight of the conversation settling over the room.
He rises.