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Chapter Text

“No. Absolutely not.”
They had decided the meeting would take place in the Sunny’s Galley. Reiju had suggested it. The princess probably thought that meeting in a place favorable to Sanji would make him more amenable to her request.
Evidently, I was wrong, the young woman thought.
Sanji sat in front of her with his arms crossed.
“You get crowned. You’re as much a Vinsmoke as I am. Even more than me, in fact.”
“The constitution forbids it, little brother.”
Sanji’s eyes widened, and he burst out laughing.
“Germa has a constitution? Isn’t Germa’s constitution just that the Vinsmokes do whatever the hell they want?”
Reiju sighed, composed.
“I’m afraid not, Sanji. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here asking you to assume the regency.”
Commodore Standish, a blank-faced man with bristly white hair, spoke up.
“Mr. Vinsmoke—”
“Sanji. Black Leg Sanji, if we’re really going to be formal. And anyway, we’ll talk about that bounty poster crap later.”
Standish clenched his fists.
“Sanji. It would be a temporary solution. The disappearance of your father and your brothers—”
“Of Judge Vinsmoke and his sons. Commodore Standish, if you want to win my favor, you’ll have to try a little harder.”
The man leaned forward, resting on the table.
“I have the authority to order your immediate execution. If we don’t cooperate, it will be considered self-defense.”
Sanji’s gaze hardened, and as Zoro reached for his katana, Luffy touched his hat.
“Go ahead. Try me..”
Reiju slammed her hand on the table.
“Everyone calm down, please. This is serious. And it seems only I understand that.”
The others fell silent. Apart from Sanji, who kept his eyes fixed on his sister, the other participants in the meeting looked down in frowns.

It had all started three days earlier, with Reiju’s voice coming from a den den mushi.
“Sanji! I’ve been looking for you for a week. I have a serious problem.”
“Have you finally decided to leave Germa?”
A snort came from the other side.
“No. Sanji, our father… Judge… he’s disappeared.”
Sanji’s first thought went to Zeff.
“What do you mean he’s disappeared?”
“It means he’s disappeared. Him and the others. Ichiji, Niji, Yonji. Gone.”
Sanji closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. He lowered the heat so the stew wouldn’t burn. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Sanji, Judge and the others have been gone for about a month. I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t really need you.”
“What do you need?”
“I’d rather explain in person. On your ship. Where are you?”
“I want to discuss it with Luffy first.”
“Call him, have him come there. Sanji, this is serious.”
Sanji covered his eyes for a few seconds.
Just then, Luffy burst in like a whirlwind, shouting about getting a dinner preview. When he saw Sanji, his enthusiasm faded. Reiju’s voice crackled again through the den den mushi..
“Luffy, is that you? Where are you?”

They arranged to meet near the island the crew had settled on a couple of days earlier. The Straw Hats not involved in the meeting were out gathering supplies.
It was agreed that Luffy would attend the meeting with Reiju. Sanji had insisted. And when Zoro said he wanted to be there too, Sanji hadn’t objected.
Problems started right away: the skiff Reiju arrived on was escorted by a small Navy ship, and when she stepped onto the deck accompanied by a man who introduced himself as Commodore Standish, Sanji refused to let them aboard the Sunny.
Reiju turned to Luffy.
“There’s nothing to worry about. You’re already under amnesty. Luffy, would you mind telling my brother to be reasonable?”
Sanji stood with his arms crossed.
“You didn’t say the Marines were involved.”
Standish intervened.
“It’s actually the World Government.”
Sanji and Luffy exchanged a look. Sanji’s was worried, while Luffy’s eyes lit up with excitement. Sanji sighed. Luffy looked like he could barely contain himself.
“Come on board! Now I really want to hear this!”
“You try anything weird and I’ll slice your head off,” Zoro warned.
So they entered, sat down, and Reiju got straight to the point.
Sanji had to assume the regency of Germa.
The cook’s answer came instantly.
“No. Absolutely not.”

“Little brother, listen to me. You know I wouldn’t ask unless I were completely desperate. It’s just until we change the law that bars women from taking the regency. The Constitutional Council is already in session, and I’m working on them. I have three members in favor. There are four more, and I need at least two of them. But for now, we need a king.”
“Sanji,” Standish said, “The disappearance of your fa— of Judge Vinsmoke has created a power vacuum that affects more than just Germa. We are actively searching for him. But we need to maintain order. And the only one who can do that is you. The Straw Hats will remain under amnesty for the duration of your regency.”
Sanji rested his elbows on the table, keeping his eyes on his sister.
“The truth is that Judge Vinsmoke and his sons are plotting something. And the World Government is involved.”
“Sanji—”
“And what’s more, the Straw Hats have made a name and a reputation for themselves. The Straw Hats are a nuisance. And you’re taking advantage of the ass-end of the chain”—and as he said these words, Sanji pointed his thumb at his chest—“to divide the crew. And you, dear sister, you’ve been tricked.”
Reiju’s gaze hardened.
“Alright. If you want the hard way, you’ll get the hard way. You will be the temporary regent. And you will be because you owe me.”
Sanji’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“What do you mean I owe you?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“Furthermore,” Standish interjected again, “if we don’t reach an agreement, the amnesty immediately falls. Which means your comrades on the island, monitored by ours, will be killed instantly. And the same for you three. You already have guns pointed at your temples. And I’m not speaking metaphorically.” The man turned his gaze to Luffy. “You invited me to try, Straw Hat. Well, know that I never try. I just do.”
“And what if I kill you before you can give any order?” Zoro asked with a growl.
“If the snipers stationed around here see me die, the order will be carried out automatically.”
“Nice deal,” Sanji snapped. “Pure Vinsmoke style. Bravo, Reiju. Well done.”
Sanji covered his face with his hands. He remained motionless for a few seconds. Then he sprang to his feet.
“I don’t seem to have much choice. But this time, I want to play it safe. I don’t want a second Whole Cake Island. I want my comrades to come with me to Germa. All of them, without exception. And I also want the members of the Baratie to be put in total safety. In fact, bring Red Leg Zeff to Germa, and if even a hair on anyone else’s head is harmed… trust me, the World Government isn’t ready for the consequences.”
“Shishishishi!!” Luffy exploded.
Reiju’s gaze softened a little.
“Alright. You, Sanji, come with me, and the others will join us later.”
“No,” Sanji replied. “The Marimo comes with me. And in the meantime, you give us the coordinates. If Luffy and the others don’t reach us within one day, Germa will no longer exist. Seriously.”
No one had anything to say.

On deck, when they parted, Luffy had a serious expression.
Sanji offered a faint smile.
“I’m sorry, Captain. But I swear, this time it’ll be better.”
A smile spread across the captain’s face.
“I know. And anyway, we’ll see each other tomorrow morning at the latest. You’ll see, Sanji, we’ll have a lot of fun!”

“Why the hell did you want me to come?”
“I’ll explain when we get there, Marimo. When we can talk alone.”
Zoro opened his mouth to retort but then closed it. The launch wasn’t very big, and the situation was what it was. They couldn’t risk being overheard.
Sanji kept a focused eye on Standish and his sister. The two were talking animatedly, their backs to him. Sanji stood next to Zoro, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I don’t know how much you know about Whole Cake Island,” he murmured under his breath.
“I don’t know the details. I just know it was a mess.”
“It wasn’t a mess. I made a mess. I was a piece of trash.”
“You’re always a piece of trash.”
Sanji snorted through his nose and lowered his head.
“But I won’t repeat the mistake. This time I want to be careful.”
“You better not—”
“They’re watching us.”
Reiju had turned towards them and smiled. She moved away from Standish, who had by then picked up a Den Den Mushi and gone out onto the deck, and headed towards them.
“So you’re Roronoa-kun,” she said, looking him up and down. “I’m sorry to make your acquaintance under these circumstances.”
Zoro responded with a grunt and looked away.
Reiju turned to her brother.
“There are no tricks, Sanji. Really. No hidden plans.”
Sanji looked towards Standish, who was still talking on the den den mushi.
“That’s what you say.”
“You just need to give me time to convince two people to change a puppet constitution, Sanji—”
“You say that like it’s a joke.”
“And the amnesty is real. Standish is already working to bring Red Leg Zeff to Germa. Your friends will join us this evening. I am who I am, but I don’t want to harm you. Or your friends.”
Sanji’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his eyes remained vigilant.
“Explain what I need to do.”
Reiju squeezed his shoulder.
“Not here. In Germa. We’re almost there.”
Standish had ended his call and was looking towards the horizon. The large gray walls of the naval kingdom were still distant but already imposing.
“So this is Germa,” Zoro commented.
“Home sweet home,” Sanji mumbled.

Chapter Text

When they entered Germa’s main castle, Zoro’s first thought was that this place was a perfect representation of hell: corridors, more corridors, corridors that led to other corridors; and all of them looked exactly the same.
“Don’t worry,” the cook whispered, walking beside him and behind Reiju and Standish. “Even a normal person would get lost in here. That’s the point.”
Zoro grunted and placed a hand on one of his swords.
“I was surprised to learn there even was a constitution,” Reiju was saying, turning now and then to look back at them. “From what I gathered, it was written by a council member you'll meet later. Father just made a few edits—like the clause on succession: only one of the male children can inherit the throne. Of course, no one ever actually followed the constitution. It never served any real purpose. Honestly, I think Father had it drafted just to avoid trouble with the World Government. But unfortunately, it does exist, and since Father disappeared without giving any instructions, here comes the problem of regency. I think he did it that way because I’m a prototype, while the others turned out exactly as he wanted. Except you.”
“Except me,” Sanji agreed.
“Still, it’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” Reiju continued lightly, glancing at her brother. “That your presence ends up being the decisive factor whenever there’s a problem. The wedding at Whole Cake Island, and now this.”
“Hilarious,” the cook muttered.
Zoro didn’t fully understand what was going on, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t have observation Haki as sharp as the cook’s, but it was obvious the idiot was tense as a drawn bowstring. His posture was upright, but his legs were stiff and his face as gray as the walls. He looked around like everything was speaking to him, struggling not to hunch his shoulders. Zoro felt that tension creeping into him too, and he was about to say something when, suddenly, Sanji stopped, staring down at a corner of the hallway. Then he pointed toward a stain.
“You kept it as a souvenir?”
Reiju halted and turned to look at the spot the cook had indicated.
“I remember this,” he went on, looking at his sister with a polite, almost casual tone. “The others smashed my head against that wall, betting on whether I’d manage to crack it. We were five years old, if I recall correctly. You bet I’d manage it on the fourth try, pushed by Yonji, but I passed out on the third. I never apologized for ruining your party.”
Reiju’s gaze hardened, while Zoro was more confused than ever. What the hell is going on? he wondered, eyes darting between them.
“I can’t change the past, little brother,” Reiju said, voice dry.
“But you could at least have had it repainted, for fuck’s sake.” Sanji replied sweetly.

Finally, after yet another corridor, they stopped in front of a door.
“Unfortunately, we weren’t expecting any other guests besides my brother,” Reiju announced, “so we had to improvise. Still, you should both be comfortable enough. The meeting with the council is in an hour, and—”
Sanji raised an arm, casting a dark look at Standish and his sister.
“Hold your horses. Until the others are here, I’m not doing shit.”
Reiju let out an exasperated sigh.
“The others will be here in two hours, tops,” said Standish curtly. “Red Leg Zeff will arrive by tomorrow evening.”
“Then the council meeting will be in two hours. And anyway, I need to be presentable, right? And I didn’t bring anything with me.”
“I’ve already had suitable clothes prepared. For your friend…”
“We’re not friends,” Zoro interjected.
“… or whatever he is,” Reiju continued, “Yonji’s clothes should fit well enough. If needed, the tailors can make adjustments later.”
Sanji forced a thin smile.
“Then we’ll see each other as soon as the others arrive.”
“We’ll see you in two hours,” Reiju said quietly. Then she passed a hand over her eyes. “Give me a little trust, Sanji.”
Sanji responded with a dry laugh. Then he opened the door and led Zoro into the room. He followed and slammed the door in Standish and Reiju’s faces.

“Shit. She really thought this through,” the cook hissed.
Zoro took a moment to look around the room. It was massive, with a high, elegantly understated ceiling. In the middle stood an enormous four-poster bed, while on one side was a simpler cot, clearly added at the last minute. Zoro headed toward a door, which opened into a bright marble bathroom with a large tub and a beautiful shower with multiple showerheads.
“You can take the bed. The cot is more than enough for me,” Sanji said.
Zoro turned toward him and saw that he was staring into the wardrobe. He walked over and saw rows of finely tailored jackets and uniforms. Even the clothes meant for him—larger than the cook’s—were clearly high-quality.
“These clothes aren’t great for fighting,” the swordsman commented.
“We’ll talk to the tailors tomorrow morning. Right now, what matters is that the others arrive safe and sound. Anyway, I’m going to take a shower. Then it’s your turn. The meeting’s in two hours.”
“In two hours you have a meeting, cook. I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. I’d be more useful with Luffy.”
Sanji closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.
Zoro stepped closer.
“Listen, I don’t know what the hell this place is, and frankly I don’t give a shit. It’s your business. But the others…”
“You’re here because you’re the only one who can stop me, if it comes to that,” Sanji said flatly, avoiding eye contact.
Zoro narrowed his eyes, grabbed the cook’s shirt collar, and turned him sharply to face him.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Sanji let out a faint smirk.
“Damn, it’s so much easier to say this through a Den Den Mushi…”
“Cook. Talk.”
“What almost happened in Wano… it’s not out of the question that it could happen here.”
Zoro let go of him abruptly and waited.
Sanji’s face was blotchy.
“I might lose myself.”
“I still don’t get what the hell was supposed to happen in Wano, but—”
“What happened was that I could’ve stopped being who I am… and turned into the kind of person who used to bash my head into that wall.”
Zoro swallowed. It sounded ridiculous.
“You mean you could turn into a raging asshole like your sister? You’re not that far off.”
The cook didn’t respond to the insult—and that bothered Zoro. In fact, his face took on a melancholic look.
“Not quite like her. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Then make it simple.”
The cook looked down, thoughtful. Zoro watched him, hands in his pockets. Finally, Sanji looked back at the swordsman. His gaze was clear and determined.
“You need to keep watch over me, Zoro. Keep an eye on me. Make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”
“So, same as always.”
Sanji gave a crooked grin.
“What matters is that you… do what you have to, if it comes to that.”
“Kick your ass and knock some sense into you? Sounds good.”
Sanji was silent for a few seconds.
“You might have to do… something else.”
Zoro gave him a doubtful look.
“Does Luffy know about this? Because I never told him anything.”
“I’m thinking about telling him. If I start suspecting something’s happening. But I need to know you’re on my side.”
“I’m on the crew’s side.”
“Perfect. That’s all I’m asking.”
Zoro’s discomfort grew. He felt like he needed a drink.
“There’s a fridge next to the bed,” the cook said, as if he had read his mind. “Help yourself. I’m going to wash up.”

Sanji was finishing getting ready while Zoro gazed out the window.
“Cook!”
Sanji stepped out. He had showered carefully, shaved, and wore a shirt and trousers.
Zoro gestured for him to come to the window, and Sanji obeyed. In the distance, they could see the Thousand Sunny docking at one of Germa’s ports. Sanji held his breath and only exhaled once he’d seen that all of his crewmates had disembarked, greeted by his sister and a couple of clones.
Where’s Standish? he wondered, hoping the man was already in the council chamber.
Still, Sanji decided, his sister had shown some goodwill.
Now it was his turn.
“Come on, let’s get ready, Mosshead. The meeting is in an hour.”

Chapter Text

Reiju knocked, and when Sanji opened the door to the room, the young woman, dressed in a simple, yet elegant formal outfit, scrutinized her brother carefully. Sanji wore a double-breasted black suit, paired with a dark red shirt and a matching black tie. Zoro had opted for a light blue shirt and loose-fitting trousers.
“That'll do,” Reiju commented. “Maybe tomorrow we can think about adjusting the swordsman's wardrobe. I have the impression he prefers softer cuts.”
“Shall we go?” Sanji asked flatly.
Reiju nodded and once again led the way.
“Your friends arrived safe and sound, by the way. I told them you’ll see each other at dinner.”
“I saw from the window. Where’s Standish?”
“He complained of a slight headache. I believe he’ll join us for dinner as well.”
“And you believe that? Seriously?”
Reiju sighed.
“Frankly, I’m relieved. I don’t like him attending our meetings. We already have someone handling relations with the World Government, and that’s Ludwig Schnell, one of Father's senior officers. He’s on my side, of course. The others are Cassius Blox and Francis Tulip, two new scientists from Father’s team. Very competent. I promised them complete freedom in their experiments.”
Sanji sighed.
“So who are we working on?”
“We don’t have to work on anyone. It’s just a matter of reaffirming that I am perfectly capable of leading as Father did, that I possess his leadership skills, and that things will basically remain the same.. All you need to do is nod, sign papers, and help me make sure things go the way they’re supposed to.”
“So I’m a puppet. Like in Whole Cake Island.”
Reiju chuckled.
“Something like that. Only here you don’t have to get married, and in the end, you can just go back to your ship..”
Sanji felt a lump rise in his throat and swallowed it down.
“At least you have the decency not to pretend otherwise. I’m grateful for that.”
They stopped in front of an ornate door, richly decorated with scenes of legendary battles. There, Reiju turned to face her brother.
“Look, I know you don’t like this and you’re not interested. But let’s try to handle things properly.. In the end, it’s just a bureaucratic matter. If all goes as planned, within a week you and your friends will go back to your lives, and I’ll have the regency. And when Father returns—maybe—if I prove myself capable, and I will, I might even convince him to make me queen.”
Sanji looked at his sister for a few seconds.
Reiju smiled and opened the door.
They entered.

They were the first to arrive, and Zoro had decided he wouldn’t take his eyes off the cook. After all, he had been asked to. First, he followed him to the head of a long table, in front of a seat piled with bundles of documents. He leaned against the wall behind him, watching him idly flip through a file, while taking in the room.
Like the bedroom, this room exuded a restrained, almost austere wealth. The walls were the same gray as the corridors, except here they were adorned with paintings. It was a curious mix: scenes of battle interspersed with large portraits. In one, he recognized Sanji’s sister; in another, a large man with a mustache and a mask over his face. Then three other boys with stupid, cocky expressions. Toward the back, there was a smaller, simpler painting with a black ribbon, depicting a shy, smiling blond child.
Zoro was intrigued, but Sanji’s sister muttered, “Oh, shit,” she hurried to remove it, and tucked it away.. Sanji let out a sigh and straightened up in his chair.
Then, the council members began to arrive.
The first to enter were two elderly men with disdainful postures, who exchanged warm pleasantries with Reiju. They gave Sanji a curious and suspicious glance—he seemed still engrossed in his folder—then looked around.
“Is there something different about this room?”
“My beloved sister and future regent removed the painting that commemorated my untimely demise. You know, the one from the state funeral. Since I’m here, I guess it’s no longer needed,” Sanji answered casually.
Zoro couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, but otherwise kept his composure.
“I’m Sanji,” the cook continued simply, without standing up and offering a hand that the two quickly shook. “Prince, king, pirate, regent, cook—take your pick.”
Reiju frowned slightly, and Zoro barely held back a laugh.
“I’m Caspar Goodwin. Former Commander-in-Chief. I helped found Germa, and I’m one of the authors of its Constitution,” the taller man introduced himself.
“The one that was useless until it stopped my sister from taking the regency and got me dragged here?”
Goodwin offered a tight-lipped smile.
“I didn’t add that clause.”
“And you really can’t do anything about it?”
“I’m Ludwig Schnell,” the other man interrupted, offering no further qualifications and dropping the matter. Both men sat and glanced at Zoro with interest.
“He’s…” muttered Goodwin.
“Yes,” Sanji cut in. “I imagine you know his name and bounty.”
“We know yours as well, sire,” Schnell added suggestively.
“Oh, so it’s sire now. Good to know,” Sanji replied, going back to his file.
Goodwin cleared his throat.
“Why is he here, sire? Is he acting as your bodyguard?”
“Something like that.” Sanji turned to Zoro. “What do you say, Zoro? Can we call it that?”
Zoro was about to respond with one of his usual wisecracks when he caught his companion’s gaze—those were the eyes of someone heading into a life-or-death battle—so he held back.
“Not entirely wrong.”
The two sat down, saying nothing more.

Four more members arrived in dribs and drabs, and the same scene repeated.
“I’m Sanji,” the cook simply said to each one who came before him.
The last to enter was met with skepticism.
He was a tall man with a tight mask covering the upper part of his face and strange dark goggles. He also wore odd headphones and had a scar on his lower face. A simple black suit, combined with the rest, gave him a vaguely unsettling look.
“Pryx, so you're joining us too,” one of the scientists commented with irritation.
“Obviously,” came the reply. His voice was odd too—toneless and monotonous.
Though Sanji had his back to him, Zoro got the impression he was intrigued by the newcomer.
“Pryx?” Sanji repeated.
"Regent Sanji,” Pryx greeted with a slight nod. “Surprised to see a clone on the council?”
“It would be strange if I weren’t. Pleasantly surprised, I should add.”
The whole council bristled. Reiju glared at her brother.
“He was imposed by the World Government,” Schnell explained with disgust. “Since most of our population is made up of clones, they deemed it necessary that they be represented. Pryx is one of the oldest—possibly the oldest—so he was chosen.”
“So even the World Government can come up with good ideas. The world really is full of surprises,” Sanji replied dryly. “Shall we begin?”

“I want to make it clear right away,” the cook declared, “that my presence here is purely bureaucratic: to fill the void left by the sudden disappearance of Judge Vinsmoke and his sons. My role is simply to keep things stable until Germa’s rightful regent can perform her duties.”
Zoro would never admit it out loud—least of all to that curly-browed idiot—but damn, he was good.
Curly seemed born for this crap, Zoro said to himself.
“That said, let’s move on to the agenda, whatever it may be. I don't even know what it is—I arrived about three hours ago”
“Then I suppose,” began a blond man with glasses, “your sister didn’t brief you on the war with—”
“It’s not a war, Counselor Aokiri,” Reiju interrupted. “It’s a rebellion at an outpost—”
“That’s costing us like a war,” Aokiri cut in, rapping his knuckles on the table. “In terms of berries, clones, and tributes.”
“You’re talking about Requiem Citadel?” Sanji asked, picking up the file again.
Aokiri, Goodwin, and a third short, stocky man looked at him with surprise.
“Exactly, sire.”
Zoro thought the word “sire” came with a mocking undertone. He couldn’t see Sanji’s face, but the cook kept his air of relaxation—even though he had started picking at the skin on his thumb.
Damn, Curly hasn’t smoked a cigarette since he got off the Sunny, the swordsman thought.
“Just out of curiosity, when Judge was in power, how were situations like this handled?”
“There wouldn’t have been such situations,” Goodwin replied, somewhat offended. “Judge and his sons would have intervened and resolved it definitively.”
“Crystal clear.”
“Your sister, sire,” Aokiri continued, “told us she could obtain the cooperation of the Strawhat pirates, and now you say you don’t even know the agenda. I find that disturbing. I don’t know how many berries—”
Zoro widened his eyes toward the assembly, looking for Reiju, who had turned crimson. The young woman was staring at her brother with an expression that told Zoro Sanji was giving her the exact look she needed.
“I’m afraid my sister confused The Strawhat crew  with  the Vinsmoke family, counselor. But we are pirates, not mercenaries,” Sanji replied dryly.
“At this point,” Aokiri pressed on, “I must ask why we should amend the constitution in favor of Reiju Vinsmoke, given that—”
“My captain, Monkey D. Luffy, is here in Germa,” Sanji interrupted. “He just arrived, but I believe I can say he’d be happy to join a meeting and discuss the possibility of an intervention.”
The room froze.
“So you, sire, cannot guarantee that—” Goodwin began.
“Here, I’m the regent. On my crew, I’m the cook. Zoro Roronoa, standing behind me, is the First Mate. We could hear his opinion, if you agree.”
Silence fell.
Zoro raised an eyebrow, surprised to be addressed. Sanji had turned toward him, looking rattled.
The swordsman stood still and spoke slowly.
“I think it might be a good idea to talk directly with the captain.”
“Perfect, then,” Sanji concluded in the icy atmosphere.
“This is shameful. Asking pirates for help…” muttered the stocky man.
“Our offer for a meeting can always be withdrawn, if it displeases you,” Sanji said, resting his elbows on the table.
No one said a word.
“Excellent, then,” Sanji concluded. “We reconvene tomorrow at noon.”

The council members got up and left, muttering half-hearted farewells. The last to leave was Pryx, who was gently stopped by Sanji with a hand on his shoulder. The counselor turned toward the cook with an indecipherable expression. Sanji looked at him with an embarrassed, almost reverent gaze, and Zoro felt a wave of unease just watching.
“Councilor Pryx… I wanted to say I’m glad to see you again,” Sanji whispered.
Zoro watched, curious. It seemed like the cook’s eyes were glossy.
“So am I,” the other replied with his hollow voice.
“In a couple of hours, I’ll be preparing dinner for my companions. I already have the menu in mind. I would be honored if you would join us.”
Zoro’s eyes widened, while Reiju looked ready to scream. The princess glanced around to make sure no other council members had witnessed the scene. Fortunately, there were none.
“Gladly,” said Pryx.

Chapter Text

As soon as Pryx left the room, Sanji pulled out the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and took a long, deep drag, like a man dying of thirst drinking cold water on a scorching day. He held the smoke for a few seconds, then exhaled through his nose with his eyes closed and a blissful expression, sighing, “Oh, fuck!” in pure ecstasy.
Zoro’s gaze turned to the princess, who looked like she was about to boil over.
“Would you mind telling me what the hell made you invite him to dinner? And what do you mean you’re cooking? You think Germa doesn’t have chefs?”
Sanji was leaning against the wall—right where his childhood portrait used to hang—and turned toward his sister.
“Is that girl Cosette still the head chef?”
Reiju raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were wide, as if forced to waste time on trivialities when there were far more important matters to attend to.
“I suppose so. I don’t keep track of that stuff.”
“Then I’d better get to work,” replied Sanji, pushing off the wall. “If I remember correctly, Cosette’s pretty good, but I doubt she’s prepared for Luffy’s stomach.”
Without waiting for the others, Sanji strode out of the room and made his way confidently to a large, bright hall, at the center of which stood a long, dark wooden table. He stopped, quickly shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a side table with carelessness, rolled up his sleeves, and walked through a small swinging door. Reiju, stunned, followed him hesitantly, with Zoro bringing up the rear.
They entered a massive, sterile, and empty kitchen. Sanji’s eyes darted around the space. Suddenly, a young woman with hazel eyes and brown hair emerged from a pantry, struggling to carry a heavy pot. Sanji walked straight up to her, took the pot from her arms, and set it down on a nearby counter. The girl wiped her hands on her apron, bowed in thanks, and when she looked up, her hands flew to her mouth in shock.
“Your Majesty!” she squeaked. “What are you doing in here?”
“Call me Sanji, Cosette,” he replied with a warm smile. “I’m here to help you with dinner. You don’t know my captain’s stomach, and I’d hate for you to suffer more trauma on top of what my family has already inflicted. Are you alone? Where’s your brigade?”
Cosette looked around, bewildered. Zoro figured she was probably wondering whether to go along with this unhinged regent or if she should resist. But something in particular caught Zoro’s attention: the cook wasn’t acting like an idiot around her—and he wasn’t even struggling to hold back his usual antics. That was curious. Sure, the girl was thin as a rail and pale as death, but she was still quite pretty, and even someone like Zoro—who rarely paid attention to such things—could tell she had a nice chest under that uniform. All the usual triggers for Sanji’s dramatic antics were there. And yet…
Reiju coughed meaningfully.
“Sanji… would you care to explain what you’re doing?”
He turned to her, removing his tie with a continued smile.
“My job.”
Reiju pressed her lips together and walked away.

It was dusk, and the kitchen peninsula was now covered in serving dishes with meat prepared in at least four different styles. Sanji, Zoro, and Cosette were sipping drinks while two teenage boys, who’d arrived about half an hour earlier, were checking on the dessert and plating the vegetables.
“So those two are your entire brigade?”
“Well, yes,” the girl replied, “But I rarely have to cook so much food, or anything this elaborate.”
“What do you usually make?”
“Oh, simpler dishes, with minimal sauces, so as not to displease the royals and avoid, um…” she trailed off, blushing.
“Punishments,” Sanji finished for her. The two fell silent, eyes on the floor.
While they spoke, Zoro had wandered over to the window, trying to make sense of things.
The only thing he clearly understood was that this place was a hellhole—where children tortured their brother for sport, where the cook had been declared dead even though he wasn’t, where the military force was made up of pre-programmed clones rather than trained soldiers, and where everything was wrong in every direction. On top of that, everyone either looked like shapeless freaks like Pryx or were complete morons like the rest. The swordsman just hoped tomorrow’s meeting wouldn’t drag them deeper into this mess.
“It's about time. What do you say, should we set the table?” Sanji asked Cosette.
“I’ll go wait for the others outside. I want to make sure they’re alright. And I need to talk to Luffy about tomorrow.”
“Any excuse to avoid helping, right Marimo?” Curly muttered as he stood up. “Whatever, do as you like.”
“Like hell I’d take orders from you,” Zoro grumbled as he left the room.
As he exited, Zoro saw the cook handing sweets to the young assistants, who ran off laughing through a side door.

The Straw Hat crew moved together—tense, wary, alert. Reiju had come personally to summon each of them, room by room, accompanied by the man Luffy had called Standish. She greeted Chopper, Nami, and Brook warmly, but an air of unease still lingered.
Or maybe, Nami thought, I’m just overthinking it.
When she had learned everything, Nami hoped Sanji had grown from the Whole Cake Island fiasco—and Luffy had confirmed it.
“This time it’ll actually be fun!” Luffy had said, beaming.
Sure, Luffy wasn’t exactly the most reliable source, but despite the general nerves and a few unresolved oddities, things didn’t seem too bad: she and Robin had been placed in a truly magnificent room.
“Unfortunately, you’ll have to share a bed for the first two nights. We didn’t have time to prepare individual rooms,” Reiju had apologized.
Who cares? Nami had thought. The bed was big enough for four, the sheets were so soft they practically purred, and the bathtub was the size of a pool. Reiju had even promised they’d have tailored outfits made before the whole affair ended.
“You’re our guests,” the princess had said, “and I’ve never had the chance to spend a real girls’ day.”
When they reached the dining hall and Nami spotted Zoro, she had the urge to run to him—but Luffy got there first. The mood lightened, everyone greeted each other, and they finally entered the room.
Sanji wasn’t there yet, but the table was set, and a few serving dishes were already laid out. Luffy lunged for them, but Nami and Usopp managed to restrain him. A moment later, Sanji emerged from the kitchen with a cigarette in his mouth, accompanied by another cook. They carried more food, and the moment Sanji saw his friends, his face lit up. He invited his colleague to set the dishes down, warmly greeted everyone, and made introductions.§
Nami hugged him, grateful that things were going well enough and that they were together again. He returned the hug warmly.
“Sanji-kun,” Nami laughed, “I expected a far warmer welcome from you.”
“Nami-chan, my goddess, I’m devastated. This place drains my will to live and saps the joy of love.”
Slightly disturbed by that reply, Nami laughed nervously. Her unease grew when she saw Sanji’s face light up as he looked toward the back of the room.
"Counselor Pryx! Thank you for coming! Come, let me introduce you to my captain!”
Nami turned and saw that all that enthusiasm was for a well-dressed clone. She couldn’t hide her perplexity.
Instinctively, she looked toward Reiju, who stood beside Standish, watching her brother with irritation. The commodore, meanwhile, looked merely curious.
A group of other clones in basic uniforms and carrying weapons had entered the room.
“Since Father’s disappearance, there have been public order issues,” Reiju explained breezily. “Can’t be too careful.”

Everyone took a seat. Sanji had positioned himself at the head of the table, near the kitchen door, so he could oversee everything and refill dishes easily. Pryx and Cosette sat next to him. Reiju watched him with a frown and pursed lips.
“Sanji!” Luffy shouted with his mouth full. “Is it true we’re having a meeting tomorrow? A real political one?”
“Yes, Captain,” Sanji chuckled. “But let’s not talk heavy stuff now. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
“I thought you invited Counselor Pryx to discuss tomorrow’s meeting, little brother,” Reiju said with feigned sweetness.
“Well, you’re wrong, dear sister. Actually, I’m hoping to partially repay an old debt I owe him.”
Reiju widened her eyes and looked toward the clone.
“The Regent gives me more credit than I deserve,” Pryx said.
Nami thought that if fish could talk, they’d sound like Counselor Pryx.
Reiju forced a smile and addressed the clone.
“Really?”
“I had no exact orders or clear directives,” the clone said, placing a piece of meat in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, swallowed, and continued. “So I took some liberties.”
“I hope those liberties didn’t come at too high a price,” Sanji said.
“If you mean the scar on my face—no, that’s unrelated. As for everything else, all I did was help a boy eat. In return, I got a name. Seems like a fair trade.”
The whole room was focused on the clone. Only Nami looked over to Sanji, whose cheeks were flushed as he drank a glass of water.
“My identification code,” Pryx continued, “is P.R.0003.yx. Not very pronounceable for a eight-year-old.”
Sanji refilled his glass and smiled.
“I wasn’t very imaginative. But Germa isn’t exactly known for creative names. The Vinsmokes are a prime example. The counselor treated me like a human being, of his own free will, the first chance he got. Others… had to be begged.”
Nami felt her heart pound in her chest. She didn’t quite understand what was going on, but the memory of Sanji’s father and brothers surged up. She exchanged a glance with Luffy, who had gone quiet.
Slowly, Nami looked over at Reiju, who had gone pale. Sanji pressed his lips together like someone who’d realized too late that he’d said too much.
Suddenly, a loud thud echoed through the room.
A clone had collapsed to his knees. Sanji sprang to his feet and rushed over to him.
Reiju seemed relieved by the distraction.
“Not all clones are as strong and capable as our counselor, unfortunately. One of my duties as regent will be to implement…”
But everyone’s attention was on Sanji, who helped the clone back to his seat.
“Eat what you need, whatever you want,” he said gently. “There’s more than enough.”
Nami’s gaze returned to Reiju, who looked like she was about to be sick. She abruptly stood and left the room without a word. Standish followed her a few seconds later. Nami thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his face.
Sanji watched them go, jaw clenched. Then he turned to the remaining clones.
“Looks like two seats just opened up. Actually, if we squeeze in a little, we can fit everyone.”

Chapter Text

Cosette was stunned. Not only had the regent cooked with her, not only had he invited her to sit at his table, but now he was telling her to rest while he packed up some of the leftovers to give to the clones—still lingering in the dining hall—and to his crew. The largest parcel, mostly filled with meat, was meant for his captain, who entered just at that moment, accompanied by the swordsman with the terrifying face.
Cosette jumped to her feet, took the package, and handed it over with a respectful bow.
Luffy burst out laughing, delighted.
"I don't think this is gonna make it to the bedroom!"
Sanji took a drag from his cigarette.
"Well, it better fucking make it. And it better last you all night."
Luffy gave him a pleading look.
"Your sister put me in a room with Usopp! He’ll eat all of it!"
"Don’t fuck with me. He already has his own stash."
"Pleeease!"
With a sigh, the cook took another fairly large parcel and handed it to his captain.
This is all you're getting for tonight."
"Shishishishishi!"
Cosette’s eyes widened even more. While cooking a few hours earlier, she had thought that all that food would last for at least three days.
Sanji turned to her with a slight smile.
"That’s life on the Sunny."
She answered with a shy smile.
Zoro cleared his throat.
"Cook. The meeting tomorrow. Now."
"No, Marimo. I’m finishing up here first."
Sanji packed the last of the leftovers and brought them to the dining room, leaving the three of them alone for a moment.
The captain turned to Cosette with a broad grin.
"Did you have fun tonight? I had so much fun!"
Cosette didn’t answer. Fun wasn’t exactly the word she would’ve used to describe the evening. Overwhelming felt much more accurate.
The captain kept watching her, his grin widening.
"Sanji’s just like that. And I like him because he’s like that."
Cosette briefly remembered that day, just a few months ago, when the prince had caught a dish thrown at her and eaten food from the floor, and complimented her.
"I like him too," the girl replied with a small smile.
Just then, Sanji came back from the kitchen, stubbed out his cigarette in a glass, and lit another.
"Now we can talk about tomorrow," he said, exhaling smoke.
Cosette bowed.
"Then I’ll wait over there until you're done, so we can clean up—"
"No, no, stay, Cosette. If you don’t mind, I have a few questions for you."
Cosette nodded, uncertain, but said nothing.
Sanji smiled at her, then took a drag.
"Do you know anything about Citadel Requiem?"
"I don’t..."
"Rumors, gossip, things like that," he encouraged.
Cosette crossed her arms and started thinking.
"I know it’s an outpost," she began thoughtfully. "A couple of girls from the tailoring department were from there."
"Were?"
"They were either dismissed a couple weeks ago or left on their own—I don’t remember. They told me Germa had set up a lab there. They argued a lot. One adored Germa, saying it brought jobs and wealth. The other had her family’s land seized, and they were paid peanuts."
"So, not a military invasion. That’s unusual," Sanji commented.
"I went down there once myself to get some supplies, but there wasn’t much. The land is pretty barren, doesn’t yield anything. I saw the citadel too—it looked like a fortress. Lots of people in lab coats." Cosette shook her head. "I’m sorry, that’s all I can recall. If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know."
"You’d be a huge help, Cosette. Thank you."
The girl smiled.”
"I’ll wait over there, then."
"No, no. Go get some sleep."
"But the kitchen—"
"I’ll take care of it. I’m used to it."
Cosette looked around and saw the kitchen was a mess. Then she looked back at the cook, who gave her a reassuring nod and smile. She was exhausted—physically and emotionally—and decided not to miss the chance to get a little more rest.
"Alright. Good night, then. See you tomorrow."
And she left.

Luffy pouted.
" Citadel Requiem is a lame name!"
Sanji chuckled briefly.
"I agree with you. Still, if we can sort this out—or at least contribute—I think we’ll be free again soon. And that’s what matters most. My sister needs two more votes to become regent. We need to focus on that."
Zoro leaned on the counter, arms crossed.
"Curly, what about that bitch of a sister of yours who dragged us into this?"
Luffy turned to Zoro.
"She’s not a bitch! Not completely, at least!"
"She wants those votes too, Marimo. And we’ll make sure she gets them," said the cook after a long drag.
"No one’s more eager than me to get the hell out of this fucking castle."
Zoro yawned and let a half-smile escape.
"Alright. If there’s nothing else, I’m heading to bed. You’ve got this covered anyway, right?"
"Fuck off. And have someone walk you to your room, or you’ll still be wandering the halls tomorrow morning."
Luffy grabbed his two parcels.
"Shishishishishi!" he laughed as he darted out of the kitchen, followed by Zoro’s lazy footsteps. As he walked out, Zoro gave Sanji the middle finger.
"Lazy bastard," muttered the cook toward the closed door. But, truth be told, he didn’t mind spending a bit of time alone—trying to build a refuge, however fragile, in this hostile kingdom that had knocked him down time and again, still vomiting hatred on him, relentlessly, reminding him of his difference, his inferiority, his mistake of an existence.
Slowly and carefully, breathing in and out with control, Sanji began walking around the kitchen, running his fingers along the surfaces, studying the layout and how the supplies were organized.
Sure, he was a guest, but the kitchen was a sacred place—a hideout where he could do something without being attacked, where the cruel soul of Germa felt less vicious. The kitchen was a fortress where he felt safe, or at least safer than elsewhere, from past and present assaults, from the attacks he himself launched inward.
The cook took all the time he needed to build his little stronghold. Then, with a sigh, he turned toward the sink. That night, he’d just do the bare minimum—the rest could wait until morning.
He was just filling the saucepans with water to prevent the contents from sticking when he heard the door swing. He turned and saw a clone. It was the one who had helped during dinner.
"There’s nothing left, but if you want, I can make you a sandwich."
The clone shook his head.
"I help."
Sanji looked at him, puzzled.
"I help," the clone repeated. "Others want to help too."
Four more clones entered through the door.
"We help," said the first clone. "If you want."
Sanji raised his eyebrows, astonished.
These clones weren’t made to help , he thought.
Then he watched them—standing straight, expressionless. He thought of Pryx, of the immense debt he owed him. And smiled.
"That would be great. Thanks. Take the dishes and pans, empty them, and put them in the dishwasher. The bigger knives need hand washing—take care of those too. I’ll handle the rest.

The next morning, when Zoro woke up, Sanji was finishing getting dressed.
"Marimo. I’m going to make breakfast."
"I’m coming with you."
"You don’t have to."
"You asked me to keep an eye on you."
Sanji said nothing for a moment.
"Then move your ass," he muttered without taking his eyes off the mirror.
Zoro got up with a huff. He went to the bathroom—which still smelled of the cook’s cologne—turned on the cold tap, and dunked his head under. That was good enough for him.

In the dining hall, Reiju was waiting for them, lips tight and eyes promising trouble.
"Now you’ll explain what happened last night."
"Good morning to you too, Reiju. What happened is that we were enjoying a nice meal when you and your commodore decided to be assholes. That’s it."
The princess gave a small smile and nudged her brother lightly.
"You provoked me. You know I couldn’t do anything then. Nothing more than what I did. And you also know this is Germa. And the clones… they’re our weapons, our most valuable asset. Our main resource. And you’re the regent. I understand you have your ideas and all, but this is Germa, not your ship. You’re the regent. You can’t—"
Sanji ran a hand down his face.
"Okay. Fine. Okay. But that doesn’t make your behavior any less shitty."
Reiju was about to retort, but Sanji cut her off.
"On to more important things: I forgot to ask you something yesterday. Aokiri… is that a coincidence?"
"No. He’s Mother’s brother, Haruto Aokiri. He’ll never vote for me, so there’s no point discussing it."
Sanji was stunned. To Zoro, it looked like someone had dropped a boulder on his head in the middle of Alabasta Desert.
"Why?" Sanji managed to stammer.
"Because he hates Father and only has a seat on the council because he’s Mother’s brother. But once everyone realizes who they’re dealing with, and that Germa’s strength is still intact, he’ll bow his head again. A Vinsmoke—a true Vinsmoke—is ready to take command and do what must be done. And today, they’ll see that."
Sanji stared at his sister for a few seconds, then sighed and walked into the kitchen.

"Good morning, Cosette!" Sanji greeted, rolling up his sleeves—then almost jumped when he saw Cosette surrounded by the clones who had helped him tidy up the night before. One was spreading jam on pancakes, two were baking rice cakes, Cosette was showing one how to beat eggs properly, and the last one—the one who had felt ill the night before—was slicing a bundt cake.
"Good morning, Sanji!" Cosette sang brightly. "I got here this morning and had just started whipping some cream when they came in and said they wanted to help. Now I’ve got a brigade!"
"A brigade of amateurs who don’t even know the basics," Sanji replied, laughing, "which is still better than nothing. What’s on the list?"
"There are some cookies to check," she said, blushing. "And from what little I’ve seen of Luffy’s appetite, I’d say we should prep a couple of omelets. But more than anything, I don’t know how to name these guys."
Sanji smiled.
"Have them tell you their ID codes and pick something from the letters. That’s what I did with Pryx. Still feels like the best way to go."
Zoro watched the scene with a puzzled expression. He didn’t understand the little cook’s excitement. That wasn’t a brigade—any more than they were soldiers. She just seemed happy to have someone around, whoever they were.
But that’s none of my business. The important thing is getting the hell out of this fucking kingdom , Zoro concluded.
Cosette was beaming. She grabbed some mugs and poured coffee, welcoming Max, Ludik, Klion, Lith, and Stern into her kitchen. Sanji toasted with them, then started bringing breakfast to the table.
"Cook. The meeting."
Sanji’s smile faded slightly.
"As if I didn’t know, Marimo."

Chapter Text

With thirty minutes until the council meeting, Sanji, Reiju, and Zoro gathered before the meeting room door. Luffy still hadn't arrived.
"Do you think he's pulling a prank on us?" Reiju asked.
"He'll show," Zoro muttered. "I'll wait for him."
"Shouldn't we go fetch him?" Reiju urged.
“He’ll show.” Zoro repeated simply.
Reiju glanced at Sanji.
"You ask for our help, then you don't trust us?" the cook teased.
Reiju sighed, her gaze fixed intently on her brother.
“That's not exactly how it happened. I merely mentioned that, if needed, I could also contact the Straw Hat Pirates. Aokiri, on his own, just took it all for granted. Conspirator and coward. He would never have dared with Father here.”
Sanji cast a glance at Zoro. The swordsman offered a brief nod, remaining with his arms crossed by the door.
Sanji and Reiju entered the room, taking their seats at the table. This time, an additional armchair had been placed beside the usual seating arrangement. Sanji bypassed the head seat, instead settling on the left side, nudging the files before him. When Reiju eyed him questioningly, Sanji shrugged.
“This is Luffy’s seat today.”
The princess said nothing and sat down where he indicated.
Both siblings lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Reiju studied her portrait, while Sanji inspected his hands. Then, Sanji’s voice abruptly shattered the quiet.
“I want to ask you something, Reiju.”
“Go ahead.” she replied flatly.
“What if I abdicated? I was thinking, perhaps I could just appoint a successor. You, obviously. Direct appointment, smoother constitutional change. End of story.”
Reiju gave him an annoyed look.
“When did this brilliant idea strike you?”
Sanji's voice tightened.
“This morning, in front of the café.”
“While you were toasting with your new clone friends?”
Sanji was about to shout.
“Exactly. I'm guessing it's not possible, and that's fine. But it's absurd to hear sarcasm from a princess who plop her ass down on a throne whose rules she only learned a month ago.”
“Asshole.”
“Oh, something we finally agree on. Perhaps I'm more Vinsmoke than I thought.”
Reiju took a deep breath.
“If you abdicated, it would be declared a crisis. The council would then have to unanimously elect a regent, and that regent wouldn't be me. Aokiri despises me, and I'm certain the others wouldn't hesitate to hand Germa over to the World Government. Father would lose his kingdom...
“And would that be so bad?”
Reiju's eyes widened in shock and anger, but she couldn't utter a word as Schnell entered the room.

The others had all arrived, yet Luffy was still conspicuously absent. A palpable nervousness hung in the air.
“Perhaps he's lost?" Aokiri offered with a smile..
"There are still five minutes," Sanji replied impassively. "Meaning there's still time to back out if you believe that..."
"Let's wait, sire," Schnell interjected with an unctuous tone.
Luffy finally entered with the sixth chime of the noon clock, Zoro trailing close behind. He'd merely added a jacket to his usual attire, drawing skeptical and disdainful looks from the council.
Zoro scanned the room, barely suppressing a smile as Sanji shot to his feet at the captain's entrance. The others followed suit, as protocol dictated for the regent, though their lack of enthusiasm was clear.
Luffy took his seat, Sanji and the others followed, and Zoro settled into position behind him.
Sanji and Luffy exchanged a nod. Then, the cook announced: 
"Shall we begin?"
General Goodwin was the first to speak.
“With all due respect to Captain... Monkey D. Luffy, whom I warmly thank for his attendance this morning, I fail to grasp why Princess Reiju deems his intervention necessary for the Requiem Citadel operation. Our outpost issue is perfectly solvable by our own forces, provided we act swiftly and precisely, as is Germa's finest tradition.”
Luffy flashed one of his smiles.
“Is it because Requiem Citadel despises you? Because you gave it a truly ugly name? If so, just change the name.”
Goodwin’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me?”
Sanji intervened.
“The captain poses a perfectly legitimate question, gentlemen. What are the reasons behind Requiem Citadel's hostility? To my knowledge, the outpost was established without a massive deployment of armed forces. Reliable sources have even informed me that a portion of the island’s indigenous population was quite favorable to Germa’s presence within their system. How did conflict arise?”
Zoro bowed his head to stifle a laugh clawing at his throat.
Silence fell upon the question.
Sanji looked at the faces of the council members.
“That doesn’t seem like such a complicated question.”
"This is outrageous!" Goodwin resumed, looking poised to explode. "Perhaps you are unaware, Regent, but Germa 66 is a military power. This means if an outpost or colony dares to defy us, it is our duty to reassert control." The councilor addressed his colleagues. "Gentlemen, let's call a spade a spade. Regent Sanji Vinsmoke is a pirate and a cook. Beyond being good with words, he possesses no other skills. Commodore Standish informed me the Straw Hat crew is here under amnesty. And the fact that Princess Reiju summoned individuals..."
"Councilor Goodwin, do not exaggerate," Reiju cautioned. "Remember I am still my father's daughter."
"I remember that very well, Princess," the general replied coldly. "Perhaps you should remember it more yourself."
An icy silence descended upon the room.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” Luffy said, still smiling. “Nor Sanji’s. Is that how politics works? Someone asks something, and others resort to attacking because they lack answers?”
A man in a lab coat spoke up.
"I'm Francis Tulip, and I've been overseeing Requiem Citadel. I have no military expertise, but I believe I can at least partially answer the question. Requiem Citadel was established to conduct experiments on a new, highly promising metal found exclusively on that island. After approximately a year of studies, the envoys ceased sending reports. Subsequently, the native population grew extremely hostile and threatening, leading to attacks on settlers' homes. Germa is now responding."
"In an incredibly weak manner," Goodwin interjected. "Satisfied now? Can we discuss attack strategies?"
"A mere recitation of facts is no answer," Sanji declared. "Councilor Tulip, I appreciate your scientific approach, but the underlying reasons for the hostility of..."
"The reasons for this hostility are irrelevant! This hostility must be suppressed! Immediately!" burst out the stocky, bald man who had muttered at the last meeting. "Certainly, if the Regent wishes to invite a delegation from Requiem Citadel to dinner, by all means set a grand table, perhaps a splendid buffet prepared by our clones..."
“Careful, Councilor Davenport.” Sanji growled. “Careful.”
How the hell does that cook remember everyone's names? Zoro wondered.
Davenport turned to Sanji.
"Do you intend to kick me? Or is poisoning my dish more your style? Come on, you said it yourself! You're no regent; you're a pirate! A mere cook! Who's effectively weakening our primary weapon..."
"...and economic one," Tulip interjected.
“..by making them serve gourmet dishes! He even served them! It's disgraceful!”
"I would never poison your dish, Councilor Davenport," Sanji replied with controlled composure, "because I despise wasting food. As for kicks, I'm not afraid to dirty my shoes."
“Sanji!” Reiju exploded.
"Gentlemen," Davenport resumed, "Germa's strength is inextricably tied to the presence and leadership of Judge Vinsmoke. We permitted Princess Reiju to attend decision-making meetings, and she proved unfit. And I certainly do not trust the regent. Nor do I believe I'm the only one who feels this way."
If the previous silence had been icy, this one was searing..
"Council members," Aokiri began. "We've stalled for too long. Since King Judge Vinsmoke's disappearance, our settlers have endured attacks, and our research has been sabotaged—by a mere outpost! We gravely risk losing credibility. And instead of devising a plan, of taking action, the Princess turns to pirates. I propose we vote to depose the Regent so we can proceed with our strategy more effectively."
The proposal was met with murmurs of approval. Reiju paled.
"Excellent," Aokiri continued. "I'll begin: in favor of deposition."
It was Tulip’s turn: “Opposed.”
Goodwin: “In favor.”
Davenport: “In favor.”
Schnell: “Opposed.”
Blox: “Opposed.”
Zoro looked back at Sanji. The cook was staring directly into the voters’ faces, expressionless, betraying no emotion.
Only Pryx remained, and Zoro couldn't discern if he would vote for or against. He hadn't gleaned much about the clones, but they gave him an unsettling feeling. They were designed to obey, subservient to authority. And it was clear that in that room, Sanji's authority was not held in high esteem.
"I abstain," the clone announced. "And I have a proposal."
The councilors turned towards him.
Tomorrow, the Regent and the Princess must present a proposal to the council. My vote will hinge on its quality."
“Pryx…” Aokiri began, exasperated.
"I approve Councilor Pryx's proposal," Goodwin declared, amused. "Ultimately, we can wait one more night. Let's see what comes of it."
Aokiri and Davenport eyed Goodwin, perplexed, but no one objected..
A final meeting was scheduled for nine the following morning..
The assembly adjourned.

Chapter Text

"That was a truly foolish move," Luffy commented once they were all outside. "And no one has answered my question yet."
"Apparently, no one bothered," Sanji murmured, rubbing his temples.
Zoro had moved from the wall, loosening his shoulders. Reiju remained seated, motionless, her gaze fixed on a distant point.
“That clone,” she whispered. “That damn clone.”
Reiju looked up at Sanji, incandescent with rage.
"You invited him to your table. You served him. You treated him as an equal. Even better than an equal. That thing imposed on us by the World Government. And he didn't even have the decency to vote for us."
"I didn't invite him for that. I thought it was obvious. I invited him for myself."
"THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU!"
That shout was so laced with fury that Zoro instinctively reached for his swords, while Luffy's eyes widened in surprise. Sanji clasped his hands together before him, his gaze unwavering on his sister.
"What do you intend to do?" the cook asked, his voice measured.
Reiju took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension.
“Fix this disaster. And prepare a plan of action.”
Sanji ran a hand over his face.
"Wait. I don't know about you, but I need a moment to breathe. Snapping at Davenport like that was incredibly stupid of me. Give me some time, and take some yourself. Let's clear our heads. Then, call me when you're ready. I'll probably be in the kitchen. Since it's going to be a busy afternoon, I'd better get a head start on work."
They then left in silence.

"Politics isn't all that great," Luffy remarked to Cosette, who was preparing cream for the fridge. "I nearly dozed off. Everyone was shouting, but they had nothing interesting to say." 
"Oh, when I was an apprentice, something similar happened with discussions about shifts," Cosette replied, chuckling. "So-and-so didn't want to work with so-and-so, such-and-such wanted every evening off, and it always ended in a huge mess. But the problems remained the same. Max, the stew doesn't go on the big burner."
"Looks like you're managing well with your new brigade," Sanji chimed in, slicing vegetables.
"They're clumsy, but they try. And at least I'm not alone anymore." Cosette placed the cream on a table and picked up some sponge cake slices Klion had prepared, then began spreading the cream in layers. "Sanji... I heard they're unhappy about the clones in the kitchen. Do you think they'll take my brigade away?"
"They'll have to go over my dead body. But I don't foresee any problems, as long as they respect the guard shifts," Sanji reassured her gently. "By the way, I suggest we arrange for them to have tonight off."
Luffy stretched his arms.
“Sanji, can you make me a ham sandwich?”
“At your service!”
Zoro observed the scene, his mind drifting back to the meeting that had just concluded. He liked the place less and less; it made him uneasy. This wasn't his battlefield. The intensity within that room was palpable, yet it was a ferocity he not only couldn't master but struggled even to comprehend. Alliances could shift in five minutes, duels yielded no definitive results, and conflicts were never straightforward. There was no honor—or if there was, Zoro couldn't grasp it. What he did understand was that the cook was sailing in treacherous waters. He'd sensed it immediately when Sanji asked him to keep an eye on him, but matters only grew more complicated. And Zoro disliked complications.
Speaking of complications, a significant one just entered, the swordsman thought as he watched Standish step into the kitchen, glancing around.
The cook greeted the man with a tight smile as he handed Luffy his sandwich.
"Good afternoon, Commodore. Do you require anything?"
"Good afternoon, Sanji. I merely wanted to reassure you about Red Leg Zeff. He'll arrive either tonight or tomorrow morning. He proved difficult to persuade."
As I'd imagined. Farewell then, Commodore."
Standish cast one last look at the kitchen before departing.

At five in the afternoon, Reiju summoned him to the council room. Upon entering, Sanji observed his sister pacing back and forth, and reflected that since his arrival, he and Reiju had discussed nothing but the regency. As soon as the door closed, Reiju halted, turning to her brother, her wild eyes blazing with anger.
"I've reflected on what's transpired these last two days," she announced. "And I understand your intentions."
“Help you?”
"Undermine me. Destroy everything—or at least try. Exact revenge for what Father and the others did to you."
Sanji blinked, incredulous.
“What…”
“Mom said you were kind, that you needed protecting, that you needed help. And I've nursed a viper in my bosom.”
Sanji shook his head.
"You've gone mad, damn it. You used to say the Vinsmokes were a family of assassins. That the world would be better without Germa. And now... this regency bullshit is transforming you into one of them."
"I want to be strong, Sanji! This is my chance to prove I'm not merely a prototype, but exactly like everyone else. In fact, better than the others..."
“You always have been, better than the others!”
"And you, right from the start, as soon as you arrived, began building your paltry kingdom of rejects. Small, pathetic, desperate Sanji. Who crawls, serves, whines, begging for a place. Who fails to understand he's barely tolerated by those around him, possessing no power, only vague usefulness. At Whole Cake Island, you got an inflated ego, but you're nobody compared to us. Nothing. And now, look at you, making a fool of me before the council, with your useless questions and your hypocritical demeanor, worthy of the sewer rat you are."
Sanji took a step toward his sister, who covered her eyes with her hands, folding in on herself.
"Reiju, you're saying this because you're angry. And I understand. And I'm sorry. But, for once, let's look at this whole situation clearly. Let's see things as they truly are. Reiju, they will never elect you regent. Not as long as you act like a poor imitation of Judge. If they truly wished to amend the constitution in your favor, they would have done so already."
The slap was sudden and forceful, almost knocking Sanji off balance.
"I am Judge's daughter! I am the firstborn! And you, scum, reject, garbage, want nothing more than to dismantle everything we've built. Father despises you because you're weak, and as a weakling, you're capable of any base act. Kneeling before your captain, before Pryx, before the lowest of clones. And the outrageous part is you act superior. Like all weaklings, you worm your way into the cracks of the strong and gnaw, gnaw, gnaw until you consume everything from the inside. Rotting it. Love, compassion, pity. All the pathetic means weaklings employ to ascend to a dignity they don't deserve. Mother was a strong woman but she failed to understand strength. Had she seen you, truly seen you, seen what you truly are, she'd turn her head away in disgust, and..."
"DON'T YOU DARE DRAG MOM INTO THIS SHIT! DON'T YOU DARE!"
Reiju was panting, her face deathly pale, and even Sanji struggled to breathe. Her outburst was followed by a deep, trembling intake of air.
Damn, she's become just like Judge. The bastard. This is his doing.
And that realization crashed down on the cook, making him understand that here, in this castle, in this room, among these people, he would always be a reject, a failure, a mistake. Because Germa was Judge—his emanation, his extension. Ever since his return, Sanji had striven to convince himself that things were different now, that he had grown, that he had saved the Vinsmokes, that he had defeated Queen, and liberated himself from his pain and blood simply by destroying his Raid Suit.
What an idiot to think it would be that easy.
And now he realized it was merely a vain illusion; even with his friends present, even if he had built himself a refuge in the kitchen, things hadn't changed. Not in the slightest. He was Sanji Vinsmoke, the failed experiment, the weakling, the stain that had to be erased.
Judge loathed him, so Germa loathed him too, mocking his efforts to escape.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, idiot. Do something instead.
Without tearing his eyes from his sister's furious gaze, Sanji swallowed a couple of times, his throat dry, and noticed his head was spinning. His mouth felt parched, and his limbs numb from all that contempt, from the brutal reality of things. He had to concentrate fiercely to recover his calm and try to salvage what he could.
There must be a limit to the poison within her. There must be a limit to the Germa within her.
"Listen. I'm here because I truly want to help you. I don't feel superior, and you know that better than anyone. I'm sorry if I offended you. I'm just doing my best to..."
Reiju's eyes were bright and glossy, seemingly consumed by a burning fever, and her lips trembled, yet her expression grew even harder.
"Your best isn't enough. Not even close. This entire matter isn't about you. Not even close. Your position is a farce. You're merely a joke. You're insufficient. And tomorrow I will present a plan for a massive assault, with clones in abundance, until their ultimate surrender. And you will sign it. Because it doesn't concern you, because the only thing that matters, the only thing that holds dignity in your entire being, is the name you carry. And you'd better remember that your friends—those you serve, who by serving beg them to keep tolerating you—are here, meaning they're under my control."
Sanji clenched his fists, his gaze menacing.
“Don’t you dare…” he growled.
"Dare what? What else can you do? Cook? Cry? You may have improved, Sanji, but I'm still stronger than you, and I desire that throne with every fiber of my being. I want Father to witness my capability. And remember, you brought your friends here of your own free will. So you'd better behave. Remember your place. I've already been too understanding."
Reiju left the room without another word.

Sanji felt like vomiting.
It took him a full five minutes to begin breathing somewhat normally again. His mind drifted in a void. The only thought was to get back to the kitchen. To cook, to busy himself. To produce something.
But he felt defiled. He had placed his comrades in jeopardy. And Zeff. Again.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
Sanji clenched his fists, then released them. He began counting his exhales. He needed to stay clear-headed.
I'm sorry. Terribly sorry. I wanted things to be different this time. I thought I was doing the right thing by bringing you here.
He began counting his exhales again. Perhaps he was feeling better.
No.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He had to do something. He had to regain control. He had to cook. Perhaps some nicely grilled, lightly spicy meat for Luffy. Then some simple, steamed vegetables, with a delicate fresh vinaigrette.
He would go to the kitchen, wash his hands, cook. He would cook, and cooking would restore order. He would create something—something someone would eat, perhaps even appreciate. Something that would do someone good.
Damn me. Think, you idiot. Find a solution to this mess.
He needed to get clear-headed again. His only certainty was that he had to get to work. In the kitchen. Where he would prepare something good. For someone. For the crew. To regain some control.
It’s not over. Not yet, he repeated to himself.
As long as he had hands to cook with, something could still be salvaged.
But first, he had to wash up.
Because he felt defiled.

Zoro was dozing on the bed when Sanji opened the door, announced he was going to shower, and walked briskly to the bathroom. Zoro sprang up and followed him.
“Mosshead, I know I told you to keep an eye on me, but this is excessive.”
Zoro ignored him.
“So? You and your sister. Did you talk?”
The cook met his gaze.
"More like she did all the talking."
“And?”
"She's going to present a proposal, and I'll have to decide whether to sign it."
“What’s there to decide?”
“The proposal.”
Zoro felt anger simmering. The cook seemed odd, odder than usual. He couldn't pinpoint what it was; the only obvious signs were a deathly pallor and a vacant stare. Still, Zoro resolved he wouldn't back down.
“Curly, don’t mess with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Dickhead. Are we in deep shit?”
At that question, Sanji fixed him with a probing gaze.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you said you made a mess at Whole Cake Island. Are you making a mess here too?”
Sanji waited a few seconds.
“We have to be careful.”
"Damn! I don't like your talk, cook. This place is shit, and you're swimming in that scum..."
“What?”
“In the councils. Those damn councils. You even dragged Luffy into it…”
“Luffy doesn’t…”
Zoro, at the peak of frustration, slapped the wall.
"What kind of mess have you gotten us into, you idiot? And those damn clones..."
“What do the clones have to do with it?”
"That's what I'm asking too, cook. That Pryx—the only thing your sister is right about."
Sanji seemed to regain some energy.
“What the hell do clones have to do with it?”
"They have to do with the fact that you're turning this into a battle, and it's not our battle."
“Isn’t Pryx worthy of decent treatment?”
"Just look at him. He didn't offer you the slightest support. He has no concept of loyalty. He has no code, no ethics..."
“I owe him a lot.”
"That has nothing to do with it! You fed him alongside us, thanked him, and now shut it. Wake up, cook! He's designed to obey! You treated him like an ally, but he's not! He never will be!"
"So the difference is what he could be useful for? The support he could offer us? You're incredible, Marimo, calling council members scum, then using their exact arguments."
Zoro saw red.
“Take back what you said, dickhead.”
“Make me.”
Zoro punched him in the mouth, and Sanji responded with a kick to the chest. Zoro drew his swords and attacked. That idiot cook had not only dragged them into this mess—a mess where Zoro didn't even know how to navigate—but was also being an asshole.
A family of fucked-up people.
They fought for a few minutes, but their room's bathroom was no substitute for the Sunny's deck. Sanji bumped into a towel rack, and Zoro was on him, two katanas pressed to his throat.
“Now take back what you said.”
The cook had the audacity to smile, blood trickling from his split lip.
“Make me.”
Zoro kneed him in the side.
Sanji stifled a groan, pressing his lips tight, his gaze unwavering from the swordsman. Zoro, for his part, closed in further, capitalizing on Sanji's precarious position to eliminate any remaining room to maneuver.
“Take back what you said.”
"Fuck off. We can go on forever, Marimo. You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing. Fuck you, Zoro. I'm not taking back a damn thing."
They stood still for a few seconds. The cook lifted his head, further exposing his neck. Zoro kneed him again; the cook huffed but wouldn't yield an inch.
After a few seconds of silence, the swordsman withdrew his blades from the other’s throat.
“If something happens…” he growled, glaring fiercely at the cook.
Sanji smiled again.
“You’ll kick my ass. Don’t worry, I’m ready. I’m not running.”
The swordsman briefly thought he'd genuinely kill that damned cook. Then he stepped back without even looking at him.
“Go take your fucking shower, you fucking idiot. You’re filthy.”

Chapter Text

Sanji wasn’t a fan of catharsis through tears, but he knew the smartest thing to do would have been to cry: a long, hard cry, to let it all out and then think things through with a more or less clear mind. 
But he just couldn’t.
Zoro, after that stupid and pointless fight, had left without saying another word. Sanji had just stripped off his clothes and stood silently under the stream of water. 
He’d already humiliated himself enough.
Sewer rat.
Capable of any base act.
Trash.
Scum.
Discarded.
You’re filthy.
How long had he been under the water? Long enough. And yet, the tears still wouldn’t come, and his breathing remained shallow. He thought of Luffy. Of Whole Cake Island.
You brought your friends here of your own free will.
What kind of mess have you gotten us into, you idiot?
A viper in my bosom.
Sanji turned off the shower, wrapped himself in a towel, and went to the bedroom, carefully avoiding the mirror. It was six-thirty in the evening. He should have been in the kitchen by now. A shiver ran down his spine.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
He should have pulled himself together, gone to the kitchen, begged forgiveness for the mess he’d made, and asked for help. But his chest felt tight, and he felt as if he weren’t really there, but somewhere else, watching from a distance—a naked idiot in a towel contemplating jumping off a cliff. 
Or signing an executive order for a massacre.
It’s doesn’t concern you.
It's not our battle.
In the end, this was Germa, right? And those were Germa’s rules. Maybe the only way out was to swallow some shit. Sanji let out a bitter smile.
I’m much more of a Vinsmoke than I thought. I should’ve kept the Raid Suit. At least I'd have been of some use.
He glanced at the clock. It was seven. If he didn’t say something soon, someone from the kitchen would probably come looking for him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He couldn’t go to his safe space like this; he’d contaminate it. And he had nowhere else to hide. But what was he hiding from?
Sewer rat.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Discarded.
Trash.
Dickhead.
Can you even hide from the facts? From the clear, undeniable, crystalline truth of your own failure?
No, he couldn’t go to the kitchen. He couldn’t even think about going.
He figured Cosette could handle things. After all, they’d gone at it hard that morning, and she’d manage just fine without him. In this state, he’d only be in the way. He also had to get out of the bedroom before Zoro returned.
You’re insufficient.
You made a mess at Whole Cake Island.
Trash.
You’re filthy.
Sanji opened the door and peeked into the hallway. A maid was luckily passing by. He called to her, asking her to let the kitchen know he wasn't feeling well and would rest up for the next day's meeting. She nodded quickly, asked if he needed any medicine, and when he said no, she left to relay the message.
Sanji thanked her, went back into the room, and got dressed. His actions were automatic, orders from a brain that was somewhere else.
Shirt, tie, vest, formal trousers. A proper jacket. Polished shoes.
He felt like his body didn’t belong to him anymore, but he had to get out of there. Hoping something would guide him to where he needed to be.

As he walked through the gardens, a cigarette in his hand he couldn’t even smoke, forcing himself to take deep breaths and to pace each step with each inhale, a foggy memory exploded in Sanji’s mind: Olaf.
Olaf had been the head waiter at the Baratie. A gaunt, rigid man, subtly unpleasant, detached. The staff didn’t really like him, but he worked hard and tried to improve, so he kept his job. Rumor had it he’d been a soldier in his homeland and had left after a disastrous mission. Before working at the Baratie, he’d moved through several restaurants. Everyone spoke well of him, but Olaf simply couldn’t stay in one place. If Zeff had taught Sanji how to live and cook, Olaf had given him his first lessons in service.
He’d left the Baratie when Sanji was nearly eleven, but before he did, he took Sanji aside to say goodbye. He looked him in the eyes and said:
"Now I’ll tell you what to do when you’ve got too much shit inside you. You take all the bad stuff, put it in a steel box, dig a deep hole—as deep as you can—and bury it. Then you cover the hole, make it look like nothing’s underneath, wash your hands real good, and show up looking clean and tidy. After that, you just have to make sure the ground doesn’t shift and no one finds out. But it’s not that hard. You just have to keep watch."
Sanji didn’t get it at the time, but later found out that some of the chefs, including Zeff, had heard Sanji talking in his sleep. And Sanji had wanted to die of shame.
Sewer rat.
Idiot.
Trash.
Discarded.
Viper in my bosom.
He realized that by regulating his breathing, he could calm himself down—and at least keep that problem in check. But he put so much effort into seeming normal that eventually, he did.. And from that point on, he threw himself heart and soul into following Olaf’s advice.
What the hell does Olaf have to do with this? the cook asked his detached self.
And the answer was simple: at Whole Cake Island, everything had come out. The earth had shifted, the box had been unearthed, and its contents were out in the open for anyone to see. And he hadn’t even had time to clean it all up before he had to rush to Wano, and now this. And now the shit inside him was too much—the box couldn’t hold it anymore. He’d have to do it all over again, but he was just too tired.
Dickhead.
Capable of any base act.
Trash.
You’re filthy.
Where could he bury that box? He’d buried it under the kitchen, had spent his life pretending the kitchen was strong enough to contain the horror, the filth inside that box. Every dish he cooked was another shovel of earth, convincing him that everything was under control, that he was normal, that he could create something good.
But now everything was falling apart, and everything around him reminded him of the lie—how he’d deceived himself and everyone else with dangerous naivety.
Sanji grew dizzy and leaned against a tree. Still no tears. He didn’t even know if the thoughts running through his mind were his own.
And then he realized he might have found a place to go.

It’s been almost three days and I still haven’t come to see you. I’m sorry. I’m awful.
Thank goodness the grave wasn’t neglected, though a few dry leaves had gathered. Under the moonlight, Sanji gently tidied it up.
Had she seen you, truly seen you, seen what you truly are, she'd turn her head away in disgust.
He promised himself he’d return by daylight to really look at Sora Vinsmoke’s face. The photo on the tombstone showed her smiling, almost cheerful, but the moonlight gave it an ethereal, ghostly glow. Sanji only remembered his mother through her illness, and he’d often wondered what kind of person she had been when healthy. He’d never had the courage to ask Reiju, and when he’d fled, he hadn’t been able to take any photos or portraits, so he relied solely on memory.
Sanji sat down in front of the headstone and leaned closer to the photo, trying to overlay it with the image in his memory. It wasn’t a posed picture, but a candid shot—an instant of serenity and joy frozen in film.
He studied her delicate features and large blue eyes, so bright, so full of life. Her smile hinted at laughter—crystal-clear, sparkling, genuinely amused—and he found himself wondering what had sparked that laugh.
Too bad Aokiri was so hostile. Sanji would have loved to ask him about the woman in the photo. It would’ve been nice to know her as a woman, not just remember her as a mother.
Viper in my bosom.
Pathetic.
Dickhead.
Sanji knelt before the grave—an outsider in an alien body with foreign thoughts—clinging to a tombstone to avoid collapsing entirely, staring at the image of the woman who had accepted him as he was, who had eaten something he’d made, and who had helped him lay the first brick in what he had believed to be his identity—now in ruins.
You gave your life for me, and I’m a mess. I swear, I’m trying with everything I have to make you proud. I'm trying to be better every day, but I keep failing.
Sanji remembered when he’d cooked for her—some awful dish, made worse by the journey. He remembered the smile with which she’d tasted it, and her compliments, so gentle they seemed sincere.
And he realized he didn’t even know what her favorite dish was, whether she had allergies, or foods she hated.
Sanji moved a flowerpot and lay down on his back, right in front of the tombstone.
Trash.
Sewer rat.
You’re filthy.
He stayed like that for a long, undefined time—hours, still and silent, marked only by rustling leaves and drifting clouds. The night grew deep and cold.
He lost feeling in his fingers, and a thick cloud covered the moon. In that complete darkness, he imagined a chasm opening beneath him to swallow him whole.
He gripped the earth beneath him, sinking into the darkness behind his closed eyelids. He imagined dissolving into the void inside him, where there was no pain, no disgust, nothing to prove, no shame to hide, and nothing to die for or live for.
Suddenly, something fell on his forehead—maybe a leaf—and he half-opened his eyes.
The moon was shining again, its soft light burning his eyes.
You’re not enough.
Weak.
Trash.
Discarded.
Sanji shot up into a sitting position, still distant from himself. He was shaking. Then he stood, brushing off his jacket and pants.
I have to go now, Mom. But I swear I’ll come back soon.
And he walked back toward the castle.

His head had started to throb, his breathing was still labored, and a wave of nausea rose. He hadn’t felt this wrecked in years.
Maybe he could go to the kitchen. Maybe he’d find a little comfort there. He certainly couldn’t keep lingering like this. He had to find a way to stand up again, to summon enough strength to face his responsibilities, confront who he really was, and somehow, move forward.
Coffee.
Legs like jelly, Sanji made his way to the kitchen, shuffling his feet. He collapsed onto a chair by a cupboard.
He leaned over the sink and vomited yellow bile, then sat back, gasping.
He turned on the faucet to wash it away. With what felt like inhuman effort, he even scrubbed the sink with a soapy sponge.
"Oi, brat. Is this how you show up in the kitchen?"
Sewer rat.
Discarded.
You’re filthy.
At first, Sanji thought it was a hallucination.
But then Zeff came over, hands on his hips.
"You look like shit, brat."
"Geezer… what the hell are you doing here?"
"You’re the one who had me brought here, dumbass. Like a damn package. Nice way to treat an old man who lost a leg…"
Viper in my bosom.
Weak.
Trash.
Sanji closed his eyes, and the words came out of his mouth before he could even think them.
"You didn’t lose that leg, Zeff. You didn’t just wake up one morning and find it gone. You cut it off and ate it to save my life."
Hell of a shitty deal you made, old man. What a ripoff you got.
Zeff didn’t reply, and through his closed eyes, Sanji could hear him moving around the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Zeff returned and placed something warm in Sanji’s hands.
Sanji opened his eyes.
Coffee. With maybe a touch of milk, still steaming.
"Drink, brat. I bet you didn’t eat a damn thing last night."
Zeff looked at him.
"Since when do you get all dressed up just to roll around on the ground?"
Sanji smirked faintly and took a few sips. It was loaded with sugar, just the way he liked it.
The old man pulled up a chair and sat across from him. Sanji noticed he had a cup too. He drank a little. Sanji still felt distant, but the warmth of the drink was soothing.
"Is it that bad?"
"What?"
"The situation. Is it that bad?"
"No. It’s worse. But why are you here this early?"
"It’s five thirty, brat. If you were a decent cook, you’d know it’s time to start breakfast."
"Old bastard, what do you think? I got a head start. The pastries just need reheating. At most, we’ll have to whip up some pancakes and prep some fruit. Cosette can handle it on her own."
"Who the hell is Cosette?"
"The cook here, Old Geezer. She’s good and works hard."
"And why should she handle it alone?"
"Because I've got a fucking nine-o'clock meeting."
"Oh, that regent thing. What a joke."
"You have no idea."
His headache had dulled, and the nausea was gone.
With a sigh, like in a dream, Sanji stood up, went to the medicine cabinet, took two aspirin, and swallowed them with a sip of coffee.
His heart beat from his throat to his chest, bounced in his stomach, and exploded in his lungs.
He sat down again, watching the patterns the milk made in the coffee.
"Old man. There’s a chance you’ll need to be ready to fight."
"You say that like I can’t handle it. Remember who taught you to throw a kick, little shit."
Discarded.
You brought your friends here of your own free will.
Capable of any base act.
What kind of mess have you gotten us into, you idiot?
"It could be avoided if I signed a decree. But it’s horrific." His own voice sounded far away, muffled. "I can’t do it, Zeff."
"Then don’t, asshole. We’ll manage, brat."
"I’m sorry."
Zeff didn’t say anything.
Sanji finished his coffee, then stood and looked at the old man, who returned his gaze in silence.
"Old man… I remembered something earlier. Do you remember Olaf?"
Zeff raised an eyebrow.
"Olaf? The head waiter? What about him?"
"I don’t know. He just popped into my head. I wonder what happened to him..."
Zeff lifted his brows slightly.
"You didn’t know? Olaf’s dead. About four years after he left."
"Really?"
"Hung himself."
Weak.
Trash.
Sewer rat.
Sanji went pale.
Zeff looked at him intently.
"He wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t well. Inside, I mean. But I never really understood that kind of stuff. Drink some more coffee."
Sanji drank, watching himself drink, still dazed.
The sun was beginning to rise.
The thought of the meeting hit him like a hammer and spread through his migraine.
"I’ve got to go get ready. Cosette will be here soon. Don’t scare her."
Zeff grunted.
Sanji, head still floating, set down the cup and walked out.

Chapter Text

What really pissed him off about the cook was how he made everything murky and convoluted. As if there were no more right or wrong, good or evil, friends or enemies. Everything had layers, nuances, hues. Everyone had their own version of the story, according to the cook, and every version deserved to be considered. And that was something that drove Zoro absolutely insane. 
Zoro thought it was all bullshit. For him, it was simply a matter of identifying the enemy, defeating them, and moving on toward his dream—and Luffy’s dream. The swordsman never doubted the cook’s loyalty. However, when he had left the crew at Zou, he had had some concern. Because that idiot’s loyalty was strange, tangled, spread across several people at once—people who sometimes were even in conflict with each other.
And besides that, not only did that pompous asshole drag them into things that had nothing to do with them, but he was a jerk about it, too.
Like that night.
Zoro had made a massive effort not to break his face seriously. He was well aware he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but it was clear as day that the cook had basically called him a hypocrite. And if the cook wanted to live in his little fantasy world where he could change things by being kind in a context rotten to the core—well, that didn’t give him any right to drag the crew into that fairy tale world too. The crew already had enemies to defeat and treasures to find. There was no time to waste on this crap.
You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
If the cook was a loser, or felt like one, and liked being melodramatic about it, Zoro couldn’t do anything about it. Just like it wasn’t his responsibility to keep an eye on him or whatever the hell he had asked back in Wano or in this mess now. Zoro’s duty was to protect the crew—even from internal threats. And the cook had acted like a complete jackass.
And that was a clear, indisputable fact.
Still, something didn’t sit right—something Zoro couldn’t define but couldn’t shake either.
Even right after leaving the room to go eat with the others, Zoro had felt he’d done or said something he shouldn’t have. That he’d mistimed something, kicked someone who was already down. He kept telling himself it was a stupid thought—but that feeling stayed with him all evening. And when the cook had sent word that he wasn’t feeling well, and when he realized he wasn’t even in the room, Zoro had needed two bottles of rum to get it down. At least for a while.

When Zoro opened his eyes after hearing the sound of the shower, he saw the wall clock said it was almost six in the morning. The window was slightly ajar. Someone had taken off his boots and laid a blanket over him.
You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
Zoro had spent the entire evening and part of the night wondering what the hell that crap was supposed to mean. At dinner with the others, he’d simply said the cook was tired and things might get rough.
Nami had sighed.
“I figured. Too bad, I really like that bed.”
The sound of the shower stopped, and as the bathroom door opened, Zoro turned to the other side and closed his eyes again. He wrapped himself tighter in the blanket, and that dumb, nagging feeling of having messed up came back, gnawing at his gut.
Fuck off!
And he fell back asleep.

Zoro woke up at eight. His mouth was bitter and his stomach sour. On the nightstand, there was an empty mug, a croissant with jam, and an entire thermos of coffee.
Damn fucking cook.
The bathroom door was slightly open, and from where he was, the swordsman could tell the cook was adjusting his tie and fixing his hair.
Zoro sat up with a grunt and ate the croissant, washing it down with two cups of coffee. When the cook came out of the bathroom, he glanced at him from below without saying a word. His face was pale and tense, with a hint of dark circles and the cut on his lip already beginning to heal.
“If you want to come to this morning’s meeting, you’d better get ready. I’d like to be there a little early.”
Zoro drank a third cup of coffee without replying. Then he stood and headed for the bathroom.
“About yesterday…” the cook murmured as he passed him.
“Yesterday was nothing. You acted like an asshole and I put you in your place. Now let’s get the hell out of this mess.”
The cook snorted through his nose and lowered his head, saying nothing.
Zoro entered the bathroom, took a shower, and got dressed. No one spoke.
Then they made their way to the council room.

Once in the room, the cook settled at the head of the table and Zoro leaned against the wall behind him. The swordsman noticed that the files in front of the cook had changed order: now, on top of them all, there was a volume much larger than the others, with a hard, black cover. As soon as the cook sat down, dragged that large book in front of him, opened it and started reading it. After a few minutes, Goodwin entered the room, and, after greeting the cook coldly, sat down in his place. Sanji was also rather dry, absorbed in reading his tome. Goodwin's gaze became intrigued.
“Regent… are you reading our constitution?”
“Yes.”
Goodwin smirked slightly.
“Can you understand the legal jargon?”
Sanji’s voice sounded tired, on the verge of exasperation.
“I’m still the regent, counselor. Be careful with your insinuations.”
A faint blush rose to the man’s cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything, sire.”
“Sure, of course not.”
A few minutes of dead silence followed. The cook’s back was hunched over that massive book, and Zoro could almost feel the weight of his concentration. It was giving him a headache.
Goodwin, for his part, kept watching him with amused eyes.
“Is it such a thrilling read, sire?”
“You should know better than I do, since you wrote it, counselor. May I speak frankly?”
“Please. As you rightly reminded me, you are the regent.”
“For now. Anyway. I’ve read about fifty pages. Fifty-seven, to be exact. And I can’t help but wonder how the author of something so beautiful ended up being Judge Vinsmoke’s lapdog.”
Zoro couldn’t help but look up.
He went crazy. Damn, Curly went completely crazy. I should’ve hit him harder yesterday.
Goodwin turned bright red. He was gasping, eyes wide and hands gripping the chair’s armrests.
“What…”
“I regret not reading it sooner. You see, I couldn’t sleep last night. It was six in the morning and I had a thought: let’s see what this puppet constitution looks like. And I found this beautiful thing. I’d love to have a copy when I leave. It’s what the law should be. A good thing, meant to guarantee everyone’s well-being without suffocating anyone. It’s sad that Germa was born like this and turned into what it is now.”
Goodwin finally managed to pull himself together. He gave Sanji a sneering little smile.
“A good heart doesn’t go far in politics, sire.”
“I agree,” the cook replied. “But I don’t think it’s about having a good heart, counselor. More about vision. And maybe backbone. That said, it’s still a shame. Because, again, you really wrote a masterpiece. And I apologize if I was rude, but this book describes how things should be. The world would be a better place if what’s written here were applied. And the fact that it’s not—well, again, it’s truly a shame.”
Zoro hadn’t understood much of what they were saying, because all his focus was on being ready to jump in and defend that idiot cook and his goddamn big mouth.
He’s talking like he has nothing left to lose , Zoro thought, boiling. And yet, he couldn’t help but notice that the counselor’s gaze had become sharper, more attentive, as if he was truly evaluating the person before him—seeing him for the first time.
Several minutes of silence passed, then Goodwin spoke again.
“You mentioned a sleepless night, sire. Did you and your sister discuss an action plan?”
“Partly. But mostly, I’ve decided I won’t sign the decree my sister will present this morning.”
Goodwin’s gaze grew even more intense.
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
From his position, Zoro couldn’t see Sanji’s face, but he could hear a slight smile in his voice.
“It’s just a matter of vanity. You see, counselor, I shave every morning. I like looking well-groomed. And to achieve that, I need to be able to look at myself in the mirror.”
Goodwin let out a laugh, and Davenport, who had just entered, looked at him in surprise.

Everyone had arrived. Zoro remained leaning against the wall in a relaxed pose. Still, his right hand rested on his katana in a seemingly casual way. The atmosphere was tense, heavy. Strangely, this time the last person to enter the room wasn’t Pryx, but Reiju, whose face looked even more devastated than the cook’s. It seemed like the princess was trying to catch her brother’s eye, but he refused to meet her gaze.
It was odd.
“Shall we begin?” said Sanji.
Aokiri spoke up, and Zoro thought he was acting weird too.
What the hell is going on?
“There’s news,” announced the counselor, his voice sluggish, almost hesitant. “Last night, spies from Requiem Citadel were identified and arrested. Three men infiltrated by pretending to be clones, and were recognized and arrested by a group of clones who identified themselves as Max, Lith, Stern, Ludik, and Klion. These clones presented themselves as members of the kitchen brigade. They acted entirely on their own, and the spies are now being held in our cells. The prisoners have been placed in separate cells and haven’t said a word since their arrest. We’re now requesting the regent’s authorization to proceed with interrogations.”
All eyes turned to Sanji with the same look of disbelief—which in Reiju bordered on shock. Only Pryx remained impassive.
Zoro watched the cook’s back from the corner of his eye—his rigid posture, the muscles tense under the jacket. That feeling of unease that had followed him all night, that still clung to him, flared up again.
He was right. Fuck, that bastard of a cook was right. Shit, he’s going to tease me about this for the rest of my life.
Sanji let out a sigh.
“If by interrogations you mean torture , counselor, then no—I do not authorize it. The prisoners must remain separated. Give them food and water. The kitchen will handle it. And they must be kept under constant surveillance. That said, let’s proceed with the agenda.”
Sanji’s request was met with total silence.
“Council members,” Tulip intervened, “as you know, my field of interest is the development and enhancement of clone activities. What happened last night was nothing short of revolutionary. It must be examined, understood, nurtured. The last known case of an autonomous clone is the present Pryx. I would say the unorthodox policies pursued by the regent and the princess might lead to a more efficient system, but I can’t say that—because it’s already happened. We cannot miss this opportunity. I renew my support for the regency and Princess Reiju.”
“The regent has my support as well,” added Pryx. “And I propose that he and the princess be entrusted with handling the Requiem Citadel issue, and that we reassess the constitutional amendment allowing the princess to assume the role of regent based on their results.”
“I fully support Counselor Pryx’s proposal,” said Goodwin, under the astonished gaze of Davenport and Aokiri. “Therefore, I propose we reconsider yesterday’s decision and vote, and approach the Requiem Citadel crisis from scratch. Regent, Princess, I’m sorry that you’ve crafted a plan for nothing. But I’m sure you’ll agree that new circumstances call for a new approach.”
Reiju’s expression was both dazed and manic. She seemed on the verge of a breakdown, and Zoro noted how different she looked from the icy princess of previous days.
“Of course, counselor,” the girl replied in a whisper. “Sanji and I will devise a brand-new plan and make the most of the recent developments for an effective and profitable resolution.”
“Of course,” echoed the cook in a flat voice.
The other counselors approved the motion.
Zoro looked around.
So the alarm’s over? Then why the hell do they have to make everything so complicated?
In a lifeless voice, the cook declared the meeting adjourned.

Chapter Text

Zoro hadn’t moved. Only his hands had let go of his sword’s hilt. A faint, bitter smile hovered on his lips.
Damn cook. That idiot had been right.
The room had emptied, except for Zoro, Sanji, Reiju, and Pryx. The clone was the one to speak.
“I’d say that went well.”
“Thank you for your support,” said Reiju, looking bewildered. “You won’t regret it.”
“You’ve always had my support,” the advisor replied. At that, Zoro raised his gaze and stared directly at the clone. He thought he saw the shadow of a smile. It startled him.
“I couldn’t back you yesterday. Not out of personal... sympathy. I’m a clone—my presence here was imposed by the World Government council. Unconditional support from me might have caused you trouble. Even retaliation.”
Zoro watched the cook as he stood and walked toward the advisor to shake his hand. He moved slowly and stiffly, his shoulders slightly hunched. When Zoro saw Sanji’s face, it looked like that of a man on death row who’d just been granted a stay of execution. Even his smile looked ghostly.
Why do you look like that? Zoro thought. You won on all fronts!
“Advisor Pryx, you have neither the duty nor the need to justify your choices to me.”
“I do it for the sake of clarity. It’s one of my design specifications. And I wanted to thank you for dinner the other night. Forgive my boldness, but I sincerely hope I’ll be invited to your table again.”
Sanji’s smile seemed to gain a hint of life.
“You’ll always be welcome, counselor Pryx.”
Pryx left, and Sanji gave Zoro a quick glance. Zoro stepped away from the wall.
Come on, just start mocking me, he urged silently, resigned. Next time I’ll beat the crap out of you anyway.
But Sanji simply pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry, Zoro, but I need to be alone with my sister.”
And he waited in silence for Zoro to leave.

Throughout the meeting, Sanji had felt as if he had been underwater. And not only because he was still struggling to breathe properly, but also because his head had exploded and was rumbling all over. When he had spoken to Goodwin his own voice had reached him like an echo.
What the hell was I thinking, saying all that to him?
Zoro had left, giving him a sidelong glance without saying a word, and now he was alone with his sister. He looked at her, unsure why he had even asked to be alone with her. What he really wanted was just a good, long sleep—not because he was tired, or not just because of that, but because he needed to shut down, to disappear from himself, to not-be.
Reiju’s face was blotchy and her mouth tightly shut. She didn’t look like she’d had a good night either. Sanji couldn’t tell if she was waiting for him to say something or if she was searching for the right words herself. He sighed, and Reiju seemed to take that sigh as a cue.
“Sanji, yesterday I… I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think—”
“I don’t believe that’s entirely true. You did mean to. And you did think. You were very clear about it.”
Reiju’s eyes widened, and Sanji felt as though he were collapsing inward. He’d never seen that expression on his sister’s face before. He had even tried using his Haki, to read her, to understand—but it had only worsened the headache and brought back the nausea. He felt like a lightbulb that had burst from too much voltage.
“I’m sorry, Sanji…”
“I’m sorry too,” Sanji said, his heart filling with pity. And it was true. He truly did feel sorry for her. In fact, it was as if he felt sorry for the whole world—as though he were drowning in a thick, sticky swamp of endless regret. The feeling squeezed what little oxygen was left in his body, and he felt an almost physical need to let some of that sorrow out. If he didn’t, he thought, he would die. And right now, dying was not an option—he had way too much to do.
So Sanji closed his eyes, as if preparing to sleep, and took a deep breath. Then he began to speak, his voice low and distant, but clear:
“I think Judge hurt you too, even if you don’t realize it. Even when I was little, I knew your position was difficult. And I really am sorry that he excluded you from the throne. I’m sorry I was a burden to you, or that my presence reminded you that you’re not like the others.”
He could feel his sister staring at him, but he kept his eyelids tightly shut. He took another deep breath. It felt like someone else was speaking through him. Oddly, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It was as if he had delegated himself to something purer, more real, more honest than his own person. Something that knew him well, and wasn’t afraid to say things as they were through his lips. He let himself go to that sensation.
“For me you are better than others, but obviously you are free to think differently. The only thing I would like to point out is that I have no malicious intentions towards you. I've never had them. I don't think I'm a bad person. I fight every day to be a worthy person. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I realize that I do things that you don't approve of, and that you feel provoked, but for me being here is a mess, and so I answer as best I can. Bad, obviously. And I’m sorry for that, too.”
Sanji felt drunk. At last, he opened his eyes and met his sister’s wide, astonished gaze. He gave a faint smile.
“You have my support and my help. You always will. And I think you and I need to talk, seriously and at length. About Judge, about Mom, about the others, about you. About Germa and its constitution. If that’s okay with you. Just… maybe not now. I’m exhausted.”
He was finished. And now he felt a little more present—which only made him feel worse. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, and when he looked at his sister again, he saw that she was crying. It was the first time in his life he’d ever seen her cry. He even felt a little jealous of it.
He looked at her for a while, mind blank. Then he remembered the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He took it out and offered it to her, and she accepted it without saying a word.
They remained in silence, Sanji massaging his temples, Reiju drying her tears.
“All right, Sanji,” Reiju murmured, though he had no idea what she was referring to. “All right. Let’s go.”
When they stood up and Sanji opened the door to let her out first, there were no hugs, no farewells. Reiju just rushed off to her quarters, while Sanji was greeted by his friends.

They had decided to wait outside the council chamber. Once Sanji came out, they would ask what had happened, and decide what to do next.
The night before, when Zoro had hinted that there might be problems, Nami had tried to talk to Reiju to understand what was going on. But Sanji’s sister had looked exhausted, been evasive, and downplayed everything. That morning, she and Robin had moved their things back to the Sunny—except for the Clima-Tact—then had a light breakfast with the rest of the crew. At 9:10, they all headed to their destination together. Luffy was the only one who had stuffed himself with food while chatting with Zeff, completely unconcerned, convinced that whatever happened, it would all turn out fine.
When the councilors exited the chamber, Luffy cheerfully greeted them all, and Nami greatly enjoyed their awkward embarrassment. The only one who responded was the clone, Pryx, who was either deceptively cunning or genuinely unaware of the threat Zoro had described, since he stopped to chat with Luffy for a good five minutes about future dinners and favorite dishes, acting like nothing had happened. He then took his leave with perfect courtesy, leaving Nami baffled and confused.
Her confusion deepened when Zoro walked out of the chamber looking like he’d been hit with a brick.
“It's all settled” said the swordsman, visibly shaken.
Luffy burst into laughter, then turned to her and Usopp.
“Told you I didn’t screw anything up! And even if I had, Sanji would’ve fixed it no problem. Sanji’s good at that.”
Nami looked at Zoro again, expecting him to elaborate. He gave a shrug, uncertain and puzzled.
“I didn’t really get it. Something about spies and clones and crap and nonsense. Anyway, crisis averted. And Curly’s sister has one more vote.”
“Shishishishi!”
“So now what?” Nami asked. “Where’s Sanji?”
At that moment, the door opened, and while Reiju gave a quick goodbye and hurried off, Sanji looked around as if seeing them for the first time, and then smiled.
Nami thought the cook definitely didn’t look like the winner.
“We pulled it off,” he simply said.
“Sanji-kun, are you okay?”
“Not really, Nami-chan. But don’t worry, my dear goddess. I just need some sleep.”
Nami wasn’t sure what was more worrying—Sanji’s feeble attempt at flirting or the look on his face.
Luffy pouted.
“So we’re not celebrating?”
“Oh, leave him be, Luffy! Can’t you see he’s exhausted? Sanji-kun, are you sure you’re not sick?”
“Thanks, Nami-san, but like I said, just tired. Luffy, maybe we celebrate tonight. Or tomorrow. Actually, let’s do tomorrow. Sound good?”
Luffy looked at the cook for a few seconds, and Nami noticed the captain looked vaguely worried, which sent her into a quiet panic. She turned to Zoro, but he looked just as lost as she felt.
She wanted to ask Sanji what was going on, why he wasn’t happy, why he looked like that—but held back, letting Luffy take the lead.
Luffy gave a small smile.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said, voice soft and calm. “And we’re inviting Pryx too?”
“Of course,” Sanji replied with a yawn.
Luffy’s voice grew even gentler.
“Then tomorrow it is. Now go get some sleep. Captain’s orders!”

Sanji barely made it to his room before a wave of nausea rose in his throat and his legs gave out. With his last bit of strength, he lunged into the bathroom, reached the toilet, and vomited what little he had in his stomach. The spasms clenched his chest and brought tears to his eyes. Sanji welcomed those tears with gratitude, finally able to let out the sob that had been stuck in his throat since the night before.
Feeling completely shattered, he didn’t hold back—he sobbed, whimpered, even let out a few screams. He fully gave in to his grief, allowing himself all the time he needed, inwardly aware that he would have to pull himself together soon. There was a kingdom to manage, a kitchen to run, and a sister to put on the throne.
But now, he had to indulge in his pain, or he would lose his mind. Lying on the bathroom floor, he curled into a fetal position, shielding his head as he had when his brothers used to beat him and mock his weakness.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, without even knowing who the apologies were for—driven by the raw, simple need to make them.
And when the worst had passed, Sanji slowly got to his feet, washed his face and brushed his teeth, took off his jacket, and collapsed onto his cot.
As his eyes closed, he found himself thinking again of Olaf, of the disturbed earth, of the steel box lost forever, of the shit he carried inside and how it was getting harder and harder to handle.
Not now though, he told himself. Not now.
A heavy, dreamless sleep took him.

Chapter Text

That orange-haired witch had finally shoved a box of aspirin into his hand and told him to take them to the cook. From what she’d seen, she explained, the cook might have a bit of a fever.
“Like hell. I’ve been trailing him all morning and now I’m hungry. You take them yourself,” Zoro had replied.
“I have to go fetch my things from the Sunny,” Nami shot back. Then she stared at him for a few seconds. “If you take the box, I might knock five percent off your debt.”
Zoro stared back.
“Ten percent.”
“Deal. And try not to make a mess—Sanji might already be sleeping.”
“Then there’s no point in taking them, is there?”
Nami rolled her eyes.
“If he’s sleeping, just leave them on the nightstand. Honestly, Zoro, what’s it cost you?”
So the swordsman flipped her off and headed back toward his room, stomach growling and irritation brewing.
It costs me because that idiot was right about everything. And now he might be in the perfect mood to mock me. And if I’m going to be mocked, I at least want a full stomach, Zoro thought, but of course he didn’t say anything and started walking.

When he reached the closed door, it felt natural to open it cautiously so as not to make noise—if the cook was sleeping, he’d just drop off the aspirin and be done with it. But as soon as he stepped inside, he was hit by the sound of gut-wrenching sobs coming from the bathroom. It took him a moment to register that it was the cook who was crying. And not just crying—he was choking out apologies with a kind of anguish that left Zoro frozen.
After several long seconds of blind panic, his first coherent thought was that he shouldn’t be here.
The second was that he needed to get out—fast.
The third was that he needed to get out without being noticed. That was the tricky part—Sanji’s Observation Haki was no joke. But the bastard seemed completely swallowed by whatever twisted mess was in his head, so maybe, just maybe, Zoro could manage it.
Holding his breath, the swordsman backed up slowly, slipped out the door he’d left ajar, and shut it without a sound. Then he leaned against the wall in the hallway.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
His hunger vanished instantly. A wave of awkwardness tightened his gut.
There was something big here—something heavy, painful, the kind of thing Robin would know how to handle. And that strange prickling again—that nagging sense he’d done something he shouldn’t—was already back.
Fuck this, he told himself, and, unsure what else to do, decided that once he pulled himself together, he’d go back to the dining hall.
Zoro looked down and realized he’d crushed the aspirin box in his grip. He figured Nami would be pissed—but she was always pissed. So no problem.
Should he tell anyone what he’d just heard? He decided no. Not yet, anyway. The prickling inside him intensified. It wasn’t pity, nor shame. It was something more elusive yet sharper. Definitely deeper. Something that left him even more off balance.
I hate you, you stupid cook. I hate you with all my heart.
He pushed off the wall and walked away from the room.

After what felt like an unmeasurable span of time, Zoro found himself wondering why the dining hall seemed so far from his room—he was sure it wasn’t this far. But he still wasn’t there. It took two more unfamiliar turns and passing a large plant he’d never noticed before for him to admit he was probably lost.
Damn cook. This is all your fault. Next time I hear you sniveling, I’ll come in and punch you for real, so you’ll actually have a reason to cry.
At that point, Zoro figured the only thing to do was keep wandering until he either found the right path or ran into someone who could give him directions. Luck might have decided to cut him a break, because suddenly he thought he heard faint murmuring. At first, he figured it was his crewmates, but then decided they’d be much louder. In the end, it didn’t matter—what mattered was finding his way out of this damned maze. So he quickened his pace toward the voices.

“I think the regent deserves a chance.”
At those words, Zoro froze and pressed himself to the wall. Carefully, he craned his neck around the corner and saw Goodwin, Davenport, and Aokiri in quiet conversation.
“Caspar, have you lost your mind?”
“Quiet, for fuck’s sake!”
The murmuring became indistinct, and Zoro couldn’t move without giving himself away. So he did the only thing he could—he closed his eyes to reduce distractions and focused all his attention on listening.
“…reading the constitution…”
“…pirate…”
“…influence over the girl…”
“…Standish…”
“…coup d’état…”
“…opportunity…”
“…the boy might cooperate…”
“…ask Standish…”
“…the Straw Hat crew…”
“…the spies… experiments from Citadel Requiem…”
“…Prix is clearly on their side…”
Zoro inhaled slowly, exhaling even more slowly, trying to sharpen his hearing, hoping to catch something more coherent.
“…speak with Standish…”
“…wait… deal with the World Government…”
“…Judge Vinsmoke… before he returns…”
“…let’s see how they handle it…”
“…Standish…”
“…buy time.”
The murmuring stopped. Zoro opened his eyes, straightened up, and decided this was the perfect time to step out and ask for directions. Hunger was starting to creep back in.

To his surprise—and to the barely concealed dismay of the other two advisors—General Caspar Goodwin offered to escort him to the hall.
They walked in perfect silence. Zoro was trying to think of a way to squeeze some useful information out of the man, something that might help him make sense of what he’d overheard.
Damn. I need the witches for this one, he thought reluctantly.
“The regent… he’s not the type to mince words, is he?” the advisor tossed out casually.
Zoro decided it was best to stay vague.
“Let’s just say, if he wants to, he can make himself understood.”
Goodwin let out a laugh that sounded genuinely amused, and Zoro eyed him from the side. Suddenly, he realized the man wasn’t that old. His temples were grey, but his build was lean and his posture solid and fluid. He had a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, but nothing more. When Goodwin spoke again, his voice was lighter, almost confidential.
“When I heard he was alive, when they arranged the marriage with Pudding Charlotte, it floored me. The king had said there’d been an accident back then, but I always thought he’d killed him. We all thought he’d killed him.”
Zoro didn’t answer right away. He thought of how, just a few days earlier, he’d seen the memorial portrait in the meeting hall and felt uneasy. Now, hearing that in Germa they’d believed the cook had been killed by his own father added a new layer of confusion he could’ve done without.
What a fucked-up place, Zoro thought again, a kingdom of headcases.
Still, he didn’t want to give the general the sense that he’d been caught off guard or rattled. So he relaxed his shoulders and said flatly:
“I don’t know anything about that. He’s just the crew’s cook.”
Goodwin answered with a little smirk.
“Word is, he’s exceptional.”
“He’s decent.”
Another smirk.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you, Roronoa?”
“No.”
The general chuckled again, this time more subdued.
“This morning the regent mentioned a sleepless night and a decree he refused to sign…”
“I don’t know anything about that either.”
“No need to be so tight-lipped. In the end, given recent events, it doesn’t matter much. Except for the sleepless night, of course—the regent seemed worn out.”
“As I said, General, I know nothing about it. The cook didn’t sleep and now he’s resting. That’s it. When he wakes up, you can ask him yourself.”
The general stopped abruptly and looked at him for a moment. Zoro had no trouble meeting his gaze.
“We’re here,” Goodwin said.
Zoro turned and recognized the dining hall entrance. He thanked and coolly bid farewell to the general, then headed for the buffet. It was almost noon. If he didn’t eat within ten minutes, someone was going to get torn apart.

The buffet was nearly empty, but Cosette managed to improvise a couple of ham sandwiches and a few slices of blackberry tart for him. Old Zeff gave him a sideways glance.
“How’d the meeting go?”
“False alarm.”
“He signed…”
“Didn’t need to.”
The old man grunted. Zoro thought he looked relieved.
“How’s he doing now?” Zeff asked after a moment.
“He was in the bathroom. I think he’s sleeping now.”
Zeff gave a brief nod, then stood.
“Speaking of people sleeping, I’m going to grab a couple hours myself. If that brat doesn’t pull himself together, tonight we’ll be screwed for real.”
Cosette chimed in with a little laugh.
“No, no, Chef Zeff, we really got ahead yesterday. The meat for Captain Luffy’s already marinating, the sides just need cooking. I can handle it fine on my own. Of course, if I had my clones back…”
Zoro gave her a questioning look.
She sighed.
“With all this business about the spies they arrested, they took them away for questioning, or tests, or whatever else. Shame—they were already learning to slice and handle the stoves…”
She handed him the sandwiches with a slightly dejected air. The bread smelled fresh, and inside, along with the ham, were a couple slices of cheese and some lettuce. Zoro’s mouth was already watering.
“I also wanted to ask Sanji something. But apparently today’s a day for setbacks. A real shame,” she told him.

The dining hall had a set of French doors opening onto a neat, modest garden. No flowerbeds, but a lush willow, and beneath it, a bench. Zoro ate there, then dozed for a couple of hours, and finally did some bodyweight training using the bench and the tree. It was only their third day here, but it felt like a month. He threw himself into the exercises with energy, determination—almost anger—wanting to shake off all the ambiguity, all the uselessness, all those stupid itches of the soul, all those damned intrigues that kept him confused.
A kingdom of headcases.
But while the workout drained part of his mental pressure, it also amplified other restlessness—more stubborn, more intimate. It was a dog chasing its tail: physical exhaustion brought mental clarity, but that clarity fed his frustration at the fog surrounding what was happening inside him, what had happened the night before, what had happened that morning—the cook’s sobs, which were only now truly echoing inside him, making him even wonder if he should have done something.
No, I don’t give a damn about the cook. I just want to go back to my room, damn it. And hopefully that idiot’s done by now. I’ll go back and that’s it. Whatever happens, happens.
He kept training for another two hours.

When Zoro, exhausted and dripping sweat, opened the door and saw the room was empty, he felt torn between relief and suspicion that the cook was off doing something stupid.
No, he told himself, Now I’m really losing it. And that’s not good. Enough.
Yet he didn’t even know what he was telling himself to stop—what “losing it” meant or what, exactly, wasn’t good.
He stripped and stepped into the bathroom. The scent of the cook’s cologne still lingered in the air.
Probably pulled himself together and went to the kitchen. Maybe he was just wiped out from all that regent nonsense—sure, makes sense—so he let it out and now he’s fine. Good.
But while his head tried to reassure him, his gut said things were nowhere near that simple. There was too much grief, too much torment for it to be mere exhaustion. And Zoro felt, on one hand, like he was running away; on the other, he didn’t know what he was supposed to face—or even if there was anything to face at all.
You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
Zoro stepped under the shower, closing his eye as the hot water poured over him, and was suddenly gripped by a sense of inadequacy he recognized as not entirely new.
Kuina.
He snapped his eye open, realizing the discomfort he felt now was the same he’d felt when his rival told him he would soon be the stronger one—simply because she was a girl. The force of that realization hit him like a blazing shaft of light, taking hold of his thoughts.
For the first time in his life, as he lathered up, Zoro wondered what would have happened if Kuina had survived the fall—or never fallen at all. He imagined her growing slower as her chest became heavier, or her hips wider. Maybe, on days she had her period, she’d have been more tired. Meanwhile, he would have grown stronger, and yes, she’d have become the weaker of the two. But maybe that damn girl would have found other ways to make up for her physical limits: forcing him to fight in environments favorable to her, taking advantage of his moments of weakness, provoking him psychologically. It wasn’t the same kind of strength or skill they’d focused on back then, but Kuina might still have found a way to keep beating him. Because Kuina wasn’t stupid—just like that damn cook wasn’t stupid.
And so?
Shaken and tired, Zoro stepped out of the shower. That inner light hadn’t vanished completely, but it had dimmed: there were too many things all at once, and he had no idea how to handle them.
So I’ll wait and see, he told himself, a little dazed. For now, I can’t do anything else.
Mind still churning, the swordsman dried off, dressed, and headed to the kitchen. He needed to tell the cook what he’d overheard in the corridors.

Chapter Text

When Zoro arrived in the hall, it was almost dinner time. Nami, looking vaguely annoyed, was sipping an aperitif with Robin while Brook was playing something. The swordsman gave them a curt nod of greeting and strode quickly into the kitchen.
The cook was there. He had a cleaver in his hand and was chopping steaks that Zeff was sealing into vacuum bags and storing in the fridge. He clearly looked better, but still a little pale. Zoro glanced at his hands, reddened from the raw meat.
“It’s absurd that you forgot how to age meat, brat,” Zeff grumbled.
“I didn’t forget, Old Geezer. It’s just that I haven’t done it in ages, because the Sunny isn’t a restaurant and I don’t have the fucking refrigerators for it. I’d risk throwing away half the stuff. If I’m lucky. Not to mention the damned contamination. If something goes bad, I’d have to burn down the whole ship.”
“Then tell the cyborg to install a couple.”
“Sure, and then there won’t be any space for anything else.”
Cosette was watching the process almost hypnotized.
The cook wiped his hands on his apron.
“I’d say the meat is more than enough,” Sanji said. Then he turned directly to the girl:
“Now we need to be careful that the fridge doesn’t go below zero or above four degrees. The meat must be checked often, we have to stay vigilant, otherwise the bacteria will make a mess of things, and we’ll have to throw everything away. If everything goes as it should, in about ten days, when we reach Requiem Citadel, we’ll have a decent level of aging and, once we solve this whole mess and my sister gets the missing vote, we can enjoy some tender, flavorful steaks and put an end to this regency bullshit.”
Zeff looked at the fridge critically.
“Anyway, dry-aging is a whole different thing.”
“Do we look like we’re in a butcher’s shop, Old Man? And by the way, how the hell did it even occur to you to start aging meat out of nowhere? You still owe me an explanation.”
Zeff shrugged.
Zoro snorted.
“So, if we’re lucky, we have to stay another ten days in this shitty place?”
The cook looked at him for a few seconds.
“If things stay as they are, I’m afraid so.”
“Great, what a load of crap.”
No one said anything for a few minutes. When the cook finished storing the meat, he washed his hands.
“I’m trying to speed things up. To figure out who I need to pressure to get that damn missing vote. Tomorrow I’ll meet with Aokiri to decide how to proceed with the prisoners. And, Cosette, making sure you get your brigade back will be my priority.”
Cosette clapped her hands, enthusiastic.
“Thank you, Sanji!”
Then she went out with Zeff to set the table for dinner.

Zoro and Sanji were left alone. The cook was cleaning the counter where they had worked on the steaks.
What the hell do I do now? thought the swordsman. Then he asked:
“And your sister, in the meantime?”
Sanji sighed.
“I’m counting on my sister to do her part.”
“If she screws up…”
Sanji nodded, then raised his face toward him and looked him straight in the eyes.
Zoro tried to recall the last time he had seen the cook so serious. Nothing came to mind.
“If she screws up, we’ll act accordingly,” Sanji answered quietly.
Zoro told himself the cook looked sharp, focused, reactive, present. That was a good thing.
When the cook finished cleaning the work surface, he put the cloth down and looked for something else to do. He found some peas and started shelling them, as if the task demanded his full attention.
I spit blood just to stay standing.
Zoro told himself he should have felt relieved, but strangely, he didn’t.

For dinner they had prepared ribs, potatoes, vegetables, and even some pizza, both with bacon and with ham. Naturally, both Zeff and Cosette joined the crew at the table, while Sanji stayed behind in the kitchen to finish preparing the meals for the three prisoners and hand them over to the guards.
To Zoro, it seemed like an excuse to be alone, and he decided to take advantage of the situation to tell the cook what he had overheard in the morning. So he stayed with him, waited for the guards to leave, and recounted his encounter.
Sanji crossed his arms, vaguely frowning.
“Standish. I had a feeling he wasn’t here just to keep an eye on things. And what did you make of Goodwin?”
“An asshole.”
Sanji grabbed a slice of pizza too burnt to serve and bit into it.
“Could you elaborate on that concept?”
Zoro huffed. He hated that kind of question.
“How the hell should I know… he talked and didn’t talk. Asked me about the decree you didn’t want to sign. Other than that, I didn’t get much.”
Sanji smiled.
“Your thickheadedness couldn’t have been more convenient. He was testing the waters. Are you sure they talked about giving me a chance?”
“I already told you. Are you deaf or just stupid?”
“Fuck you. From what I think I understood, those three are plotting a coup and are considering bringing me in. Maybe they’ll try to convince my sister too. What I really don’t like is that they hinted at Standish. What a fucking mess!”
“So we’re screwed?”
At that question, the cook blushed a little, then looked Zoro straight in the eyes. He seemed sorry, and that rekindled the swordsman’s tormenting sting.
“I have no idea,” the cook answered softly. “I know you don’t like that answer, but that’s how it is. I need to think about it. And get more information.”
Zoro didn’t press further. The cook had seemed a bit defensive, vaguely tense, as if he had to weigh every word that came out of his mouth, every movement of his body. The swordsman told himself it was probably just the situation, but the cook’s attitude—more cautious, more withdrawn into himself—told him that wasn’t it, and that he, Zoro, was only considering the explanations most convenient for him.
“More than anything, I want to know if we should put the others on alert,” the swordsman replied. “This morning it looked like the apocalypse was about to hit, and instead nothing happened. Better that way, of course. Still, it’s a mess.”
“I’m doing what I can,” the cook muttered, biting into another discarded slice of pizza.
Zoro watched him. He felt the impulse to do something, but he didn’t know what. It seemed like his only option was to stay there, with him, watching him, and he didn’t like that.
“Maybe we could talk to Luffy. Sometimes that idiot’s like a damn oracle.”
Sanji gave a short laugh.
“Not a bad idea,” he said thoughtfully. “You tell him to stay behind after dinner, now that you’re going back to the others?”
Zoro felt dismissed.
“You’re not coming?” he threw in.
Sanji looked at him as if surprised by the question. Then he smiled.
“I’ve got things to do here. But you go, before Luffy devours everything.”

Later, when Luffy came into the kitchen to talk, Zeff grimaced at the idea of discussing politics there.
“This is a place for cooking. You shouldn’t be talking state affairs here. Nor making plans for a revolution.”
“It’s just to save time, Geezer. You can leave if you want,” Sanji replied.Zeff only grunted in response, grabbed a chair, turned it around, straddled it, resting his chest against the backrest, arms crossed and chin settled on top.
Sanji and Cosette were finishing with the pots and loading the plates into the dishwasher, Zoro was leaning against the wall, and Luffy had approached the aging fridge, staring hungrily at the steaks inside.
“Stay away from there, idiot!” Sanji shouted as soon as he saw him. “If you mess up the meat, I swear I won’t be responsible for what happens!”
Luffy’s mouth was watering.
“When will we get to eat it?” he asked.
Sanji folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the captain.
“Ten days. Not before. I mean it, Luffy. Stay away from it.”
Luffy pouted but obeyed.
Sanji checked the fridge’s temperature. Two degrees. Everything was fine. Then he turned to Cosette.
“Tomorrow we’ll have to really get busy,” he told her, “since I promised the captain a party. And that party will keep us occupied all day. I’ll handle things here. You can go…”
“Couldn’t I stay and help?” the girl asked timidly. “I’ll wait in the hall and come back when you’re done.”
“You can stay, Cosette,” Luffy jumped in with a smile. Then he turned to Sanji: “It won’t be long anyway, right? I can already tell it’ll be a boring talk.”
“Then we’ll keep it short,” the cook sighed.

As soon as Zoro finished telling everything, Sanji launched into his theories.
“If they want to rope me into a coup, it might be a complication, or not. One possibility, unlikely but still worth considering, is that Reiju supports the idea. That would solve all our problems: she becomes regent, and we leave. Another possibility is that Standish supports the conspirators against my sister. That complicates things. Honestly, I can’t bring myself to abandon her.”
Sanji rubbed his eyes. Then he looked first at Zeff, then at Luffy, then at Zoro, as if to apologize. Zoro felt embarrassed and turned his gaze toward the captain, who gave the cook a nod of approval, while Zeff remained impassive.
Sanji went on.
“Another hypothesis is that Standish is colluding with Judge, and that opens the gates of chaos. Or maybe they don’t want me in, they want me out—and that opens another kind of chaos. And then there are the experiments at Requiem Citadel. And here, I can’t risk guessing until I speak with Aokiri and the prisoners. I was thinking of bringing them food, and—”
Cosette raised her hand to speak. Sanji nodded for her to go ahead.
“I don’t think you should be the one to bring them food.”
Sanji looked at her, puzzled.
Cosette smiled.
“You’re clearly a Vinsmoke. You can be as kind as you want, but they’ll never trust you,” she said simply, pointing to her eyebrows. “I’ll bring them food. I’m a servant, and I hate this place. With me they’ll feel more at ease. Maybe they’ll open up a little.”
“Absolutely not,” Sanji retorted.
“Actually, it might be a good idea. I like spy-Cosette! You’ll have a blast! Shishishishi!” Luffy chimed in.
“Since there are three of them, I could also tell old Époni, and then we’d need a third person,” Cosette went on. “And I think it would be better if it were a woman.”
“I’ll talk to Nami tomorrow,” Zoro muttered. “She’s been having too much fun.”
“Nami-san doesn’t—”
“Then it’s settled!” Luffy declared. “And the prisoner matter is solved.”
“What’s left to figure out is the coup,” Zeff grunted. “But honestly, talking about that in a kitchen?”
“Welcome to Germa, Old Man,” Sanji sneered. “Tomorrow I’ll try to figure out what Aokiri wants. And I’d say we should invite Goodwin to the party too.”
Zoro gave the cook a perplexed look.
“He tested the waters with you, we’ll test the waters with him,” Sanji explained, curling his lips. “Good food, an informal setting… maybe some wine…”
“Perfect! We’ll become the best of friends!” Luffy exploded.
Sanji looked at the captain, baffled.
Shortly after, the meeting was declared over, and, one by one, everyone left the room.
Zoro was the last to go, leaving Sanji and Cosette alone.

The two cooks began washing the knives.
“Seriously, Cosette. You don’t have to feel obligated. It could be dangerous.”
The girl sighed.
“But I want to do it, Sanji. Even Époni says we need to do something. Otherwise, we’ll just become victims. Weaker and weaker. More and more powerless. And she’s old, no one bothers her, and even so, she wants to do something. She’s been telling me ever since I told her about my brigade. And I’ve thought about it. I’ve been thinking about it all day. If even my brigade managed to do something, why can’t we?”
Sanji said nothing. He was still too tired to use his Haki at full strength, though it would have been useful in that context. Still, relying only on his intuition was good practice. From the moment they had started preparing dinner, it had been perfectly clear to him that Cosette needed to talk, and he had decided to listen to everything she had to say.
“Sanji, is it true that you hit Niji Vinsmoke, after he beat me? That you kicked him and slammed him into the wall? Époni says she saw him with a bruised face. I was talking to her today and it came back to me, and I thought—if we don’t do anything, then we become accomplices. Époni says success isn’t even the main thing, what matters is trying.”
Sanji reflected that, in the few days he had been in Germa, when he wasn’t acting as regent, he was in the kitchen—mainly with Cosette. From the start, he had found himself identifying with this girl, his peer, who had never left Germa. And he realized, with some certainty, where her speech was leading.
“Sanji, teach me. Teach me how to kick. You’ll be here for another ten days. And I know you can’t teach me to be strong in just ten days, but it’s enough for me to try. I’ll work hard. You know I work hard. If he comes back and attacks me, I want to be able to do something. I know I won’t beat him, I know he’ll hurt me, but I want to fight back. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
The cook let out a deep sigh.
“Cosette. I appreciate the trust, but I don’t think I can teach you anything, especially in the little time we have. Some things are beyond my ability, and teaching you to fight is one of them.”
Cosette stepped closer.
“You’re saying it’s beyond your ability to teach me to be stronger? Can’t or won’t? Why won’t you? I know it’s impossible to learn everything I need in so little time. But I want to try. I want to be able to say I tried. I know you’ve got things to do, and a lot on your mind, but…”
“Cosette, that’s not it.” Sanji finished drying the last knife, then started cleaning a stovetop that to Cosette already looked spotless.
“Listen, ask Zeff. Or Nami. Nami is really strong.”
Cosette stepped even closer, eyes blazing with determination.
“They don’t know what it’s like to live here! They don’t know Germa! They don’t know the Vinsmokes! They can’t teach me anything. Only you can.” Cosette paused for a moment, took a breath, then rushed through the words.
“And I swear, Sanji, I swear I won’t leave you alone until you say yes. I’ll follow you to your room, I’ll pester you in the kitchen, I’ll even stalk you in the bathroom if I have to.” She took another breath, then concluded:
“I’ll seriously bust your balls, Sanji. You have no idea how good I am at busting balls.”
At that, Sanji turned toward Cosette and raised his eyebrows, incredulous.
Damn, she meant it.
Her fists were clenched, brow furrowed, and she looked ready to headbutt him in the nose.
“I just want to get a little stronger. And it’s not fair for you to leave me behind. You think I can’t learn? That I’m not worth teaching? That I’m too weak for your effort? I know I’m useless, a failure so—”
Sanji slammed his fist against the counter.
“Cosette! Don’t say that! Don’t ever say you’re a failure, not even as a joke!”
Cosette’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t move an inch, fiercer than ever and ready to start again if needed. And in fact:
“But I am. I am, because I can’t defend myself. Because all I do is run. Sanji, if you don’t—”
Sanji raised a hand,
“Cosette. Enough now.”
Sanji ran his hand over his face. Then he glared at her for a moment.
He remembered the first time he saw her, flinching from a plate that had been thrown straight at her face. A plate he had intercepted. And the result of his intervention had been finding her unconscious, brutally beaten because of that action.
A thought struck Sanji’s mind with the force of a well-placed kick.
I’ll get it out of your head that you’re a failure. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
Sanji stayed still for a few seconds, gaze lowered. The silence grew heavy, and even Cosette stopped breathing deeply.
Then he inhaled slowly, closed his eyes for an instant, and when he opened them again, the decision was already there.
“Okay. We’ll try. We’ll start tomorrow afternoon, around four. I’m not promising you anything.”
Cosette smiled, raised her fists in victory, and then went on tidying the last things.
Sanji watched her with his arms crossed, wondering what new fucking mess he had just gotten himself into.
She had started humming.

Chapter Text

Nami was puzzled. Apparently, Sanji, Zeff, and Cosette had prepared two breakfasts: a richer one in the dining room, and a simpler one set up on the table outside.
When Zoro had knocked on her door about five minutes earlier, Nami was already dressed, and when she opened the door and saw the swordsman’s face, the last thing she expected was for him to say:
“You need to give the cook a hand. It’s about bringing food to some prisoners.”
“I waited for you for an hour yesterday, after I gave you those aspirin,” the navigator hissed back. “An hour. Forget about cutting down your debt.”
Zoro shrugged.
“The cook needs a hand,” he repeated. “It might help us get the hell out of here. Are you in or not? If you’re not, I’ll ask the other witch.”
Nami stared at Zoro’s blank face for a few seconds.
“Why are you the one asking me? And why are you telling me only now?”
Zoro sighed.
“Because the cook’s in the kitchen right now, and we only talked about it last night. Luffy was there too. So, are you in or not?”
Nami thought back to Sanji’s face the day before.
“How is he?”
“Damn witch, come down to breakfast and see for yourself. Are you in or not?”
Of course she was.

When she and Zoro sat outside, Cosette sat next to her.
“We’re outside because Sanji thinks there are microphones in the kitchen and dining room.”
Thrown off balance by that revelation, Nami grabbed a croissant from the small tray the girl had handed her.
Zeff joined them, carrying jams. He looked annoyed.
“At five-thirty they came to bust my balls. Some servant of some counselor, I don’t know which,” the old man grumbled to Nami, then turned to Cosette. “To reschedule some meeting or other and to tell you that tomorrow you’ll get your brigade back.”
“So today it’s just us. And tonight there’s the party. Shit!” Cosette hissed.
Zeff raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t worry about that, girl. The brat and I already prepped lunch and got ahead with the dinner. What really spooked the brat was that this waiter showed up practically at dawn to talk to you, when you start later. He thinks they knew they’d find someone in the kitchen and sent that guy to check up or something like that. Luckily he didn’t flip out, but he started going on about microphones. Wanted us to talk near the fridges, so the noise would cover the bugs. I told him not to bust my balls and set up a table outside. If they bugged the air too, who gives a damn.”
“Anyway, it was Aokiri,” Zoro cut in.
“What?” asked Zeff.
“The counselor who postponed the meeting. He’s one of the coup guys too. Deals with the clones as well.”
“So it has nothing to do with the one the brat has to deal with tonight?” the old man asked.
“No, that’s Goodwin. Easy to mix them up, though. They’re both pieces of shit. Maybe Aokiri a little more.”
Nami felt dizzy, overwhelmed. Microphones, coup d’état, prisoners to feed. Zoro remembering two names. Cosette’s clones. That night’s party, which apparently wasn’t just a party. The navigator had hoped to find coordinates, to draw a map of the situation, and instead she was in the middle of chaos.
And in all this, Sanji was still in the kitchen.
“Well, fine. But if they don’t give me back my brigade tomorrow…” Cosette muttered.
Is it just me, or is she acting more confident? Nami thought, watching the girl from the corner of her eye.
“If they don’t give you your brigade back, Cosette, I’ll raise hell,” said Sanji, who was escorting a cheerful, buxom woman to her seat.
“That’s Époni,” Cosette explained to Nami. “She used to be Sanji’s mother’s maid. She’ll be helping us too.”
Sanji sat down next to Époni and across from Nami, who smiled at him as he sat. The cook returned the smile.
“Nami-san,” he said, “thank you so much for your help.”
“You know I’m glad to, Sanji-kun,” the navigator replied. “Are you feeling better?”
“I got some rest,” the cook said.
That’s not an answer, Sanji-kun, Nami thought, but said nothing.
So they began to talk about what to do with the three spies.

They talked while having breakfast. The plan was that each of them would bring food to a different prisoner at each meal. The following morning, around the same time, the three infiltrators would meet with Sanji again to exchange impressions.
“Remember,” the cook said, mostly to Cosette and Époni, “the most important thing is your safety. We don’t know who we’re dealing with, and we don’t know their intentions. Don’t take risks and keep a safe distance. Just observe. And let’s cross our fingers, hoping we can get something useful out of it.”
“Well then, I’d say that’s enough intrigue for the morning,” Zeff cut in. “Now let’s have a proper breakfast.”
No one dared disobey, and the rest of the meal went by fairly calmly.
Nami realized she would have to find her own coordinates.
And that made her feel even more determined.

When breakfast was over, while the cook and Zeff had gone off to tidy up the dishes and finish preparing lunch, Zoro started doing some bodyweight exercises. He was annoyed: he hadn’t slept much the night before, and he had noticed that the cook hadn’t slept at all. The swordsman found himself thinking that if being king meant living like this, Luffy, once he became Pirate King, would end up abdicating within a week, maybe less.
Of course, the cook had never fought to be a king, while Luffy wanted it with all his heart, just as Zoro truly wanted to become the strongest swordsman in the world.
What the cook wanted, instead, was to find a place he had read about in a fairy tale book.
What a stupid dream, he thought, then forced himself to focus on a sequence with his katanas to push the thought away. Zoro realized he had been disrespectful, maybe even a bit cruel, certainly unfair.
You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
Zoro lunged a bit too forcefully, and Wado Ichimonji’s blade stuck into the willow’s wood.
Get yourself a real goal, shitty cook, and you’ll see how things change.
Zoro pulled the blade free and wiped off the sap.
At that moment, the cook stepped out of the kitchen and lit a cigarette. While smoking, he examined two sponge straps he had brought with him, testing their resistance and checking their length. He took off his jacket and did a few small hops, as if he wanted to warm up and release his nerves at the same time. Zoro watched him with curiosity for a few minutes, then approached.
“Want to spar?” he asked.
“Thanks, but no,” the cook replied, rolling his shoulders and neck. “I’ve got something else to do.”
Zoro looked at him, curious.
“I have to meet with Cosette. Since the meeting with Aokiri was canceled, we moved it up. She should be here in about fifteen minutes.”
Zoro’s expression grew puzzled. The cook smiled.
“She asked me to give her a hand with something, and I was dumb enough to say yes. Stick around if you want. You might even make yourself useful.”
“Fuck off. No way I’m playing third wheel.”
At that, the cook stared at him in disbelief for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. He was still laughing when Cosette joined them, coming out from the dining room.

Cosette had arrived ten minutes early: she didn’t want to waste Sanji’s time. She understood that the commitment he had taken with her had cost him an effort, and she wanted to prove to him it would be worth it. She would give everything, accept any schedule, obey any order. She thought arriving early would be a clear show of goodwill, so she was taken aback when she was greeted by Sanji’s laughter and Zoro’s confused expression—she hadn’t expected to find him there. She looked at both of them, waiting for instructions.
 When Sanji saw her, he composed himself and greeted her.
 “Cosette! You’re early. If that’s fine with you, let’s start right away, so we can work a bit more. What do you say?”
 Cosette nodded and followed Sanji to a grassy patch of the garden. The cook then set the sponge straps he was holding down on a nearby bench. Cosette looked at them with worry. The cook noticed and laughed again.
 “Relax, I don’t think we’ll need them. I brought them because I don’t want you moving your hands around too much; they might distract you,” he explained. “When Zeff taught me what I’m about to teach you, I was almost ten years old. The old man had decided it was time I learned to defend myself, and of course, the first thing he did was start kicking me.”
 Cosette’s eyes widened, and Sanji gave a short laugh, raising his hand to show he didn’t want to be interrupted.
 “The problem was that I was too stiff, so he kindly took a step back and made me play the ‘salami game’...”
 “What kind of dumb name is that?” Zoro grumbled.
 “Ask Zeff, not me. Anyway, the old man took me into an empty room at the Baratie with the floor covered in cushions, tied me up tightly, and started pushing me to the ground. After a couple of days, we moved on to bare floors.”
 A faintly nostalgic smile touched the cook’s lips.
 “At first, when you asked me to teach you, I thought about giving you a little of everything. Then I figured it’s better if you learn to do one thing well than fifteen things badly. And I decided that the most important thing to learn is how to fall properly, because falling properly reduces damage, gives you control, and lets you react by using your opponent’s energy instead of wasting your own. You following me?”
 Cosette nodded.
 Sanji smiled more firmly.
 “Good. As I said, when I did this exercise I was nine, and controlling my body was harder. Back then, Zeff tied my wrists, arms, and knees. Since you’re twenty, you shouldn’t need external restraints. We’ll only use the straps if necessary. Now, cross your arms in front of you, each hand resting on the opposite shoulder, like a mummy in its sarcophagus,” Sanji said, showing her the position.
 “So we’re moving from the salami game to the 'mummy game',” Cosette said with a smile, trying to ease her nerves and doing as she was told.
 “Still dumb names,” Zoro muttered.
 “Perfect,” Sanji continued, ignoring him. He slowly positioned himself in front of Cosette, giving her the final instructions to help her assume a stable stance without spreading her legs too much. The girl had the impression the cook was stalling. Finally, when everything seemed in place, Sanji crossed his arms over his chest and looked Cosette straight in the eye.
 “Now I’m about to do something that violates the most essential of my personal laws,” he said. “And when yesterday I told you teaching you was beyond my limits, I was talking about this very law of mine. I want you to keep that in mind.”
 Sanji closed his eyes for a few seconds.
 Cosette focused all her attention.
 Zoro was staring at them wide-eyed.
 “Now, Cosette,” the cook explained more softly, opening his eyes, “I’m going to push you to the ground three times. I need to see how you fall without instructions, and figure out which aspect of your fall we should start working on.”
 Cosette felt her heart pounding in her throat.
 “What…”
 And Sanji, after a deep breath, shoved her square in the chest.
Cosette instinctively stiffened her legs and leaned forward, then landed on her backside, a dull ache spreading from her tailbone up her spine.
 “Ouch!” she yelped.
 “Exactly, ouch, because that was a terrible fall,” the cook said, his cheeks flushed. “If you fall like that, you won’t last long, Cosette.”
 At his words, Cosette burst out laughing, partly from the tension, but mostly because her fall must have looked absolutely ridiculous.
 Sanji immediately helped her up, and the girl felt that her laughter had eased him too.
 “I’m glad you can laugh about it,” he said with a faint smile. “Now I’ll push you a couple more times. Try to bend your legs, as if you wanted to roll onto your back. I want to see what you can do on your own. Then I’ll show you properly.”

Zoro had been watching with wide eyes, his hands over his mouth. He was completely shaken, overwhelmed, shocked.
The cook was about to push Cosette the second time when he turned to him.
 “Listen, Zoro, I’m thinking Cosette might keep landing on her tailbone, and that’s not good for her. Would you mind standing behind her? If you see she’s about to fall badly, guide her down.”
 Zoro obeyed. He felt like he was in a trance.
Shit. The cook just pushed a girl. Made her fall.
So, as he’d said, Sanji shoved Cosette two more times. On the second push, she was already able to curl up a bit more, so the swordsman didn’t need to intervene.
 “Better already,” the cook commented cautiously. “Now let me show you properly.”
He motioned to Zoro and stood in front of him, legs close together, hands in the same position Cosette had held.
The cook just knocked a girl down. Three times. In a row.
“Okay, Marimo, push me hard.”
 Zoro obeyed—or rather, he thought he did, because Sanji barely wavered and then observed him for a few seconds.
 “Oi, mosshead! You with us? Since when is that a push?” the cook asked, faintly smiling, his cheeks still a bit flushed, looking vaguely nervous. Since Zoro didn’t respond, Sanji stared at him a moment longer, his worry becoming clearer.
 The swordsman still couldn’t believe it.
He pushed her.
Zoro couldn’t explain why he was so unsettled by that fact. Ever since he’d known the cook, he’d always thought that vow of his—not to hit women—was total bullshit, and even Nami, for once, had agreed.
 Suddenly, he remembered hearing the cook cry the morning before.
He knocked her down. On the ground. She asked for his help, and he said yes.
The cook turned to the girl, laughing to mask his unease.
 “Looks like we traumatized him with the 'mummy game', Cosette!”
 The girl laughed at the joke, then turned to Zoro, calm.
 “Zoro, I didn’t get hurt. I asked him to teach me. I even threatened to follow him to the bathroom to convince him! And I’m very grateful to you too, for helping me.”
The swordsman couldn’t process what was happening. He never would have expected it. And he hadn’t expected to be this shaken by it.
She asked for his help, and he’s helping her. Even if it goes against his principles. Shit.
Sanji turned back to Zoro, concern behind his smile.
“Marimo… I should be the shaken one, don't you think?” the cook whispered, leaning slightly closer.
You're with the strong, I never will be.
Zoro suddenly snapped out of it, and shoved the cook as hard as he could. After a split second of surprise, Sanji bent his legs in a controlled way, rolled onto his back, and got back to his feet. Cosette was mesmerized, unconsciously trying to mimic Sanji’s movements.
 “Oh, finally, Marimo!” the cook said, laughing with relief. Then he turned to Cosette. “Unfortunately, it’s not something that can really be explained. At best, I can point out where you’re making mistakes and help you improve, but falling is something you learn only by falling. Now, if Marimo helps me, I’ll show you three more times, and then I’ll push you again. Sound good?”
 Cosette nodded, absorbed.
 “So basically, from what I understand, when I fall I have to relax.”
 Sanji thought for a moment.
 “Almost. It’s more about accepting that you’ve been pushed and figuring out how to use that to your advantage. Or at least limit the damage. Kind of like when you want to fry eggs but the yolk breaks, so you scramble them instead and play with the spices, and maybe they even turn out good. It’s not something you decide with your head; it just comes naturally. You have to feel it in your body. And to feel it, you’ve got to do it over and over and over.”
 Cosette frowned in thought.
 “Okay. Show me again?”
 “Three times. Then I’ll push you.”
 “I’m ready.”
 And Sanji, with Zoro’s help, showed her.

After forty-five minutes, Cosette’s hair was full of grass and she probably had a big bruise on her backside, but she had never been so happy in her life. Zoro had only needed to step in three times, and Sanji had told her that maybe, in a couple of days, he would let her try the 'mummy game' on a hard floor. Her legs felt sore and her shoulders stiff from repeating movements that didn’t come naturally, but she kept reminding herself that she was learning, and that the fact Sanji explained things to her over and over again, showing her every tiny movement in detail and without losing patience, meant she was worth teaching. Cosette had never felt so proud of herself.
When Sanji finally guided her through some exercises to stretch and strengthen her muscles, Cosette promised herself she would do them every day, back in the dormitory, even on her own. She wanted Sanji to teach her as much as possible, and she understood there was no time to waste. She felt overcome by a surge of energy she had never experienced before.
To top it all off, Sanji let her try some kicks. Front kicks, thrust kicks, side kicks, roundhouse kicks. Zoro would place his hand where she was supposed to hit, like a target, while Sanji corrected her stance and showed her how to do it. By the end, her first lesson had lasted over an hour, and Cosette felt tired and euphoric at the same time.
“Oi, brats.”
How long had Chef Zeff been there? Cosette wondered.
The old man was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame of the glass door.
“Quit fooling around and go get cleaned up. There’s work to do for tonight.”
Cosette turned toward Sanji, who looked like a child caught stealing chocolate.
“Thank you so much, Sanji,” she said with a small bow. “I learned a lot. I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.”
Then she ran off toward the dormitory, stopping only long enough to greet Zeff with a nod of her head.
The old man hadn’t taken his eyes off Sanji, who, as he passed him, shrugged and muttered in embarrassment:
“She asked me.”
The old man grunted, and when Sanji had gone, he turned to Zoro:
“And what exactly do you plan on doing?”
Zoro looked up at Zeff from below.
“My own damn business.”
The two stared at each other for a few seconds, as if sizing each other up. More than anything, Zoro had the impression he was being tested. Almost as if by reflex, the swordsman picked up his katanas and began to practice.
The old man watched him for a few minutes, then went back to the kitchen.

Chapter Text

While he was taking a shower, Sanji thought that Ivankov would have been proud of him. During that sleepless night in which he had wondered what the hell he should do with Cosette, tormenting himself over the inevitable consequences that teaching her how to fight would bring, Sanji had unexpectedly found some comfort in the thought that Emporio Ivankov would wholeheartedly approve.
Iva, when we meet again, maybe I’ll propose a new recipe for you. The hundredth one.
Of course, Sanji wasn’t entirely at peace with himself, but he felt it had been worth it. Cosette’s look, her determination, her commitment, were things that had pleased him, but the most important part was that he had sensed that girl finally felt skilled, capable, brave. She had challenged herself and come out with her head held high. Sure, Sanji had sacrificed a part of himself, but what he had received was worth far more than what he had chosen to give away.
If Zeff really had something to say about it, he would have kicked me right away. And anyway, I don’t regret anything.
For that whole quarter of an hour under the water, every thought not linked to pride in Cosette’s efforts had been put on hold: the microphones, the prisoners, Aokiri postponing an important meeting without apparent reason, the party, his sister he hadn’t seen since they’d talked, Citadel Requiem… all of that could wait another five minutes. Maybe even ten.
Yeah, let’s enjoy it. Germa will find a way to smash my teeth in anyway.
When Sanji stepped out of the shower and saw Zoro lying on the bed with his ankles crossed and his hands behind his head, he smiled at him.
“All good?” he asked.
“Didn’t expect that,” the swordsman replied, with a hint of a smile. “Never would have expected it. I remembered what you asked me back in Wano, and again when we first got here, and I thought maybe I should’ve killed you.”
Sanji gave a short laugh.
“Yeah. Maybe I should’ve told you, actually. But I didn’t have it clear in my own head either.”
They stayed silent for a few seconds, while Sanji put on his pants and shirt. He could feel the swordsman’s gaze stuck on him.
“Anyway, it went well, didn’t it?” Zoro said suddenly. “She seemed happy.”
Sanji grabbed a tie and put it on while looking at himself in the mirror.
“She worked hard and stayed focused. And she’s motivated to keep at it. That’s the most important thing.”
“You think she has talent?”
Sanji turned toward Zoro with a surprised look.
“You believe in talent? Really? You, who train twenty-four hours a day?” he asked.
Zoro met the cook’s gaze with a perplexed half-smile.
“You don’t?”
“I think that if having certain skills becomes a matter of life or death, you’ll force talent into existence, unless we’re talking about physical or mental limits so severe they’re indisputable. But even then, if you want it badly enough, you’ll find an alternative way.” Sanji grabbed a waistcoat and went back to the mirror. “Honestly, for me it’s not even worth discussing. Keep your head down and work, that’s what Zeff taught me—in the kitchen, in kicks, and in everything else. The rest is just talk.”
Sanji wondered whether to put on a jacket. He decided not to, since he’d have to take it off soon anyway.
“They’re serving onigiri for lunch too,” he said to Zoro, not knowing why. “Now I’ve got to get to the kitchen.”
And he left the room.

Before heading to the kitchen, Sanji decided to check on his sister, maybe update her on the latest news—especially about the coup and the role Standish might have in the organization. Once he reached her door, hoping Reiju would be willing to talk, Sanji knocked.
No sign of life.
The cook knocked a second time.
This time the door cracked open. Époni’s face appeared, and he was surprised.
“So now you’re my sister’s personal maid?” he asked after greeting her.
“Yes. She requested it herself, right after your marriage to Pudding Charlotte… ended the way it did.”
Sanji smiled. He tried to peek through the narrow gap Époni had left open, but she had opened it just enough. Sanji considered using his Haki, but it felt petty and disrespectful.
“I’d like to speak with my sister. Is that possible?”
The old woman looked distressed.
“The princess doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“It’s state business, as you well know. It’s important she knows what’s happening.”
The maid leaned her face toward him.
“The princess isn’t well, Sanji.”
The cook’s eyes tried to probe inside the room—tried, at least.
“What do you mean?”
Époni motioned for him to lower his voice.
“Physically there’s nothing wrong, of course. But she’s all shaken up. She’s brooding over something, though I can’t tell what, exactly.”
The cook rubbed a hand over his face.
“Is she at least eating?”
Époni smiled.
“I’m taking care of that. Don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Époni. Truly.”
Sanji stayed silent for a few seconds.
“So there’s no way I can talk to her?”
“I’m afraid not, Sanji.”
Sanji took a deep breath.
“Tell me—does she not want to see anyone, or does she not want to see me?”
Époni widened her smile, reached out, and gave his arm a small, affectionate pat.
“She’s just very confused, Sanji. And if you ask me, that’s not a bad thing. You need to give her some time.”
Sanji nodded.
Époni leaned a bit further out the door.
“And if I may ask you a favor… if you could manage to convince that damned Marine to leave her alone…”
Sanji’s eyes sharpened.
“Marine? You mean Commodore Standish?”
“I don’t know his name, Sanji. But between yesterday and today he’s come here at least ten times, the last about half an hour ago. Yesterday he threatened to break the door down. He keeps insisting he has to speak with the princess, absolutely. He said he’d be back within an hour, and that he would demand to speak with her.”
Sanji kept watching Époni, prompting her to go on.
“It’s not that she’s afraid of him, obviously. She knows perfectly well she’s strong enough to prevent any assault. But as I told you, she’s troubled. And she needs peace.”
Sanji smiled.
“Don’t worry, Époni. I’ll handle it. See you in the kitchen in an hour?”
The woman nodded and closed the door.

When Nami stepped out of her room, she saw Sanji talking to a maid. When the maid walked away, saying she would let the kitchen know about his delay, and noticing that Sanji wasn’t leaving, the navigator went straight toward him, greeted by his smile. Suddenly, with a hint of unease, Nami realized she had no idea what to say to start a conversation: they had seen each other about two hours earlier, they were supposed to meet again in an hour to bring food to the prisoners, nothing had happened that needed discussing, and the thought of asking Sanji direct questions made her uncomfortable.
“Waiting for someone?” she threw out.
The cook seemed to darken.
“Yes. Standish.”
“Matters of State?”
“Something like that.”
Not knowing what else to say, Nami was about to step away when Sanji spoke to her instead.
“Nami-san, you and Robin were lodged nearby, right?”
“Yes, two doors down.”
“Époni told me that yesterday Standish came by several times and bothered my sister. As far as you know, is that true?”
That question made Nami uneasy.
“Sanji, I’ve seen your sister and Standish talk countless times since our arrival. They surely met after every meeting. He would wait for her outside her room, then she would arrive and they would go in. At first, I even thought there was something between them, but then yesterday I saw Standish lose his temper. From what I gathered, they were supposed to talk about the meeting and the plan for Citadel Requiem, but she was refusing. When he saw me, he left, but then he showed up again, at least two more times that I saw. He was calmer, but still tense. Unfortunately, that’s all I can tell you.”
While she spoke, Nami expected to see anger, disappointment, or even fury on the cook’s face, but he simply leaned against the wall with his ankles crossed and eyes downcast. From time to time, he nodded. He looked resigned and sad. Nami was overcome with tremendous pity.
“Sanji-kun…”
She was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps.
“Commodore Standish! I was waiting for you,” said Sanji, flashing a bright smile as he pushed off from the wall.
Nami spun around. The commodore was there, with his expressionless face and immaculate uniform.
“Really?”
“Yes. I was told that between yesterday and today you tried to speak with my sister, probably to discuss what to report to your superiors regarding the latest developments. You can address me, since my sister is indisposed.”
Standish cast a curious glance at Nami, then turned back to Sanji with a shark-like smile.
“There must have been a misunderstanding. I have no superiors to report to. I’m only here to help maintain order and ensure things proceed properly, Sanji. Unless it’s you who needs me.”
Sanji widened his smile.
“Then I must have misunderstood. I heard you wanted to speak with my sister about the spies of Citadel Requiem, which I am personally dealing with.”
Standish smirked faintly.
“Excellent, excellent. I see you’re moving with confidence, Sanji.”
The cook stepped closer to the officer, bringing his face nearer to his.
“Commodore, I feel rather embarrassed about what I’m about to ask, but you’ll agree with me that the circumstances call for a certain formality…”
The commodore’s expression hardened slightly.
“I understand perfectly, Mister Vinsmoke.”
Sanji let out a small chuckle.
“Sire would be better. Or regent. Just to clarify the state of things. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t disturb my sister. As her maid told you, she is currently fatigued. If we want her to return to her full strength as soon as possible, we must let her rest. For anything else, as I said, you can safely ask me, commodore.”
Standish nodded slowly.
“Of course, sire. I apologize if I’ve been indiscreet. It is quite the coincidence, isn’t it, that your sister’s indisposition coincided exactly with your arrival? At least affairs of state don’t suffer.”
Sanji’s smile did not falter.
Nami’s head swung between them. The tension made the air nearly unbreathable.
“Good day, commodore,” Sanji concluded, taking a step back.
“Until soon, regent,” replied Standish with haughtiness. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Once the marine was out of sight, Nami’s chest felt lighter, and Sanji closed his eyes for a few seconds, massaging his temples.
“Nami-san, thank you for the information. Would you mind keeping your eyes open? If that guy shows up again, I’d like to know.”
Nami took a few seconds to study the cook’s thoughtful face, then smiled warmly.
“Of course.”
Sanji kissed her knuckles with a hint of gallantry, and Nami smiled.
“Thank you, with all my heart. And now I have to go to the kitchen. I want tonight’s dinner to be wonderful—also because it has to cover up the taste of the shit I just swallowed. See you soon.”

When Sanji entered the kitchen, Zeff was finishing up the prisoners’ meals. The old cook noticed the boy looked deep in thought.
“Sorry I left you alone, Geezer. Something came up,” Sanji said.
The old man answered with a grunt, then watched as Sanji adjusted his tie in his waistcoat pocket, rolled up his sleeves, and put on his apron. He took some vegetables out of the fridge and placed them in one of the ovens to heat up, sliced some bread and put it in its basket. Then he grabbed a tablecloth and headed to the dining hall. Zeff followed him.
“Regent business?”
“Yeah.”
“Trouble?”
“What else?”
Once the tablecloth was set, Sanji went back to the kitchen for plates and cutlery. Zeff watched him move like lightning, without waiting for instructions, preparing a flawless table and starting to arrange the first serving dishes.
He then kept following Sanji back into the kitchen, watching him check the aging fridge and glance around for something to do. He found a couple of pans Zeff hadn’t managed to fit into the dishwasher and began washing them.
“Everything okay, old man? Am I doing something wrong?”
“If you were, I’d have told you.”
“Then what the hell are you staring at?”
Zeff stayed silent and looked out the window with his arms crossed.
At that moment Cosette, Nami, and Époni came in. Sanji finished washing the pans and prepared the trays for the prisoners. Then he told Époni he would make something for his sister, and the elderly maid said she would come pick up the tray right after bringing the meal to the prisoner. She also told him not to worry. Sanji thanked her, but, Zeff thought, it was clear the boy wouldn’t listen.
The three women left, and Sanji turned back toward the kitchen.
“There’s nothing to do, damn it, so sit still,” Zeff muttered. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Then look somewhere else, old man, or go rest. I’ve got this covered.”
Sanji started drying some bowls resting on a dish rack.
Zeff said nothing, but pulled out a chair and sat down.
He kept watching Sanji.
“The girl looked happy today,” he said suddenly.
Sanji gave him a questioning look.
“Cosette,” the old man specified.
Sanji shrugged.
“She asked me to teach her something.”
“And you said yes, because you can’t say no to a girl.”
“I told her yes because not being able to defend herself is shit. Cosette knows perfectly well that what I will teach her, that I have started teaching her, will not be of any fucking use to her, but it is always better than being completely helpless.”
Zeff stayed silent for a few seconds, watching Sanji dry the bowls.
“Is it that bad living here?”
“Yes.”
Sanji set the cloth on a sideboard. He was done, and now there truly was nothing left to do. He stepped out to smoke a cigarette. Zeff followed.
You seemed happy this morning,” he said.
Sanji lit his cigarette and took the first drag with an ecstatic expression.
“I was. You know, I was thinking about something. Probably bullshit.”
Zeff stayed silent.
Sanji took another drag.
“While I was working with Cosette, it crossed my mind that maybe, after I’ve found the All Blue and Luffy’s become Pirate King, I could start teaching.”
“Teaching? You don’t have a damn bit of patience, brat. If you ever got a kid like you were, you’d throw him overboard in five minutes.”
Sanji laughed.
“I wasn’t thinking about kids. I was thinking about people like Cosette. Or Olaf, the old head waiter. Grown-ups, who didn’t have the luck I had. There were people in Wano, under Kaido, or in Dressrosa, back when Doflamingo was there, who acted like they were broken.”
Sanji fell silent for a few seconds, still smoking and exhaling the smoke slowly. Zeff didn’t interrupt. The boy picked at a bit of skin on his finger.
“They were so used to being afraid and powerless they couldn’t imagine anything else. Even when they were free, it was as if they weren’t. They couldn’t do shit. They couldn’t be shit.”
Sanji took another drag. He glanced briefly at Zeff, who was smiling faintly.
“I told you it’s bullshit,” Sanji said.
“Why’s Olaf back in your head? This is the second time you’ve mentioned him.”
“I remembered some advice he gave me before he left. Something that didn’t really work out,” Sanji cut short, finishing his cigarette.
Zeff was about to speak, but was interrupted by Époni returning with the empty tray. Zeff and Sanji immediately went to her.
“This one’s about to start eating the plates too!” she said with a laugh. Then she turned to Sanji:
“If you prepare the tray for the princess, I’ll bring it to her.”
Sanji took a bit of everything from each serving dish in the hall.
“Listen, could you tell her that it would be important for her to be present tonight?” the young cook said as he handed her the tray.
Époni smiled.
“Sanji, everything will be fine. I’ll be with her anyway.”
“Thank you, truly, Époni.”
“Oh, one more thing. Her flowers will be ready tomorrow around three. I stopped by the florist on my way here, and she asked me to let you know.”
Sanji blushed furiously, and Zeff gave them both a questioning look.
“None of your business,” the boy said, handing the tray to the maid.
“Nothing I care about,” the old man replied. “All the more since I’m off to rest now. See you around four.”
“Fine.”
On his way out, Zeff held the door open for Époni, who whispered to him as she passed:
“Sanji goes to visit his mother's grave. He was there yesterday too, I saw him by chance. He'll probably want to change the flowers, tomorrow.”
Zeff nodded, then walked her part of the way.
“Could you ask the florist to prepare a small bouquet for me too?” the old man asked before letting her go.
Époni smiled and nodded.

Chapter Text

When Zoro entered the dining hall it was around seven. He was alone, and calmly looked around.
The central table was covered with a simple yet beautiful tablecloth, a light base with gray patterns. On the sides of the table there were stacks of plates and wicker baskets with cutlery. Along the walls, other tables had been set up, covered with cloths identical to that of the main table, already laid with dishes. But the table that caught Zoro’s interest was the one against the wall near the kitchen door: rows of bottles of red wine, ice baskets holding white wine and beer, and—much to the swordsman’s dismay—only a couple of bottles of liquor.
Sanji came out of the kitchen door holding two serving trays, which he set down on one of the still-empty side tables.
“Oi, cook. Nothing serious to drink yet?”
Sanji laughed.
“I still have to finish picking the bottles, and many will be set out for after dinner. If you want, I can find some gasoline—wouldn’t make a difference to you from a fine Yamazaki.”
Zoro gave him the middle finger, Sanji returned the gesture, and then the swordsman watched him head back into the kitchen.
Goddammit, I just want to drink.
It was clear he’d have to settle for a beer, so he grabbed one, popped it open, and kept looking around, restless and uneasy.
He watched Sanji come in and out of the kitchen two more times, arranging more baskets and glasses on a side table, then setting water and soft drinks there. Seeing him with a beer, the cook smiled and told him he’d soon bring something closer to his taste. Zoro squeezed his bottle so hard he nearly broke it.
If I was an asshole, you curly bastard, then say it and get it over with. Kick me, yell at me. But stop humoring me, for fuck's sake.
All afternoon Zoro had trained, meditated, and trained again in the garden, while he saw the cook spin around like a top between the kitchen and a thousand other things to get this damn party set up: all arranging, re-arranging, re-fining, with Cosette and Zeff stepping in and exchanging opinions. Zoro had the impression they weren’t setting up a banquet, but marshaling an army, one where even a single element out of place could compromise the mission.
Damn me for dozing off during Koshiro’s strategy lessons, thought the swordsman suddenly, stepping into the garden with his beer in hand. He watched the cook swap the positions of two plates and eye them critically.
His unease spiked again.

Dinner hadn’t even started yet and Sanji was already exhausted. The appetizers were well organized, the wine and drinks well set, the prisoners’ trays delivered. The main dishes were still in the ovens to keep warm. He had sent Cosette to change, because he had decided that for tonight, none of the partecipants should wear a uniform. They were all guests. Just a group of people sharing a meal together, where status, efficiency, and strength didn’t matter. Usopp, Robin, and Franky had already arrived.
I hope Reiju comes too, Sanji sighed to himself.
Zeff was heading toward the reception hall, carrying two bottles of Vermouth.
“Oi, brat. Bring the Rhubarb, the Pastis, and the Ouzo, and we’re done for now.”
Sanji obeyed, and when he stepped out the door, he almost bumped into Cosette.
“Sanji, I’m sorry. I think I made a mess.”
The young man didn’t have time to ask for details before Nami came up to him, smiling brightly, her eyes shining.
“You’re really teaching her to defend herself? What’s this ‘mummy game’? Did you really push her?”
Sanji set the bottles on the table.
“Yeah. And I’ll push her again tomorrow, Nami-san,” he simply replied, arranging the bottles. Only afterwards did he smile at the two girls.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said, “but excuse me now, I have to check the ovens.”
“Need any help?” asked Cosette.
“No, don’t worry. Just five minutes. Enjoy the evening.”
When Sanji returned to the kitchen, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Then he grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, a lager, popped it open, slipped out through a side door, and sat down on a step.
Now for the cigarette before service.
For five minutes, Sanji closed his eyes and emptied his mind, alternating drags of smoke with sips of beer. Back at the Baratie, that had been a sacred ritual, strictly solitary, a release of tension and a moment to focus. And when he raised the bottle to his lips and found it empty, he knew it was time to get back to work.

Damn. They’re all kids here.
General Caspar Goodwin regretted accepting the regent’s invitation the moment he stepped into the hall. He was immediately intercepted by Sanji, who greeted him warmly with a firm handshake.
“Still enjoying my constitution?” the general asked.
“I’ve gotten about halfway through,” the young man replied. “I should finish it in a couple of days. I admit the section on economic institutions gave me some trouble, but the spirit of it is beautiful. I was thinking of passing it on to my friend Nico Robin, who will appreciate every nuance much better than I could. Wait, let me introduce you.”
As if I didn’t know who Nico Robin is, thought the general.
Sanji led him over to the woman, who was serving herself a drink. The general thought she was even more striking in person than on her wanted poster, and when the regent moved away after the introduction, he smiled at her with condescension, hoping to mask his lack of enthusiasm.
Perfect. Now I get the aperitif with the Devil Child.
However, to his great surprise, Nico Robin turned out to be a perceptive and pleasant conversationalist, with a touch of macabre humor the general found extremely enjoyable. As they chatted, Goodwin glanced across the room, his attention caught by a man about his age, maybe a little older, with a wooden leg, speaking animatedly with Sanji.
That must be Red Leg Zeff. And he’s not chatting with the regent. He’s scolding him.
Amused, feigning nonchalance and taking advantage of Robin stepping away to grab food, the general discreetly moved closer to the two to eavesdrop. From what he gathered, there were fewer dark beers in the baskets compared to pale ones.
The regent is letting himself be scolded over this nonsense. Incredible.
And not only that: the regent signaled to the Vinsmokes’ personal cook, who responded with a thumbs-up and ran to the kitchen to fetch more dark beers.
That man orders the regent around like a child.
Caspar Goodwin felt a sudden, irresistible urge to meet Red Leg Zeff.

Zoro was on his third Vermouth and felt like he was losing his mind. He paced around the tables, both bored and restless, unable to join any conversation, irritated by the more formal atmosphere that was delighting Luffy. The swordsman was still tormented by the jumble of thoughts he couldn’t control and emotions he couldn’t define.
Suddenly, he found himself beside Pryx, who was also alone with a glass in hand. Taking a big gulp and straining to sound sociable, Zoro, on the verge of despair, decided to start a conversation.
“Good evening, counselor.”
“Mr. Roronoa. Pleased to see you.”
For a moment, Zoro couldn’t breathe, unsure how to continue.
“Call me Zoro.”
“Very well.”
Another few seconds of silence.
“I saw you training yesterday, Zoro. Impressive routine.”
“Thanks.”
Zoro was stuck again, but then decided to grab onto the cue the clone had given him.
“Do you work out?”
“Actually, we clones have a very simple metabolism. We’re not made to last, so training isn’t really necessary. I started some time ago, when I realized I had surpassed, let’s say, my expiration date.”
“How old are you, counselor?”
“Thirty-two. And please, call me Pryx. I have the luxury of a name, and I like it used.”
There was another pause, which Zoro forced himself to break, even at the risk of sounding foolish.
“So how long does a clone live, on average?”
“Anywhere from three to ten years. Often less, depending on the battles we’re deployed in. Some only last a few months.”
Zoro was struck.
“So you’re ancient.”
Pryx’s lips curled into a faint smile.
“Well, relatively. I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist. It wasn’t in my specs.”
Zoro let a small grin slip.
“Not in mine either.”
There was a moment of silence again, but strangely, this time Zoro didn’t feel awkward, nor compelled to fill it.
Sanji entered with the first round of main dishes: pasta, lean meats, sides, meat and vegetable pies. Luffy pounced on the trays. The cook laughed and returned to the kitchen.
Curly-browed idiot.
Zoro turned his attention back to the clone.
“What do you mean, specs, Pryx?”
“Simply traits that make us efficient in our duties. Handling weapons, good eyesight, decent hand-to-hand. Things like that.”
“And you survived every battle you were sent into?”
“In fact, I fought in very few battles. I was assigned to internal order—prison guard, security detail, things like that. So my specs are less oriented toward explosive action and more toward endurance.”
“And you became friends with the cook while doing that?”
“You mean the regent?”
Zoro smiled.
“Him.”
“I never thought of my relationship with the regent in terms of friendship, Zoro. But I admit the idea flatters me. To answer your question, yes.”
The swordsman’s mind returned to the stain on the wall they had noticed upon arriving in Germa.
“The cook mentioned a debt the other night. Did you protect him from some attack when he was a kid or something?”
Pryx didn’t answer right away. Zoro thought he was considering.
“Forgive me, Zoro, but I think that’s something you should ask the regent directly. Sensitive matters.”
Zoro studied the clone for a few seconds. Then, without moving away, he glanced at the hall. A half-smile appeared on his lips.
“Want to grab a plate before Luffy eats it all?”

When Sanji went back into the kitchen to check the second batch of dishes, he found Nami waiting, arms crossed.
“Nami-san! My goddess! What are you doing here? Not that I’m unhappy to see you!”
“Sanji.”
Not Sanji-kun. What did I do this time?
The cook said nothing and began arranging meat, sides, and cheeses on trays. Nami kept staring, and Sanji sighed quietly.
“My beloved… really, why are you here? Why aren’t you out there enjoying yourself?”
“I could ask you the same. You’re supposed to be the guest of honor. You and your sister. But she hasn’t shown up, and you’re hiding in the kitchen.”
Sanji put a hand to his chest.
“My darling…”
“Please, cut the clown act. I’m serious.”
Sanji looked at her for a moment, then went back to his trays.
Unlike him, Nami’s sigh was loud—almost a snort.
“Listen. I just wanted to say you’re doing something really good for Cosette. And that if something’s wrong, you can tell us. You can tell me.”
Sanji didn’t answer, continuing to plate the meat.
Suddenly Cosette entered. Smiling, she checked the cheese tray, then carried it out to the hall. When Sanji finished his tray, Nami—without a word, under his stunned gaze—picked it up and carried it out herself.
Sanji was left alone. He thought about speaking to Goodwin and about calming Nami. He counted thirty breaths, then forced himself back to work.
Re-entering the hall, his attention was caught by the general and Zeff talking animatedly. Zeff was even laughing.

“You’re supposed to be a guest, yet here you are managing the evening,” the general said, approaching Zeff and extending his hand. “Counselor Caspar Goodwin. Pleased to meet you.”
The old cook shot him a glare, as if he meant to scold him too, but shook his hand.
“Zeff. That girl is handling the kitchen alone, and the boy can’t work at his best, as you well know. Your meetings keep him plenty busy.”
The general leaned closer, locking eyes with the old pirate.
“The regent is argumentative, disrespectful, provocative toward institutions, and sarcastic toward hierarchy and etiquette.”
Zeff looked up at him with irony.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Goodwin’s eyes widened in surprise, and Zeff burst out laughing.
“Before him, your king was Judge Vinsmoke, general. Don’t tell me that one was respectful of institutions, hierarchies, and etiquette.”
Goodwin smiled, deciding to take it sportingly. After all, Red Leg Zeff had a point.
“Indeed. Just yesterday I thought the regent might even make a good sovereign. He does have a solid ethical foundation.”
Zeff raised his brows.
“I’m a pirate, but I raised him with principles, general.”
Goodwin sipped his wine.
“Of course, there’s work to do on certain… rough edges.”
Zeff chuckled again.
“He was worse as a kid, Goodwin.”
The general looked surprised.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. A troublemaker, a rebel, hot-headed. No wonder he ran away the first chance he got.”
Caspar Goodwin didn’t reply right away, and Zeff studied him. He didn’t like that thoughtful look. Suddenly, the counselor spoke again:
“Just curious, has the regent ever told you anything about his life here in Germa?”
Zeff frowned.
“Should he have?”
The general smiled.
“No, of course not,” he replied, then changed the subject.
And Zeff kept watching him with suspicion.

After the second batch of dishes, it seemed the cook had decided to give himself a short break. With a plate of vegetables and cheese in hand, he joined Zoro and Pryx, smiling.
“Having fun?”
“It’s a nice evening,” replied Pryx. “I do wonder why the princess isn’t joining.”
“She let me know she’s unwell,” Sanji replied.
There was a brief silence before Zoro spoke.
“I was trying to figure out how Germa 66 works. Mostly, the clone thing. Why not build machines, or train an army?”
“Because overall, clones are cheaper,” Pryx answered calmly. “Once you’ve identified the correct genetic pattern, it’s easy to reproduce. Add some specs, and there you have it. Besides, clones are easy to sell. Cases like mine or the kitchen brigade open up new possibilities, but the principle remains.”
Zoro felt a chill.
They make pseudo-people just to send them to die. And they make their living off it.
The swordsman looked at his empty glass.
“I’ll grab a drink,” he said, and left.
When Sanji caught up with him at the bar, Zoro turned and saw Pryx chatting with Luffy.
“He’s probably asking him to join the crew,” the swordsman muttered, scanning the bottles.
Sanji laughed.
“Clones don’t do well outside the Germa system, Marimo. A clone on the Sunny would throw himself overboard in a day. Too much stimulation. Their minds are simple, even in exceptional cases like Pryx. Almost at your level.”
“Fuck you, Curly.”
Sanji’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Pryx told me you asked how we met. Why?”
“It was just small talk.”
“Bullshit.”
The cook rearranged the bottles in the baskets. He looked tired but alert.
“If this is about our fight two nights ago—you said it yourself. I snapped, and you put me in m place,” he whispered. “I only said a bunch of crap. Happy now?”
You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
“Didn’t sound like crap to me.”
Sanji kept his eyes on the bar.
“Do we really have to talk about this now? Here?”
Zoro poured himself a drink.
“We’ll have to talk about it sooner or later.”
Sanji poured himself a glass of wine. Zoro thought he did it more to keep his hands busy than out of any desire to drink.
“Why? It’s a closed matter, damn it.”
“No. I was an asshole the other night. I know I was, but I don’t understand why.”
Sanji looked up at the swordsman and felt horror flood him at the sight of his pained, almost stricken expression.
Both fell silent, then Zoro left the room.

Caspar Goodwin was sipping a Yellow Chartreuse, watching those youngsters, some half-asleep, leave the hall. Soon the cleaning staff would arrive.
His conversation with Red Leg Zeff had unsettled him.
The regent never told me about his past. He himself acted as though Sanji Vinsmoke had really died.
The general’s memory of little Sanji was of a sweet, timid, terrified child, marked by a genetic defect that doomed him to a life of pain and humiliation. He had seen his brothers torment him a few times, and the general had simply looked away.
That was how things were.
He recalled vividly the hypocritical funeral eulogy Judge had given. He remembered thinking that, in the end, that early death had been an act of mercy. He had only hoped Judge hadn’t made him suffer too much.
And it was that child who called me a coward yesterday. Rightly so.
The general needed fresh air, so he stepped into the garden. He saw the regent leaning against the wall, cigarette in his mouth and beer in hand, and approached him.
“Regent. Thank you for the lovely evening. The food was divine. The Baratie certainly deserves its reputation. The buffet idea… original. Informal.”
“Glad you enjoyed yourself, counselor.”
Goodwin kept his gaze fixed on the regent. He seemed lost in thought.
“Perhaps I’ll go to the Baratie myself someday. Who knows.”
“You’d better book a month in advance, counselor.”
Goodwin raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sanji laughed.
“Zeff doesn’t give special treatment. He spent quite some time with you tonight—you should’ve realized by now that the only authority that old man respects is the one he exercises himself.”
“A remarkable man.”
The regent didn’t answer.
“So tomorrow you’ve got the meeting with Haruto Aokiri,” the general said after a few seconds of silence.
“That’s right.”
“How do you intend to proceed with the spies?”
The regent looked at him for a moment.
“Actually, I’ve already made a move. I’ve tried to gather information. Tomorrow we’ll see what I’ve got.”
Goodwin seemed surprised.
The regent took a sip of beer.
“May I ask you something, counselor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why don’t you change the constitution? Honestly. You don’t like me, and my sister would guarantee the status quo which, from what I understand, is exactly what you all want. Reiju is a perfect Vinsmoke. I am Germa’s failure.”
“Regent, that’s not—”
“Let’s not play hypocrites, please. I see the way you look at me. And Reiju is suitable. If Judge remains untraceable, it’s only a matter of working so that the military power he and his sons represent can be replaced another way; and if Judge comes back, all the better. For you, of course. As far as I’m concerned, this place and those who govern it should burn, burn, burn for all eternity.”
Sanji drew deeply from his cigarette, as if to underline the point.
“Things are more complicated than that, regent.”
“I don’t doubt it. But at this point I can’t help suspecting there’s something else at play. That uncertainty suits you. You’re not even looking for Judge. Neither you nor Standish. And that’s telling.”
Goodwin straightened his tie.
He knows. He knows what we’re doing. Does he have spies?
The regent finished his bottle of beer and stubbed out his cigarette in it.
From inside came Zeff’s voice.
“Oi, brat! Done lazing around?”
“Coming, Old Geezer!” Sanji replied, then turned back to Goodwin. “Anyway, those are just my guesses. Forgive me, but now work—my real work—calls.”
Goodwin bid the regent farewell with a stiff nod. He downed the rest of his Chartreuse in a single gulp.

Chapter Text

The cook opened the door carefully, trying not to make any noise, and Zoro watched his silhouette framed in the doorway. He was holding something in his hand.
“You’re awake,” he said right away, without even stepping in.
“Yeah. Did you use your haki?”
“As if I’d waste it on this crap. It’s just that I didn’t hear you snoring.”
“I snore?”
“Definitely. At first it’s annoying, but then you get used to it. You’ve got a steady rhythm. In the end, it’s almost comforting. Listen, since you’re awake, do you mind if I sit here for a bit? I’ll use the lamp on the nightstand.”
“Do as you like.”
Sanji closed the door, set his things down on the bed, and went to the bathroom. Zoro heard the flush, the sink running, then the door shutting again. Soon after, he saw him return and switch on the lamp. While Sanji undressed, Zoro glanced at the things he had brought along. They were a stack of files and folders.
“Anyway, you’re not an asshole, Marimo.”
“Are you trying to be nice?”
“I wouldn’t have asked you what I asked if I’d thought you were an asshole.”
“Or maybe that’s exactly why you did.”
The cook turned toward him, exasperated.
“Mosshead, if you want me to say you’re an asshole, I have no problem doing it.”
Zoro kept staring at him for a few seconds, and Sanji began to feel uneasy. Then he gathered the files from the bed, set them on his thighs, and started leafing through them.
“What’s that stuff?” Zoro asked.
“Requiem Citadel. I want to be prepared for tomorrow.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“I can read the time too, Marimo. I don’t need a sword-shaped clock.”
“This is the third night you haven’t slept.”
The cook turned to him with a smug smile.
“Worried about me, Marimo? How sweet. I’m touched. See? You’re not an asshole.”
“Fuck you, Curly,” muttered the swordsman, feeling strangely lighter.
“Oh, now that’s the Zoro I know!” Sanji chuckled, returning to his papers.
Zoro kept watching his companion.
You’re with the strong ones. I’ll never be.
When girls get older, they become weaker than boys.
“And anyway, you were right,” Zoro suddenly said.
Sanji turned toward him again, puzzled.
“About what?”
“The clones. You were right in every way. But don’t get too used to it.”
The cook smiled.
“Okay,” he said, and turned back to his files.
Zoro rolled onto his back, hands clasped behind his head. He didn’t feel entirely at peace with himself yet, but he understood he was heading in the right direction. For a few minutes, he reflected on how flawed and ambiguous one’s perceptions of strength and weakness could be—of one’s own, and of others’.
Or the other way around.
Eventually, he fell asleep.

The next morning, when Sanji entered the kitchen, the clones of the brigade were already there, and Zeff was staring at them with wide, horrified eyes.
“So Cosette was really pining for these idiots? Is she stupid? Doesn’t she realize she works better without them?”
“Without them, she’s completely alone, Old Geezer.”
“But they can’t do shit! They’re more of a pain in the ass than anything useful!”
“First off, these boys saved my ass with the spies, so I owe them big time. Second, this is Cosette’s kitchen, so she’s the one in charge.”
Zeff grunted.
And we got the brigade problem out of the way, Sanji thought. At least that one.
Under Zeff’s critical, skeptical gaze, the young cook began assigning tasks to the clones—each a different, simple, and easy-to-check job, from warming the bread, to beating eggs, to setting dishes and cleaning counters. Finally, he prepared two coffees and handed one to Zeff.
“Breakfast with the ladies today?”
“Yeah.”
“Regent bullshit?”
Sanji rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn.
“Of course. Can I ask you something?”
Zeff shrugged.
“What did you think of the general? You two were thick as thieves yesterday.”
Zeff took a sip of coffee, mirrored by Sanji, who downed his cup in one go.
“We didn’t talk politics, if that’s what you want to know. And not about the regent either. Just about a brat who, apparently, isn’t behaving the way he should in council meetings.”
“No way I’m following their rules. Bunch of pieces of shit.”
Zeff smirked, and Sanji poured himself another cup of coffee.
“I called the general a sellout.”
Zeff crossed his arms.
“And is he?”
Sanji nodded.
“Then he should shut the hell up.”
Sanji chuckled, and just then Cosette entered, tying her apron. When she saw her boys, she exclaimed:
“About bloody time!” and went to hug each one in turn.

When Nami stepped into the garden, Sanji was finishing setting the table, helped by a couple of clones, while Époni was already sitting in her chair, enjoying the morning sun. The boy looked up, saw her, and blushed. He greeted her with a half-smile.
“Good morning, Nami-san.”
Nami too felt embarrassed after the brief exchange of the night before. Still, she had decided from the start not to make a big deal of it—it would be counterproductive. After all, she had spoken her mind clearly, and now it was Sanji’s turn. She would trust him, wait, and simply let him know she was there.
“Hi, Sanji-kun. The smell from the kitchen is heavenly.”
The cook’s smile grew more genuine.
Nami approached the table, immediately followed by Cosette and by Zeff, who was casting worried glances toward the kitchen.
“I don’t trust leaving those things alone in there.”
“They’re not things, Chef Zeff! They’re clones! Don’t worry, they know what to do,” Cosette shot back.
Zeff glared at her but said nothing. Nami had to stifle a laugh.
On the table were coffee, fresh milk, a thermos of hot milk, some juice, a tray of croissants with jam, and another of assorted muffins.
“A dream come true,” the cook commented as he sat down. “Sharing a well-set table with three of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. Shame the circumstances aren’t the most pleasant.”
“Quit being an idiot and let’s get this spy crap over with,” the old man muttered.
Sanji sighed.
“Fine. But before we start, Geezer, at least let me pay homage to the most charming of the trio.”
With that, Sanji kissed Époni’s hand, and the old lady replied with a playful, fluttering blink, while Cosette giggled and Nami watched with a faint smile.
Then Sanji pulled out a small notebook and a pen.
“So, the three spies. Cells 12, 19, and 25. Shall we go in numerical order?” he began.
The three ladies nodded.
“All right, let’s start with Cell 12.”
“He didn’t say a word, but he stared straight at my boobs,” Nami began.
“Mine too. Just staring. Pissed me off so fucking badly,” Cosette added.
“Well, at least we’ve confirmed he’s got eyes,” Sanji quipped with a half-smile. Nami threw a napkin in his face, while Cosette broke into laughter again.
You’re not even remotely convincing, Sanji-kun. But it’s almost reassuring that you try.
Sanji turned to Époni.
“Your impressions?”
“I brought him dinner. Pretended my legs hurt. He greeted me politely and ate on the cot. Asked me to stay with him while he ate. Even gave me his chair.”
“So Germa wasted a great espionage talent, I take it,” Sanji said with a widening smile. “Excellent move, Époni. If it’s not a problem, could you keep bringing him his meals? Maybe even try chatting with him a bit.”
“Oh, how exciting!” the old maid replied, nodding.
Sanji smiled.
“And that’s one sorted. Cell 19?”
“That one looked like a total damn bastard,” Cosette said. “Standing still, facing the wall, hands behind his back. Kicked me out as soon as I walked in.”
“Cosette, you need to tone down the swearing,” Sanji cut in, handing her the milk jug. “You’re starting to sound like a dockworker.”
“Why don’t you teach her to smoke, too? Then you’ll have completed the job,” Zeff remarked.
Sanji shot him a glare, then turned to Nami.
“What do you think, Nami-san?”
“Nothing to say,” the navigator shrugged. “He treated me the same way. I couldn’t even see his face.”
“Same here. A dead end, I’m afraid,” Époni concluded.
“No big deal. We won’t get anything out of him. Cosette, you handle his meals. If he keeps refusing, I’ll deal with him myself tomorrow or the next day,” Sanji decided, frowning. “And Cell 25?”
“He’s strange,” Époni said. “Pacing back and forth, all nerves. Doesn’t speak but eats. Eats fast, nervous, if you know what I mean. Almost chewed up the plates too.”
Sanji smirked slightly, then looked at the other two.
“Agreed. I saw him chewing his nails,” Cosette added. “I felt sorry for him. He looked terrified, out of his mind.”
“I’m not sure. It wasn’t exactly fear,” Nami said. “More like impatience. Stress.”
Sanji mulled over what they’d reported.
“Okay. I’ll try talking to him as soon as possible. I have a hunch. More of an intuition, really.” He looked up at the table with a smile.
“I’d say that covers it. So, breakfast and no more intrigue, so Old Geezer’s happy.”
The old man showed Sanji the middle finger, and the young man returned the gesture.
Époni and Cosette looked almost disappointed the briefing was over.
“When’s the next meeting?” the old maid asked.

As Cosette and Époni stood up and left, Nami followed Sanji, who, with a cigarette in his mouth, began setting the big dining hall table for the others. Since he wasn’t saying anything, it was Nami who spoke first.
“How are you?”
Sanji didn’t stop working, but he looked up and smiled.
“Busy.”
Nami smiled back.
“When are you ever not busy?”
Sanji laughed.
“Let’s just say right now I’m especially busy. But it’s better this way, given the circumstances.”
Nami picked up a couple of baskets of bread and placed them on the table.
“You’re just one vote short.”
“Yeah.”
They fell silent. Nami arranged two small vases with flowers.
“And your sister’s locked herself in her room for two days.”
“Wait, those vases aren’t a good idea. Luffy might smash everything. Better avoid decorations altogether.”
Sanji kept his gaze fixed on the table, seemingly focused on the placement of cutlery. He was quiet for a few seconds.
“It’s not a room, it’s an apartment,” he corrected without looking at Nami.
“Sanji-kun. The other day you gained a vote. Zoro told us there was a risk of fighting, and instead it turned out fine. I call that a success. And yet you were unwell and Reiju locked herself away. And last night…”
Finally, the cook raised his eyes from the table to look at Nami.
“You told me yesterday I can talk to you. Can I also ask you a favor?”
Nami smiled, happy.
“Anything, Sanji-kun.”
“I’d like you to try talking to Reiju.”

Haruto Aokiri's personal study was played in shades of beige and soft blue, with just a few touches of dark blue. Caspar Goodwin had always wondered whether Haruto worked on it or camouflaged himself in that room, with his hair the same exact shade as the armchair and his eyes so close to the color of the curtains.
“So now you’ve become his friend?” Aokiri asked, with a smirk hovering between ironic and scornful. “Maybe you want to adopt him too, just because he bothered to read your constitution?”
Goodwin’s gaze darkened.
“That’s a low blow.”
Aokiri grew serious, took off his glasses, and wiped them with a handkerchief.
“You’re right, I apologize. It’s just—I don’t understand why you want to involve him when the plan is to make him fail. Why complicate things? In the end, that boy will get back on his ship and leave, no matter what. What’s the point of dragging him in?”
Although Haruto Aokiri and Caspar Goodwin had shared a long part of their lives, they had never been friends. So Goodwin couldn’t explain to Haruto that he simply didn’t want that boy to leave Germa defeated. That he didn’t deserve to fail. That if they were used to bowing their heads, it was only right that, this time, Sanji should leave Germa with his head held high.
Instead, he only said:
“That’s Sora’s son, Haruto.”
“So are the others.”
“No. And you know it too.”
Aokiri responded with a sardonic, bitter grimace.
“Bullshit. Your problem is you’ve always been a romantic, Caspar. Back to business: you’re telling me he’s caught on to what we’re planning. That could be a problem. We should report to Standish.”
“No. If you tell Standish, I’m out. And I’ll publicly support the regency and the reform.”
Haruto Aokiri’s eyes widened.
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The general replied with a faint smirk.
“Exactly what I said.”
Aokiri narrowed his eyes, tense and annoyed.
“So your brain’s gone to mush,” he hissed furiously. “You’d be politically isolated. Whether Judge comes back or things go the way they’re supposed to. You’d be shut out of everything.”
“What can I say? I woke up wanting to do the right thing.”
“You mean wanting to fuck things up.”
Both fell silent for a few seconds, then Goodwin glanced at the clock.
“You should get going, Haruto. The regent is probably already waiting for you in the meeting room.”
“Let him wait. Actually, you know what? Since you’re so fond of him, why don’t you go? You take care of the spy issue. It’s more your business than mine anyway. I handle administration, damn it.”
Caspar Goodwin let out a small chuckle.
“You’re running away from a twenty-one-year-old kid, Haruto. From your sister’s son.”
Aokiri’s gaze turned icy.
“I’m not running. I simply refuse, as I always have, to deal with Judge’s experiments. And the fact that this one turned out badly doesn’t change reality.”
A faint smirk lingered on Goodwin’s lips.
“And yet here you are, running Judge’s affairs.”
“For now.”
The general shook his head, still smiling.
“Let me keep an eye on him. You don’t make any reckless moves, and I’ll monitor the situation.”
Aokiri seemed to ponder the words carefully.
“Fine. But don’t screw it up.”
Goodwin nodded, and headed toward the meeting hall.

As she made her way to Reiju’s quarters, Nami thought back on Sanji’s words explaining the situation.
They had sat down outside again.
“We had an argument,” he had told her. “A pretty heavy one. Then we talked again after the meeting. I thought I’d done some good, but apparently not.”
“Sanji-kun…”
“For one thing I fix, ten others get worse. I’m winging it, trying to measure up, and everything slips through my hands. And Reiju… I think I messed up.”
Nami hadn’t replied. She didn’t think things were quite like that, but she hadn’t said anything. It was as if Sanji had finally opened a crack, and she didn’t want to waste the chance. She knew that if he felt pressured, he’d close up again, and then it would be harder. So she forced herself to keep quiet and wait.
Sanji went on:
“Anyway. Yesterday she was supposed to be here, at the party. Soon I’ll go meet with Councillor Aokiri, and she should be with me. Actually, she should be the one leading the dialogue. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but she’s neglecting her duties. And that’s not good. Now, I think she’s mad at me, but she needs to get over it. She needs to show herself, step up. Only, I don’t think I should be the one to point it out.”
“And why would your sister be mad at you?”
“For a whole bunch of reasons that would take too long to explain. Anyway, all of them have to do with how I am. I’m not who I’m supposed to be. I never have been, and it bothers her. It’s complicated. But she has to get past it. Otherwise, she’ll never manage to reform the constitution. Époni says she needs time, but unfortunately, time is exactly what we don’t have. I think she likes you, Nami-san. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
And now Nami was heading toward the princess’s quarters.
She stopped in front of the door.
Took three deep breaths.
Knocked.
She waited a few seconds, then heard noises behind the door. She expected Époni to appear and try to send her away, so she prepared to insist politely but firmly.
But it was Reiju herself who opened the door. And the princess’s eyes were red.

When Caspar Goodwin entered the meeting room, Sanji wore a puzzled expression for a moment, then stood up and offered him his hand. The counselor lowered his gaze and noticed that the regent was still reading the constitution. Then he shook his hand and they both sat down.
“I thought I was supposed to meet Counselor Aokiri,” Sanji said.
“I’ll be acting in his place. He hasn’t fully recovered yet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he gets well soon.”
“And the princess?” asked the general.
“She’s indisposed as well. Perhaps she and Counselor Aokiri caught the same illness,” Sanji replied with a smirk.
Caspar Goodwin let out a short laugh.
“I’d say it’s time we started discussing the spies,” the general then suggested. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to start from scratch as far as profiling goes.”
“As I told you last night, I’ve already taken steps on that matter. I was planning to begin interacting with the prisoner in cell 25.”
“Interacting? Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?”
“From what I’ve been told, the prisoner has shown signs of restlessness and tension. You see, I have a suspicion that the guest in cell 25 is a smoker. A heavy smoker. And in withdrawal.”
Goodwin raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“A smoker?”
Sanji gave a brief laugh.
“It’s just a suspicion. As they say, it takes one addict to recognize another. Now, if I’m right, I wonder why they would send someone like that disguised as a clone. I mean, were they thinking of secretly making him smoke? Someone who goes into withdrawal this badly after a day and a half—what use could he possibly be? Either he has some very specific skill essential to their mission, or else they just threw him into the fray blindly. But really, what sense does it make to send unfit people? To Germa? I mean, it’s something that puzzles me. Don’t you agree?”
Goodwin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“What do you intend to do?”
“Well, first of all, I’d say we need to verify whether I’m right. Then we’ll decide how to proceed.”
“And so, basically?”
“As I told you, I intend to approach him. I was thinking of paying him a visit right now. Would you like to come with me?”

Chapter Text

The prison where the spies from Requiem Citadel had been locked up was a fairly recent construction: a gray, anonymous building with a severe and imposing structure, almost as tall as the castle itself. To house it, a new section of the kingdom had been built, but apart from the prison it remained crude, incomplete, almost sketched out.
To reach their destination, Sanji and Caspar Goodwin had to walk a long way, navigating endless security checks and muddy, broken paths.
“Davenport was in charge of the prison,” Goodwin said in an informative tone. “It was built a few years after you had been declared dead.”
Sanji nodded.
“The underground cells were no longer sufficient to contain political prisoners,” the general explained.
Sanji couldn’t help a dry laugh.
“I can imagine.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Sanji asked casually:
“Out of curiosity, are the underground cells still functional?”
“Of course. We waste nothing here in Germa.”
“Of course.”
They both fell silent again.
“And are the underground cells still used to house prisoners?” Sanji asked.
“No. Davenport considered them useless, even counterproductive. I believe it was because three prisoners showed signs of mental imbalance after being confined there.”
“Really?”
Goodwin had the impression that the regent’s tone was more amused than surprised.
“They’re underground cells. You know, no sunlight, and all the rest.”
“Of course. How foolish of me. No sunlight, and all the rest. It could take days to readjust to the sun. Even the lack of fresh air could cause problems. Especially if the stench hasn’t changed. Not to mention how the disruption of circadian rhythms could cause breakdowns. But since when has Judge Vinsmoke cared about the prisoners’ mental health?”
Goodwin let out a bitter chuckle that struck Sanji.
“He doesn’t. It’s simply that the confessions of unhinged prisoners are completely unreliable. A waste of time and resources. So it was calculated that building a new facility would cost less than renovating or expanding the underground cells.”
“So the original cells were left practically untouched.”
“Most of them are occasionally used as storage rooms. But strangely, King Judge ordered that cell number three be left vacant at all times.”
Sanji gave the advisor a curious, ironic look.
“Really? Number three, of all cells?”
Goodwin looked at Sanji for a moment. He had the impression the young man was alluding to something, but couldn’t tell what.
“Yes, Regent. To this day the cell is kept clean, the air ducts are regularly maintained, the electrical systems constantly checked. But the cell remains empty. From time to time, the princes visit it. Once I asked Judge why he was so fixated on that cell, and he told me it was a warning.”
Sanji paled, then gave a smile that had nothing cheerful in it.
“How very strange.”
A shiver of discomfort ran through Goodwin.
“Indeed,” the general continued, his voice lower. “The sheets are regularly changed, as well as the mattress, and even the sewage system undergoes routine inspections. We had proposed installing a toilet to make it fully usable, but the king did not deem it necessary. I’ve always wondered why.”
The regent cleared his throat, then answered with a naturalness that Goodwin found disturbing.
“Because it’s not necessary at all, Counselor. For one’s needs a bucket suffices, emptied regularly into the hole that leads to the sewer, the one between the desk and the bed. Unless they’ve moved the desk or the bed. But the hole’s there. Of course, the stench isn’t pleasant if there isn’t constant cleaning, but in the end that’s the prisoner’s problem.”
Caspar Goodwin felt his stomach tighten, choked by a terrible, horrifying suspicion, a monstrous fear that nearly stopped him in his tracks. He tried to dismiss it but failed. He needed confirmation, however frightening the truth might be. So, trying to sound indifferent, the advisor spoke again in a casual tone.
“But do you know what’s the strangest thing about cell three?”
“Tell me, general, I’m curious.”
“Judge placed a small steel helmet on the bed. It was all dented and rusty. The king placed it there himself. And ordered it to be polished every week. Sometimes he does it personally. He called it the reminder of his failure.”
After saying this, the general froze and fixed his eyes on Sanji.
“So now cell number three has become a museum. A room that serves as a memorial so certain mistakes won’t be repeated,” the regent commented with lowered head and hoarse voice. “Or a warning. A kind of guideline on how to handle certain inconveniences. What do you think, general?”
Then the regent lit a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly.
For the rest of the walk, Caspar Goodwin could no longer say a word.

When they arrived at the prison, both Goodwin and Sanji were searched. Then they were given badges and made to wait in a completely empty room except for a few armchairs, some bottles of water, and paper cups.
“When?” Goodwin asked suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“When were you imprisoned?”
Sanji stretched his legs out in front of him. Goodwin thought he was still pale.
“When I was declared dead.”
The general’s eyes widened.
“You were eight years old.”
“I know that too. You see, I was there when I was locked up,” Sanji retorted with a strained smile.
Goodwin looked at him as if asking if he was joking, but Sanji held his gaze.
“Are you saying Judge Vinsmoke locked up an eight-year-old child in an underground cell?”
“No. I’d say Judge Vinsmoke stored a failed experiment in a place where no one could see it.”
“People lost their minds in those cells, Regent.”
“You already told me that, counselor. The lack of fresh air, the stench, the absence of sunlight, the broken circadian rhythms. We’ve already covered it. Evidently, I was lucky. Or perhaps I’m not entirely sane myself. Both hypotheses are valid and plausible. Take your pick.” Sanji glanced around restlessly. “Isn’t there a fucking smoking room here? Ah, whatever, I’m the king, so I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”
Under Goodwin’s shocked gaze, the young man lit a second cigarette.
The general thought his hands were still trembling.

A guard came to announce that the prisoner had been taken to the interrogation room. Sanji raised an eyebrow.
“Who ordered him brought to the interrogation room?”
The guard turned to Goodwin, at a loss.
“It’s standard procedure,” the general said neutrally.
“Fuck procedure. I want to talk to him in his cell. Take him back.”
The guard kept staring at Goodwin, dumbfounded.
“Hey, buddy,” Sanji called, snapping his fingers. The guard turned.
“I’m the boss here. Take the prisoner back to his cell, then come and get us.”
The guard nodded wide-eyed and left without another word.

As Reiju led the way, Nami took in the overflowing luxury of that apartment.
This is real wealth, the navigator thought. This is serious money.
The floor was heated, and Nami savored every step as if it were a gift, while she carefully observed the living room she was being shown into, as though she wanted to etch it into both her mind and body.
The walls were a shade of white tending toward gray, interrupted by windows framed in dark gray. The curtains were pearl-colored, apparently rough and simple, but small imperfections revealed they had been handmade. Nami reached out to touch them: they were elegantly imperfect to the touch as well, rough and soft at the same time, simply graceful.
Reiju invited Nami to sit on a gray sofa, made up of large cushions supported by a frame of some warm-colored wood, probably cherrywood. To Nami, it felt like floating on a cloud. She was almost moved by such beauty. As Reiju sat down across from her, Nami caressed the cushions with something close to tears in her eyes. She had to make an effort to remind herself that she was there to help Sanji.
Reiju had settled into an armchair matching the sofa in front of her. Époni was also in the room, though off to the side, seated on a small chair near the door through which Nami had entered. Nami took a few seconds to study the princess’s face.
“How are you?” Nami asked.
The princess gave the hint of a smile.
“Did Sanji send you?”
“If I say yes, will you send me away?”
Reiju’s smile widened.
“No. As long as we don’t talk about politics.”
Nami was caught off guard.
“Would it be all right if we talked about your brother?”
Reiju burst into tears. Perplexed, Nami shot a glance at the elderly maid, who only gave her a timid smile and a small shrug.

After their earlier conversation, Goodwin didn’t feel too confident about the regent.
“Are you sure you want to conduct the interrogation yourself?”
“It’s not an interrogation, General, it’s a conversation. The spies from Citadel Requiem, for now, have done nothing more than infiltrate. There have been no assaults, no threats.”
“There have been no assaults or threats because the spies were arrested immediately, Regent.”
Sanji didn’t answer right away. Goodwin watched him from the corner of his eye as they walked side by side, his gaze lowered, his expression thoughtful. They reached the mechanical door of the cell, and Sanji dismissed the guard who had escorted them there.
Then he turned to the general.
“Before we go in, I’d like to make one thing clear, Counselor.”
Goodwin studied the young man carefully, taking in his concentrated, pensive look.
“You are part of Germa’s council and you wrote its constitution, so it’s obvious you see things differently than I do. But I’m an outsider who, only because of a bureaucratic and genetic accident, ended up having to play the role of regent. I represent Germa, but I am not Germa.”
Sanji paused briefly, searching his interlocutor’s eyes.
“Here, in this circumstance, I’m the Villain. The ruler of the army of evil. Because it’s absolutely obvious that, whatever reasons these people had for doing what they did, I’m in the wrong. We are in the wrong. Germa is in the wrong. In fact, Germa is by its very nature on the wrong side.”
Caspar Goodwin raised his eyebrows and was about to speak. Sanji stopped him.
“If you think differently, or if you believe that because I see things this way I might somehow harm the kingdom, you’re free to propose my removal. There’s no shortage of pretexts. Or, better yet, you could support the constitutional amendment and let someone rule who was truly raised for it.”
The general remained silent, and Sanji turned toward the cell door with his hands in his pockets. He drew two deep breaths, then gave Goodwin a small nod, and the general opened the door.
They went in.

On the delicate little table between them sat a wooden box filled with tissues. Nami picked it up and handed it to Reiju.
Remember you’re here for Sanji, the navigator repeated to herself for the umpteenth time. The Vinsmokes are no better than Arlong. Actually, they’re probably worse. These things were bought with blood. Ah, the fragrance in this room is heavenly. Damn, even this probably came at a price far higher than its real worth. When we leave, I have to find a way to get something out of it.
“Reiju,” Nami began, once the princess seemed calmer, “Sanji is sorry for what happened. Sometimes we say the wrong things, but…”
“He told me I’m better than the others, and that he’ll always help me.”
Nami’s mouth fell open.
Reiju sniffled and took another tissue.
“Emotions suck. And feelings are even worse. I’ve cried only once in my entire life—when I helped Sanji escape from here. He probably doesn’t even remember. He was too busy just trying to stay alive. Other than that, I’ve only ever had my eyes water a little. I’ve always known how to keep myself under control. Sanji, on the other hand, cried all the time. And he certainly had every reason to. And if he didn’t, we made sure to give him some. My brothers, mostly. I just watched, and laughed about it. If the others weren’t around, I’d tend to his wounds. That was the most I could allow myself to do for him.”
At those words, Nami felt her lungs and stomach being crushed. For a long, unbearable moment, she was certain she wouldn’t be able to endure that conversation. She was tempted to get up and leave. Ever since their return from Whole Cake Island, Nami had always wanted to know about Sanji’s past—but now she didn’t want to hear what Reiju had to say. She stroked the cushions as if to anchor herself and glanced at Époni. The woman’s faint smile made her feel a little less overwhelmed. Then she turned her gaze back to the princess.
“Children can be cruel, Reiju, and I don’t think—”
“Has Sanji ever told you about his life here?”
Nami shook her head.
Reiju smiled.
“I thought so. Époni, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea? Would you like some tea, Nami?”
Nami nodded, eyes wide. When the maid rose and left the room, Nami felt her stomach twisting in on itself again. She took a deep breath, determined to steer the conversation back to the present situation.
“Reiju…”
“May I ask why you people love my brother?”
Nami blinked.
“What kind of question is that?”
Reiju seemed to think very carefully.
“It’s just… I want to understand. I’ve been thinking about it since the last meeting. When Sanji told me he’ll always help me. He didn’t say he loves me, and I don’t blame him. That would have been too much, even for him. I think if he had said something like that, I would have completely lost my mind. It was like something exploded inside me. I’m starting to believe that emotions are unavoidable. Unfortunately. The day before that last meeting, I said some horrible things to Sanji. Unforgivable things. Standish told me that Sanji wanted to steal the throne from me, to take revenge for what had been done to him. It sounded plausible, so I wanted to hurt my brother as much as possible. And so I accused him and attacked him with all the anger I had. You see, Nami, Standish is the ideal man for Germa. Or at least I thought so. He was useful to me. He knows how to read emotions and how to respond. That’s something I don’t know how to do—or at least not completely, not always. I had guessed Charlotte Pudding’s intentions, so why not Standish’s? And yet I was wrong.”
Nami swallowed hard. Things were more complicated than she had imagined.
“Reiju, you need to tell Sanji these things. Right away, as soon as possible. I know you said you don’t want to talk about politics, but things are happening—”
“It’s emotions, Nami. It’s the emotions.”
Époni returned with the tea.

“I have to say, I was expecting worse,” Sanji remarked as he entered the cell. “I’ll have to remember to compliment Davenport. These rooms are decent.”
The prisoner was seated in his chair, staring out the window, his back to Sanji and Goodwin.
For a moment, the cook’s mind drifted to the underground cell, but then he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
He has a window, Sanji thought, and the air is clean. That’s already something.
“Good morning,” Sanji greeted, without moving closer. He tried to study the man’s figure. He had black hair and seemed rather heavyset.
And they wanted to pass him off as a clone? What the hell were they thinking?
Puzzled, Sanji stepped closer and saw the man’s fists clenched on his thighs. The prisoner suddenly sprang up and tried to attack, but the young man—without even taking his hands out of his pockets—lifted a leg and used the prisoner’s own momentum against him, pinning him to the wall with his knee.
“Nice try,” Sanji said in a sympathetic tone, holding him there. “And I don’t blame you. I would’ve done the same. Now, if you calm down and don’t pull any more stupid stunts, I’d say we can have a chat. Do you think I can let you go?”
The prisoner nodded.
“Splendid,” replied the regent.
Goodwin cautiously approached, and when Sanji stepped back to give the prisoner space, he offered him the chair. He tried to memorize every detail of the man’s face, so he could later look it up in some record.
The prisoner resumed his spot by the window, but this time facing Sanji instead of looking outside.
The man had a soft mouth and large blue eyes, a straight nose, and thick eyebrows. He watched the young regent with a mix of curiosity, anger, and suspicion—and when Sanji casually pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, a flash of greed lit up in his eyes.
Sanji noticed.
“Want one? You’ll have to smoke it here with me, of course. I mean, there’s no fucking way I’m handing you a lighter. Or leaving you alone with something that burns.”
The man glanced at Goodwin, who responded with a faint smirk.
“The regent gives the orders,” he said simply.
“Some time ago, I read something interesting in a magazine,” Sanji went on. “According to certain studies, it only takes about three days for the body to rid itself of the physical need for nicotine. Just three damn days. You’ve already made it through the first. And if you want to vent with food instead, that’s fine—just let me know. Apparently, most of the pleasure of smoking, and the addiction itself, is tied to the gestures and the habit. Like: coffee and a cigarette, that sort of thing.”
The man’s gaze shifted between the pack and the regent, but Sanji didn’t move. He took a cigarette and put it between his lips.
“Maybe you could use this chance to quit. I’m a damn expert in the field. I’ve quit four times.”
“Oh, fuck you, you filthy piece of shit!” the prisoner exploded. “Give me one!”

Sanji handed him the pack.
They smoked in perfect silence by the window.
Goodwin waited for the regent to speak, to ask questions, but nothing of the sort happened. Sanji and the prisoner were simply two people enjoying a cigarette. Then the regent glanced at his watch.
“I’d gladly smoke another, but unfortunately I’ve got things to do. If it’s all right with you, I could come back around six-thirty, and we’ll smoke some more. I’d suggest we keep it in here—I wouldn’t want your friends to see you smoking with the enemy and get the wrong idea.”
“You think you’ve bought me with a fucking cigarette, asshole?”
Sanji laughed.
“Of course not,. But since you brought it up, let me point out that we’re on our way to Citadel Requiem. If all goes well, we’ll be there in about eight days. Now, the matter is simple: I would very much like to understand the reasons behind this conflict and resolve it diplomatically. But nothing prevents the general here from organizing a direct attack—especially since you’ve caused Germa no small amount of trouble.”
The prisoner seemed to listen attentively.
“You see, I’d like to avoid taking things that far. I’d much prefer the general go back to being a jurist. Truly. Because if the general is as good at his job as he is at writing laws—and I’m fairly certain he is—then you’re in real shit.”
The prisoner cast a glance at Goodwin, who stood with arms crossed, then raised his eyebrows.
“What I’d like to do,” Sanji continued, smiling, “is work out a strategy. Figure out what the problems are, maybe start discussing them. I don’t know how your colony is structured, but if we’re greeted with fucking rifles aimed at us, well—we won’t have any trouble firing back. Do I make myself clear?”
The prisoner nodded, almost hypnotized.
“Excellent. So, as you see, I can smoke with you in good conscience. I have no interest in ‘buying’ you, as you put it. But you and your friends have every reason to make sure I don’t end up resorting to Germa’s typical methods of conflict resolution. Do you understand what I mean?”
The prisoner nodded again.
Sanji’s smile grew more confident.
“Perfect! So, shall we meet this evening?”

“Damn emotions,” Reiju repeated, absorbed, sipping her tea. The princess had stopped crying and kept speaking without pause, lost in her reflections. “It all starts with them. And the idea that my brothers don’t have them is a pious illusion. The desire they had—and still have—to torment those who are not like them is an emotion. The rage with which they prey on the weaker is an emotion. The joy they feel in crushing those who beg for mercy is an emotion. On Whole Cake Island, my father was disgraceful, in this regard. Ichiji, Niji, Yonji… a bunch of pathetic idiots. When they discovered Sanji was alive, when he came back to us… they made up for years of boredom and frustration. Because you see, you can’t consider yourself a success unless there’s a failure you can throw it against.”
Nami listened without uttering a word, trying to process all the horror pouring into her ears. Reiju’s words were memories and free associations, strung together almost randomly. The princess seemed lost and detached at the same time, and the navigator could do nothing but wait for her to reach her point, boiling inside every time she referred to Sanji.
“The Vinsmokes need Sanji because they need destruction in order to live, to prosper. I think Sanji is my brothers’ primary source of joy. Because he never let himself be broken. Not completely, at least, since he was a child. That’s why it was so fun to try. And when we found him again, grown, stronger, thanks to your crew, thanks to Zeff… my brothers simply thought it wasn’t right. That things had to go back to normal. Do you remember when he beat up your captain?”
Nami’s eyes darkened.
“I remember it perfectly.”
“I think that was the only time my brother ever came close to truly breaking. Father convinced him he had no choice. I helped Sanji then, because I always liked to think there was a good Vinsmoke out there. Then I asked him for help, and he gave it to me. I I accused him of being lousy without any mercy, and he didn’t even bother to strike back. And now I feel like I’m sinking. Emotions, emotions, emotions. I’m drowning in them. I always despised them, and now they terrify me. I don’t know how to move forward.”
“Then learn, damn it.”
Reiju’s eyes widened.
Nami thought maybe she should have been less blunt, but decided she didn’t really care.
“I can help you, and Sanji would be more than happy to help too. But it’s up to you, Reiju. You have the chance to become a better person, to actually do something valuable for someone. For your brother.”
Reiju composed herself and took another sip of tea, her expression elegant and composed. Nami felt the urge to hug her and punch her at the same time.
“It’s not that easy for me, Nami.”
“It’s not easy for anyone. And you need to get stronger.”
“I am a Vinsmoke.”
“Exactly. You need to get stronger.”
Nami straightened up on the sofa and glanced at Époni, who responded with a brief nod.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Reiju, but what you told me horrifies me. That you could have thought Sanji might want to hurt you… horrifies me. I don’t even want to imagine what you all did to him. I’m already shaken enough as it is.”
Then Nami stood up.
“And I’m telling you that if you don’t get your act together right now, I’ll do everything in my power to convince Sanji to abdicate. I’ll talk to the whole crew if I have to, and to Zeff, to help me persuade him. Sanji is here because of some debt he thinks he owes you, but in truth he owes you nothing. Because if you don’t fight for your kingdom first, then you deserve to lose it.”
Reiju took another sip of tea. Her gaze was lost in her thoughts.
“I saved your captain’s life, Nami.”
Nami shook her head.
“Because you had nothing to lose and everything to gain. We don’t owe you anything either, Reiju.”
The two young women looked at each other for a few seconds. The princess tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her expression as unreadable as ever. Nami sighed.
“You don’t need to walk me to the door.”

Chapter Text

As soon as they left the prison, Goodwin took two deep breaths and rolled his shoulders. Sanji looked at him with a smirk. Then they started walking briskly toward the castle.
“Do you think he’ll cooperate, Regent?”
“I have no idea. We’ll see tonight.”
“You seem to improvise quite a lot. The flair of an artist?”
“I’m no artist, General. Let’s say it’s more like cooking blindfolded, without knowing what you’re supposed to make and in a completely unfamiliar kitchen where you don’t know where the ingredients or tools are.”
Goodwin couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“Still, you’re managing brilliantly, if I may say so.”
“You may say whatever you like, General.”
They had reached the entrance of Germa’s most distinctly residential section, and Sanji checked his watch.
“Alright, I have to go now.”
“Chef Zeff is waiting for you in the kitchen?”
Sanji’s lips curled faintly.
“Among other things.”
Goodwin nodded.
“Shall we meet again late this afternoon, then?”
“Fine.”
The general was about to leave, but Sanji called him back.
“One last thing, General. I’d like to have all the copies of the keys to cell number three.”
Caspar Goodwin stiffened.
“There’s only one key, Regent, and it’s in Judge’s private quarters.”
Sanji fell silent for a few seconds, his lips tightening slightly. Then he said:
“Then I’d like that key to come out of Judge’s private quarters and end up in my hands.”
“Judge’s private quarters are locked, Regent.”
Sanji rubbed his temples, visibly exasperated.
“Then I’d like Judge’s private quarters to be opened, broken into, or whatever you damn please, so that I can have the fucking key to that goddamn cell number three.”
“Regent…”
Sanji’s gaze darkened, his voice a growl.
“I can take care of it myself if I have to. It’s been a while since I seriously kicked something. Or someone.”
They both went silent for a few seconds. Sanji covered his eyes with one hand.
Goodwin looked at the young man, his posture rigid.
“Are you threatening me, Regent?”
Sanji lowered his hand and looked down. He took a deep breath.
“No, General. No threat. I just wanted it perfectly clear that I want that key.”
Sanji fixed his eyes on Goodwin’s face, his expression tired but resolute. He put his hands in his pockets, and the general could clearly tell they were clenched into fists.
“I spent six months in that fucking cell. And he turned it into a nostalgic playground for himself and his sons. I want that damned key, General. I demand it.”
Goodwin remained silent for a few seconds, as though weighing the Regent’s words.
“Six months.”
“Yes.”
“At eight years old.”
“Yes.”
Goodwin gave a slight nod, more to himself than to Sanji, though he couldn’t take his eyes off the young man.
“Alright. You’ll have your key tonight.”
Sanji let out a trembling sigh.
“Thank you. Truly, thank you.”
Goodwin felt a lump in his throat, and swallowed it with some effort.
“It’s the least I can do, Regent. Listen, from what I understand, you have things to attend to now, but tonight, after we’ve spoken with the prisoner, how about having dinner at my place?”
Sanji looked surprised.
“Why?”
Caspar Goodwin gave a half smile.
“And why not?”

As soon as Nami left Reiju’s room, she headed straight for the kitchen, hoping and dreading at the same time to find Sanji there. More than anything, the navigator wondered whether, right now, she would even be able to look him in the face without bursting into tears. Because what tormented her most about that whole terrible conversation was what hadn’t been said. Everything left to her imagination. Everything she was now forced to reckon with. And it made her angry.
She had decided she would limit herself to telling Sanji about Standish’s involvement with Reiju, keeping it vague, without mentioning the rest. She didn’t want to treat Sanji as if he were fragile, but it was clear to her that the cook was surrounded by a systematic, structural violence, a pain that Nami now felt seeping out of everything around him, a suffering that filled the very air he breathed and against which Sanji was fighting one of his fiercest battles.
It was as if speaking with Reiju had given her a glimpse into an abyss of horror barely concealed by a thin veil of composure and elegance—an abyss Nami wanted nothing to do with, yet one she had now glimpsed, and could never unsee.
Nami reached the kitchen and found it empty, save for a couple of brigade clones tidying up. The navigator went back to the hall and glanced into the garden. Zoro was there, training. She walked over to him.
“Sanji?”
“Haven’t seen him yet.”
“Okay. Then I’ll wait.”
Zoro, practicing sequences with Wado Ichimonji, stopped and studied the navigator carefully.
“Something going on?”
Nami stared him straight in the face, her eyes blazing.
“They have to pay for what they did to Sanji. And they’ll never pay enough.”
Zoro’s hands tightened on the hilt of his katana.
“The spies? The council? The cook can take care of himself just fine.”
Nami shook her head and sat down on the bench.
“His family. I talked to his sister. They hurt him, Zoro. Really hurt him.”
Zoro resumed his drills.
“We already knew that.”
“Not like this. Not the way I know it now.”
Zoro gave the navigator a questioning look.
“I told Sanji’s sister that if she doesn’t get off her ass and really help him, I’ll convince him to abdicate.”
Zoro lunged, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“Got you that mad?”
“Yes.”
He slashed downward.
“Explain.”
“It’s not something she said. Not anything specific. But they hurt him. They enjoyed hurting him. She didn’t spell it out, but I understood—it was radical, systematic, methodical in its brutality. That’s what scared me. And that’s what makes me furious. They wanted to tear him apart. To annihilate him, in every possible way. To them he wasn’t even a person, just a failure to be crushed. He was a child, Zoro. Their brother. His son. And they put their whole soul into trying to break him. And it burns them that they didn’t succeed. Even on Whole Cake Island… they must have done atrocious things to him.”
Zoro thought back to the time he had heard the cook crying.
In the navigator’s mind appeared the face of Arlong.
“They have to pay.”
Zoro smirked.
“And these are the things she didn’t tell you.”
“Exactly. But trust me, they’re clear as day. I don’t care about the details. And I don’t want to know more.”
Zoro continued his sequence of blows against an invisible enemy.
“Do we tell Luffy?”
Nami sighed.
“No. Not yet. I don’t know how he’d react.”
Zoro nodded, and kept training, fully focused.
Nami was silent for a few minutes, her gaze lost in the void.
“I can't understand all that cruelty, Zoro. I can't. And now I can't stop wondering how he did it. Because even Zeff, from what I see, is certainly not a soft guy. I can't imagine how the fuck he did it. And how the fuck does he do it now.”
Zoro finished his sequence and sheathed his sword.
I spit blood just to stay standing.

Zeff felt like an idiot. Nervous as a dandy on a first date.
With a dead woman.
And so you are Sora Vinsmoke. I am Zeff.
Lunch had been a fairly quiet affair. The only problem had been that the girl with orange hair had literally grabbed the kid to tell him something that had clearly worried him. He had remained pensive the whole time. While preparing the tray for his sister, he had said something to Époni, who had smiled at him and left. Then he had started cooking a dinner he wouldn’t eat, since that evening he would be a guest at the home of that Goodwin who had planted that damned seed of doubt in his head.
Has the Regent ever told you anything about his life here in Germa?
Sora Vinsmoke’s grave was on a hill, isolated. No dates were indicated, neither birth nor death. There were no epitaphs. The woman in the photo had the kid’s eyes, and even the same mouth. A bouquet of flowers was already on the grave, and Zeff added his own.
And now that he was there, now that he had laid his tribute to the deceased, the old man didn’t know what to do.
Sora Vinsmoke, your son is a mess. He always has been, ever since he was little. He trusted no one—maybe only me. Maybe. His outbursts of anger were terrifying; he couldn’t stand teasing, not even the gentlest kind, and when treated like the child he was, he would completely lose it. When I criticized him, he took it badly, capable of not speaking to me all day. I didn’t hold back with the kicks, and he used to tell me that I couldn’t hurt him anyway. He challenged me. When I scolded him, he shut down completely. Sometimes I thought he hated me. He was as stubborn as a mule, and if any of the cooks told him something, he would reply with a tongue… the kid with the worst temper in the world. But then, maybe later the same day, your son would clean the kitchen perfectly, or prepare lunch for the brigade, and it would all be forgotten.
Zeff sighed.
I don’t know if he actually improved over time or just learned to control himself. The fact is, after a few months he started to soften. To trust, maybe. Maybe. With him, it’s always a “maybe.” Maybe he just grew up. And things became easier. He became obsessive. He started studying every aspect of cooking, then every aspect of food itself. After a couple of years, I could put him anywhere, assign him any task. By sixteen, he had trained more apprentices than I had. The other brigade members left him with the hopeless cases. And he made them flourish. I don’t know how the hell he did it. Some of those disasters even opened their own restaurants, and whenever we happened to be in their area, they sent their clients to us. Because these cooks, these guys running their own restaurants, wanted their customers to know Sanji.
Zeff had begun to feel strangely connected, almost intimate, with the woman in the photo. As if they shared a responsibility.
You see, Sora, like your son, I wanted to find the All Blue. Then I decided to create it. And so Baratie was born. When Sanji told me he wanted to find the All Blue… I don’t know if I believed him. Maybe he just wanted to find you, but you were dead. I never told him anything. After all, he was just a kid. Certainly the most stubborn and angry kid I had ever seen. And then he grew up, and he still wants to find the All Blue—or at least that’s what he says. I think he just wants to find a place far enough away from everything to be at peace. But he still hasn’t realized you can’t escape yourself.
Zeff lifted his eyes to the sky, then looked around. He felt strangely relieved that Sora Vinsmoke had been buried in a beautiful place.
In the end, I had to kick him out of Baratie, Sora. It broke my heart, but it was right that he find his own path. And those kids, the ones who took him in, don’t run from anything. I liked them immediately. They’re strong. They pursue. They dream. As it should be. And he, instead, dreams halfway, Sora. As if he doesn’t dare.
“Geezer?”
Sanji was there, in front of him, wearing a casual suit, with a curious and puzzled look, holding a wreath of flowers.
Zeff’s plan had been to leave before the kid arrived, but evidently, he had dawdled.
“I was curious to see what your mother looked like.”
Sanji glanced at the headstone.
“You brought flowers. That was kind.”
“That’s what you do when someone’s dead, isn’t it?” Zeff muttered.
“Thanks anyway.”
They were silent for a few seconds.
Zeff still felt awkward, and now that the kid was there, he also felt uneasy.
“A pretty bare grave. No dates either,” he remarked.
Sanji shrugged.
“That’s the custom here. You don’t waste time on the dead. Rarely is a dead person useful, unless as a patriotic example or a propaganda tool. And my mother was neither.”
Zeff watched Sanji set the wreath and pick up the old bouquet, probably to throw it away.
“You’ll see Cosette later?”
Sanji nodded.
“In about half an hour.”
Sora, yesterday that mess of a son of yours told me he has the idea of teaching other disasters like him. To land a hand. And that’s the closest thing to a real dream he’s ever spoken. He didn’t even finish saying it before he called it nonsense. He still dreams halfway.
Sora, why does Sanji dream halfway?

The kitchen was all set for the evening, and Zeff had turned his attention to Cosette, who was having fun delivering a series of kicks to Sanji. When he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway, the old chef turned and responded to Goodwin’s hurried greeting with a grunt.
The general looked around, tense, drumming his fingertips on a small folder he held in his hand.
“I need to speak with the Regent,” the general said tersely.
“The boy is busy right now,” muttered the old chef, nodding toward the garden.
Caspar Goodwin stepped beside Chef Zeff and studied Sanji for a few seconds.
“Don’t you dare stop him, Goodwin,” the old chef warned, his voice controlled.
“These are state matters, Zeff.”
“They can wait ten more minutes. Sanji is doing something important right now.”
Goodwin gave Zeff a skeptical look, then turned his attention to the scene before him.
The Vinsmoke cook was delivering kicks aimed at the Regent’s face, which he parried while giving instructions. His voice rang clearly:
“Left, right. Knee stiff. Again.”
“Left, right. Better. Again.”
“Left, right. Good. Another thousand like that and we’re done. Again.”
“Left, right. Watch your arms, Cosette. Again.”
“Left, right. More control. Again.”
“Left, right. Knee. Again.”
“Left, right. And what is that supposed to be? Focus, Cosette, come on. Again.”
“Left, right. Better. Again.”
Not far from them, Roronoa was doing bodyweight exercises. The orange-haired girl was also there, watching the Regent and the cook with an amused expression.
“They decided on half an hour of falls and half an hour of left-right drills. They’re almost done. Then they’ll do some stretching,” Zeff explained.
“And this is important?” asked the general, vaguely annoyed.
“Essential.”
“More important than state matters?”
“More important than anything else, except someone who’s hungry. Actually, Sanji would like the girl to practice the falls on the hard floor tomorrow. Could you have a suitable room prepared?”
The general looked at Zeff incredulously, but said nothing.
They continued watching the kids.
“Let’s talk a bit while they finish,” Zeff said suddenly.
“About what?”
“About Sanji’s life here, for example.”
Goodwin did not answer, remaining silent as he observed the Regent and the cook, who had stopped the kicking and were now doing warm-up and flexibility exercises. The orange-haired girl had joined them.
“So?” asked Zeff.
“So nothing. If the Regent hasn’t told you anything, it means there’s nothing to say.”
Zeff turned to the general.
“I don't know you, Goodwin, but you, at first glance, don't seem like someone who asks random questions. And, let me tell you, you're a terrible liar”
Goodwin chuckled.
“That doesn’t change the fact that if the Regent hasn’t told her anything…”
“What were they doing to him?”
“You need to ask the Regent, Zeff.”
The old chef fell into an eloquent silence.
Meanwhile, the group had finished their exercises and were approaching the hall. Sanji walked briskly, smiling.
“General! Did I get the time of our appointment wrong?”
“No, Regent. I’ve just discovered some things and wanted to report them to you as soon as possible,” replied Goodwin, glancing at Zeff out of the corner of his eye.
As the young Vinsmoke cook bowed to everyone and ran off, Roronoa and the orange-haired girl stayed in the hall, frowning and crossing their arms.
“What happened?” asked Sanji.
Caspar Goodwin handed the young man the folder he had been holding.
“Our spy in cell 25. His name is Mortimer Ravàn. And he is not a Requiem Citadel spy.”
The Regent sat on the dining table and opened the folder in front of him.
“Ravàn is one of Tulip’s collaborators, Regent. Ravàn is one of ours. He worked closely with Judge.”

Chapter Text

Sanji had just skimmed through the file in front of him, promising himself he would study it more carefully that evening, after dinner. What had immediately caught his eye was that Mortimer Ravàn had been a brilliant student, recruited by Tulip even before the end of his academic career. Ravàn had never separated from his mentor except to accompany Judge Vinsmoke on a couple of exploratory expeditions.
Goodwin was looking at him with the air of someone expecting an immediate solution, and Sanji felt his blood boil.
“There’s no mention of Citadel Requiem here. There’s no mention of a damn thing,” he muttered. “And you call this a dossier? No, because I call it bullshit. It’s vague and sloppy. What exactly were they working on with Tulip? What were those exploratory expeditions? Who else took part? WHO THE FUCK WROTE THIS CRAP?”
Goodwin stiffened. The regent wasn’t just having an outburst, not just doing it in public—he was also discussing matters of state in front of people with no ties to the administration. He didn’t like that one bit.
“I’ll conduct inquiries on the matter, Regent,” the general replied curtly.
The young man kept turning the file over in his hands.
“This fucking kingdom is falling apart,” the young man growled. “The tyrant disappears and everything goes to shit. I guess that’s what happens when the leader is a psychopathic asshole, everyone’s busy kissing the bastard-in-chief’s ass, and his closest collaborators are A BUNCH OF FUCKING INCOMPETENT PAPER-PUSHING DICKHEADS!”
“Brat,” Zeff hissed.
Sanji buried his face in his hands.
“Of course, you don’t fall under the incompetent paper-pushing dickheads, General.”
“Thank you, Regent.”
“My pleasure, General.”
Sanji flipped through the dossier again.
“I even gave this bastard a cigarette.”
Goodwin stayed silent for a few seconds.
“How do you intend to proceed, Regent?”
“I don’t know, general. I really don’t know.”
“Curly. Calm down.”
“If you want to take my place, Marimo, I’ll give you the chair. Want it? I bet you’d do better than me. A few chopped heads and problem solved. I want to abdicate, for fuck’s sake.”
Goodwin noticed that, at that remark, the girl with the orange hair and Roronoa exchanged a glance. Another thing he didn’t like.
“Either I bang my head against a wall, or get drunk, or cry,” the regent went on.
Goodwin looked around again, nervous. The girl with the orange hair was staring at him with laser eyes. Chef Zeff kept his focus on the regent. Roronoa, instead, was smirking.
“You’ve got the order wrong, Curly. First you get drunk, then, once you’re wasted, you bang your head against the wall, then you cry, and after that you abdicate. But first you’ve got to tell me whose heads I need to chop.”
After a few seconds of silence, Sanji let out a tense laugh, turning toward the swordsman.
“All of them,” he declared. “Except Cosette and Époni. And the General here. And Pryx and the brigade boys, of course.”
Caspar Goodwin pressed his lips together.
“And your sister?” asked the girl, smiling faintly.
“I still need to think about her,” the cook replied, smiling back.
The atmosphere seemed to lighten. The general looked around, suspicious. It was as if the regent had been defused.
“Thank you for including me on the spared list, sire,” Goodwin murmured.
“Think nothing of it, General.”
Sanji fell silent for a few minutes, flipping through the file over and over again. He sighed.
“So. With Ravàn, we do nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we do nothing.”
“We stick to the plan, then?”
“No, no. We don’t go to him. Like hell I’m wasting another cigarette on that piece of crap. He can die of withdrawal, for all I care. We’ll deal with him once we’ve plugged all the holes in the dossier. Instead, we go to cell 19, the one who won’t eat.”
Chef Zeff furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean, he won’t eat?”
“I mean we bring him meals and he sends them back. And apparently he’s an asshole about it, too.”
“Confirmed,” the orange-haired girl chimed in.
Goodwin looked at her, puzzled.
What does this girl have to do with the spies? he wondered.
Zeff put his hands on his hips.
“And you’re fine with this, brat?”
Sanji turned to him, exasperated.
“He’s the one refusing to eat. What do you expect me to do, force-feed him? I’ve got a thousand things to handle, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Zeff didn’t back down an inch.
“You’ll deal with it one way or another, won’t you, brat?”
Sanji sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do, Old Geezer.”
Sanji thought for a few minutes, leafing through the dossier once again. Then he turned back to the general.
“In these days, Tulip hasn’t claimed his man, has he? I mean, he hasn’t made any move at all. He was all worked up at the meeting about the clones.”
Goodwin raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed…”
“Then I’d leave Ravàn to stew in his own broth, while we patch the holes, and in the meantime we visit the prisoner in cell 19. I’ll take a shower, then we proceed.”
The general nodded.
“I’ll wait here, sire.”

Caspar Goodwin watched the regent leave the hall at a brisk pace, accompanied by Roronoa. A little later, the orange-haired girl, after throwing him one last scathing look, also left the room. Only Zeff remained, arms crossed, staring at him.
Goodwin held his gaze.
“So now the Germa council is made up of the Strawhat crew?” the general asked. “We’re bypassing every procedure, every—”
“When the king was Judge, how did the council work?” the old cook’s voice was a growl. “From what I’ve gathered, the brat wasn’t entirely wrong earlier. There was the tyrant, and everyone busy kissing his ass.”
“At least Judge didn’t act behind our backs.”
“And you didn’t act at all. While now you’re the ones acting behind the brat’s back.” Zeff snorted. “Goodwin, man to man, you don’t strike me as entirely ball-less. So why do you act like you are?”
Goodwin’s eyes hardened.
“Because the situation is delicate, Chef Zeff.”
“And so your Regent solves it by turning to people he trusts. Up to you whether you want to be part of them, Goodwin. The choice is yours alone. Of course, your help would be useful. But, as you can see, we manage just fine without it.”
“You’re getting yourselves into things far bigger than you, Zeff.”
The old cook burst into a booming laugh.
“Like the coup?”
Goodwin turned pale.
Zeff laughed again.
“We know about that too. We’re keeping an eye on you. And I’m keeping an eye on you in particular.”
From the kitchen came the sound of something falling.
Zeff turned sharply and headed toward the kitchen.
“Damn clumsy fools of clones,” he muttered. “Cosette’s really going to hear it from me this time.”
Before entering, the cook turned back toward the general.
“One last thing,” he said. “Let’s be clear—our discussion isn’t over.”
Goodwin was left alone.

Zoro watched the cook walk in with his head down, lost in thought, and enter the room without saying a word. Then he took off his jacket and began loosening his tie.
“Curly.”
The cook lifted his gaze, and Zoro shifted into a guard stance.
“You too. Like the girl. A little left-right, come on.”
Sanji smirked.
“Is this a truce, Marimo?”
Zoro was caught off guard.
“What?”
“This. You telling me I need to sleep. Not giving me too much shit. Giving me a hand, like you did earlier. Like when we fight side by side. Is this a truce?”
Zoro stayed silent.
Sanji kept his eyes fixed on the swordsman.
“Because if it’s a truce, I’ll take it. But if you’re screwing with me, or acting like this out of some twisted sense of pity…”
Zoro pressed his lips together.
Sanji let the sentence hang and waited.
Zoro didn’t answer.
The cook kept watching the swordsman for a few more seconds. Zoro stayed in his guard stance, meeting his gaze. Finally, Sanji closed his eyes, rolled his shoulders and neck to loosen his muscles, and shifted into an attack stance.
“Five minutes. And tomorrow I’ll find the time for a proper fight.”
Zoro allowed himself the faintest smile.
“Good.”

As they walked toward the prisons, Goodwin asked Sanji if he liked seafood.
“I didn’t think to ask you this morning. Suddenly I was afraid you might be allergic.”
Sanji smiled.
“I don’t have any allergies, and I eat everything that’s put in front of me.”
Goodwin smiled back.
“I’m relieved.”
The general reflected that the regent seemed much calmer, more relaxed, almost open. He wondered whether the boy was dangerously moody or simply young.
Maybe both, he told himself.
“Do you cook your own meals, General?”
“I would if I had a death wish. I have a cleaning lady who also cooks for me. She comes when I’ve left and leaves before I return. Perfect arrangement.”
Sanji laughed briefly.
“So you don’t like company, if I understand correctly.”
“I work closely with several people; in private, I appreciate solitude. Of course, sometimes certain people spark my curiosity.”
“I don’t know whether to feel flattered or uncomfortable, general.”
Goodwin chuckled.
“My wife used to tell me the same thing.”
Sanji turned to Goodwin.
“Used to?”
“I’m a widower.”
The regent stopped and ran a hand over his face. The general was touched to see that the boy’s dismay seemed genuine.
“I’m very sorry, general. For what it’s worth, please accept my condolences.”
Goodwin acknowledged them with a nod.
“Thank you. Anyway, my widowhood has lasted far longer than my marriage. And I’ve more than worked through my grief.”
Sanji made no comment, and they continued on in silence.
By the time they reached the prison, it was dusk. When they arrived at the entrance of the waiting room, they saw a sign beside the door pointing to a nearby smoking room. At the sight of it, Sanji burst out laughing.
“My first reform!” he told Goodwin, then stepped into the new room and lit a cigarette.
Shortly after, a guard appeared to announce that the prisoner from cell 19 was ready, and asked the regent whether he wished to meet him in the interrogation room or in his cell.
“Rumor must have spread that the regent’s an asshole with a bad temper,” Sanji commented lightly.
Goodwin smiled.
“Just a rumor?”
Sanji smirked and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
"Be careful, General. I'm the Regent."
Then they let themselves be escorted to the cell.

The prisoner in cell 19 was a rather tall, very thin man with black hair. When Sanji and Goodwin entered the cell, the man remained motionless, staring at the wall. Sanji thought that if the prisoner took just one step to the side, he would have been able to look out the window. Instead, he stood facing the wall, hands clasped behind his back.
Sanji exchanged a glance with Goodwin and cleared his throat.
“Good evening,” the young man greeted. “I’m here to have a little chat.”
The other didn’t reply or move.
Sanji took a step toward him.
“Care for a chat? I’ve been told you don’t eat. Are you allergic to something? Don’t you like the food?”
The man turned his head just slightly.
“You really want to chat?”
“Just a little chat.”
The man turned sharply. His eyes locked on Sanji’s face, so pale a shade of blue they seemed almost blind. A scar crossed the right side of his forehead, cutting through his eyebrow. His skin was ghostly white.
“The code is correct, but I need to check you with the Lunarian scanner to confirm,” the man said in a conspiratorial tone, twitching the fingertips of his right hand. “You understand, don’t you? You know it’s standard procedure for the safety of the operation, right?”
Sanji instinctively widened his eyes.
“Of course.”
After staring at Sanji’s face for a few seconds, the man reached toward his eyebrow. Goodwin stepped forward, but Sanji stopped him with a raised hand.
The prisoner slowly stroked Sanji’s visible eyebrow, then gave the hint of a smile.
“I need to check the other one as well. For security procedure, you understand?”
“Of course,” Sanji nodded, lifting the lock of hair that covered his eye.
The man stroked the other eyebrow with the same care, lingering thoughtfully on the curl.
“They’ve done a beautiful job,” the man murmured dreamily. “So beautiful they look real. Makes you want to pull them.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I see. They could break?”
“Or you could.”
The man nodded, absorbed.
“You’re the Lunarian agent Sigma 413?”
“Who do you think I am?”
The man nodded again.
“You’re perfect.”
Sanji was silent for a moment.
“Thank you.”
The man’s expression turned sly.
“You know, they’ve sent me females. Thought they could fool me. But I threw them all out. Today only one came. I don’t know what they’re trying to do, but I kept sending her away.” The prisoner shook his head. “Can you believe it? Females.”
Sanji kept his face impassive.
“How disgusting.”
The man nodded.
“I haven’t taken anything they brought me. Sent them all away. Every single one.”
“You did the right thing. You can never be too careful. Still, I was told you can eat. In fact, that you absolutely must eat. The operation depends on it.”
“So the female who brought me food today…”
The man gave Sanji a look full of expectation.
The cook gave a slightest nod.
“Exactly,” he whispered.
The man smiled.
“They bypassed her. Perfect!”
Both fell silent for a few seconds. Sanji didn’t dare move or even blink.
“They ordered me to ask for your name,” he finally said cautiously.
“The real one or the other?”
“Both. You know, for the operation. Procedure.”
The man nodded.
“But I don’t want to talk in front of him,” he said, jerking his chin toward Goodwin.
Sanji swallowed.
“He’s been bypassed too.”
The man narrowed his eyes.
“So…”
“Exactly.”
The man cast a suspicious glance behind Sanji.
“Listen, is it all right if I tell you in your ear? For security.”
“Excellent idea.”
The man leaned close to Sanji. When Sanji felt the prisoner’s warm breath on his face, it took everything he had not to shudder.
After the man pulled back, Sanji stepped away without turning his back on him.
“Perfect. Now I need to go and check. I’ll be back soon with the details of the operation.”
The man nodded.
“I’ll have food brought to you by a man. What do you say? Even bypassed, she’s still a female.”
The prisoner nodded.
“You can tell you’re Agent Sigma 413. Sharp as a blade.”
“Thank you. You’re an excellent collaborator yourself.”
The man nodded in silence. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and puffed his chest out.
Sanji imitated him.
“All right. I’ll go now,” the young man said flatly. “I’ll come back for another little chat.”
“A little chat,” the other repeated.
“And you eat,” Sanji concluded, backing toward the door and moving to stand beside the general.
The man nodded.
“I’ll eat.”
Goodwin and Sanji left the cell.

The two men walked toward the exit in silence, their steps stiff, and the regent left strict written and verbal orders with a guard not to let Cosette anywhere near cell 19. For extra security, he relayed the order again via a den den mushi, connecting directly to the kitchen and speaking to Nami.
“Please, tell her to hand the tray over to whoever is in charge and then leave.”
“You’ll break her heart, Sanji-kun. Cosette loves that mission.”
At those words, Goodwin frowned.
“Some things came up, Nami-san. Please tell her we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Alright,” Nami’s voice sounded vaguely worried.
“It’s all fine, Nami-san, my beloved. Really, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Then he said goodbye.
When Sanji turned to Goodwin, he saw the man watching him with disapproval.
Sanji sighed and left the prison, the general following close behind.
“You’ll talk tomorrow?” Goodwin growled.
Sanji leaned against the wall, closed his eyes for a moment, and lit a cigarette.
“General, out of three prisoners, one is from Germa and the second is insane. These three spies, or whatever they are—because now I’m starting to have doubts—were arrested directly by the clones of the brigade. Or at least, that’s what Aokiri said.”
Sanji opened his eyes and looked at the general for a few seconds.
“What do you say you investigate Aokiri’s actions tomorrow, while I have a chat with the clones?”
Goodwin didn’t reply.
Sanji closed his eyes again and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“The names I got from the guy in cell 19 are Alabastor Sartori and Erp 2333. I’d also run a check on Sigma 413, while we’re at it. Maybe it means something.”
Sanji took a long drag from his cigarette, tilted his head back, and exhaled the smoke toward the sky. Then he looked at the general again, and gave him the faintest, almost embarrassed smile.
“Is your dinner invitation still valid? Because honestly, I’d kill to sit in an armchair and have a drink. And I really like seafood.”
Goodwin still said nothing.
Sanji sighed.
“I don’t mean to disrespect you, General. But you can see for yourself I can’t trust the council. And I can’t handle everything alone.”
Goodwin’s expression softened, and he gave Sanji a small pat on the shoulder.
“Of course. Let’s go to dinner. After all, we’ll talk tomorrow. With your friends.”

Chapter Text

Caspar Goodwin’s house had a perfectly square structure and extended over two floors. The house was surrounded on all four sides by a garden, bordered by rather tall hedges and a few trees. The lawn was austere yet well kept, without flowers, but with two graceful statues on opposite sides depicting ethereal, dancing figures. There was also a small iron gazebo, beneath which stood two chairs and a little table. A simple path of immaculate gravel led to the entrance door, itself very sober in appearance. Goodwin opened it and led Sanji inside.
From the entrance one stepped directly into the living room, decorated in calm and elegant shades of gray and ecru, with touches of green that brought freshness to the atmosphere. The walls were completely bare, except for a medium-sized painting portraying Goodwin and a sweet-looking woman with brown hair.
Goodwin’s wife, Sanji thought. What a beautiful couple they were.
The way both of them kept their hands on the woman’s belly suggested to Sanji that she was pregnant. He decided to pretend not to notice.
The general pointed to an armchair.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll just fetch us something to drink.”
Sanji smiled.
“Thank you.”
He did not sit down, but instead moved closer to the bookshelves lining the walls, scanning the titles. He felt nervous. The idea of holding a conversation with the general unsettled him: Sanji had been surprised by his invitation and his openness, but he did not trust him. For that reason, he had begun to study Goodwin’s library, hoping to find two or three titles he had read as well, so he could count on a neutral subject to get through the evening without too much trouble. Maybe, once some sort of real connection had been established, the important matters could be addressed: his sister’s coronation and the coup.
The problem was that most of Goodwin’s books dealt with legal or military topics, with some historical essays and quite a few texts on clinical psychology. These last ones caught Sanji’s attention, and he lingered over their titles. Three in particular struck him as especially interesting: Pain and Rejection as Foundations of Inner Ethics, The Construction of Ethics Between Trauma and Possibility, and The Value of Traumatic Experiences in the Search for Meaning. They were all written by the same author, Mariselle Lys, and there were many other essays of hers on the shelves.
“After reading my book, do you also want to read my wife’s?”
Caspar Goodwin’s voice nearly made Sanji jump. He turned toward his host with the look of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The general was smiling, holding a tray with two glasses, a bottle of red wine, and two small bowls of appetizers.
Sanji quickly composed himself.
“The titles are very beautiful. Was your wife a psychologist?”
They sat facing each other.
“A psychiatrist. Sometimes she asked me questions that frightened me. And she spoke with a brutality that could be crushing. She made no bone. The processing and therapeutic guidance were reserved for her patients — with me she spat out the diagnoses directly. A couple of times I told her I’d pay her to stop psychoanalyzing me.”
Sanji laughed.
“So your wife was more martial than you.”
They made a small toast, and while the general drank a sip of wine, Sanji only wet his lips.
“Earlier you said you’d kill just to sit in an armchair and drink something. Changed your mind?”
Sanji gave an embarrassed smile.
“Not comfortable, Regent?”
“I don’t know how much I can trust you, General. And frankly I think your invitation has a very specific reason. So I’d rather stay sharp. But I like your wife. Let’s keep talking about her, if you don’t mind. Or if I’m not being too indiscreet.”
“As you wish, Regent.”
Sanji widened his smile.
Goodwin took another sip of wine.
“I believe you struggle to trust, Regent.”
“This is an informal situation. You can call me by my name. And you’re the closest thing I have to an ally inside Germa, aside from Pryx. Can you blame me for trusting no one here?”
The general smiled.
“I didn’t mean here in Germa. I meant in general.”
Sanji’s smile grew a little more tense.
“Did your wife teach you her trade, General?”
Goodwin laughed and took two appetizers from a bowl. Sanji followed his example.
“You don’t become a general at forty-eight without learning to read people a little, Sanji.”
Sanji remained silent, taking a very small sip of wine.
Goodwin observed him.
“To answer your question,” said the general, “no, I absolutely can’t blame you.”
Sanji swallowed.
“You know, when I read your wife’s book titles, I thought of your constitution.”
Goodwin gave him a questioning look.
Sanji leaned back in the armchair, then cleared his throat.
“Preamble: We, the founders of the Nation of Germa, guided by the light of knowledge and spurred by the desire for independence, proclaim the birth of our homeland, founded on science, technological development, and the inviolable respect of human dignity.”
Goodwin, about to take another sip of wine, froze with the glass midway to his lips.
“You memorized it?”
“Assuming responsibility for our customs and our laws, we pledge to create a just and free society and to honor the uniqueness and value of every individual. We proclaim that our nation does not recognize oppression, that science and technology will be used as tools of emancipation and solidarity, and that force shall only be used to protect and never to dominate. If you wish, General, I can continue with Article One.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I had to read it three times to convince myself I wasn’t hallucinating, General. Shall I go on with Article One?”
Goodwin stood up, took a copy of the constitution from a shelf, and sat down again. He crossed his legs and opened the book on his knee.
“Go ahead. Let’s see if you’ve done your homework properly.”
Sanji set his glass on the table, straightened his back, and placed his hands on his knees.
“Article One, Foundations of the Nation: Germa is born as a community founded on scientific and technological progress, essential for individual and collective development. The dignity of every individual, whether or not a citizen, is both the end and the principle of all our laws and customs. No discovery, no ambition, and no power may violate this foundation.”
The general closed the book and looked at the young man with a bitter smile.
“Excellent, Sanji. Top marks.”
The young man gave a short laugh, leaning back in the armchair and crossing his legs.
“If it doesn’t make me sound like a nerd, I could go on with Article Two.”
“No, better not, Sanji. Rather, may I ask in what part of my constitution you recognized my wife’s influence?”
Sanji shrugged.
“Her book titles speak of the search for meaning, ethics, possibilities, development. Themes that return often in your constitution. Along with the theme of the inviolable dignity of human beings. Which, considering what Germa has become, is almost laughable. Or tragic.”
“Fortunately Mariselle died when things here were starting to get… complicated. It happened just before your birth. You know, we were thinking of leaving Germa right after the childbirth. At least I managed to get the children out.”
Sanji raised his eyebrows, silently urging Goodwin to continue.
“Can you believe it? In a kingdom centered on scientific research and individual growth, Mari died in childbirth. Judge had his eyes on my children as early as the fifth month of pregnancy, but we always resisted. As soon as they were born, I entrusted the twins to an old comrade-in-arms who took them away from here. Germa is not a good place to raise unmodified children. As you well know.”
Sanji took a sip of wine. Goodwin noticed his hands were trembling.
“You’re telling me you’ve never seen your children?”
“Exactly. I know they’re fine, but nothing more. And that’s enough for me.”
Sanji ran a hand over his eyes.
“Damn. I’m sorry, General. I’m deeply sorry.”
Goodwin looked at him for a few seconds, then leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee.
“Sanji. Don’t say it as if you were responsible.”
A faint sound caught the general’s attention.
“The timer. The sea lasagna should be ready. Shall we go to the dining room?”

They ate facing each other at a table meant for six. The dining room too was austere, simple, sober. Though to a lesser extent than the living room, there were bookshelves filled with books here as well.
Goodwin ate his first bites while watching Sanji with some apprehension.
“Do you like it? There’s a certain pressure in hosting for dinner a cook of your talent.”
The other laughed.
“I’m a cook, not a food critic. Critics I’d send straight to the underground cells.”
Goodwin laughed too.
“Anyway, the lasagna is delicious,” Sanji went on. “My compliments to your housekeeper. And to you, for checking the cooking time. Not a small task.”
“I only waited for the timer.”
“You still took part in the preparation. Therefore, you deserve the compliments.”
Goodwin smiled.
“May I ask how you first approached cooking?”
Sanji finished his bite before answering.
“I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that many times too. I only know I’ve always wanted to cook. My mother was my first test subject.”
Goodwin laughed again.
“Mari would have had a lot to say about your choice of the word ‘test subject’ instead of ‘taster.’”
Sanji smiled.
“That’s because you didn’t see the first things I cooked. Trust me, test subject is the most accurate term. Poor mom. When I really started learning to cook, on the Orbit, for a while I suspected I had poisoned her. But then I thought if that had been the case, Judge wouldn’t have missed the chance to rub it in my face. And you? Are you a jurist-soldier or a soldier-jurist?”
“Soldier-jurist. I enlisted at seventeen for all the reasons young people enlist.”
“And those would be?”
“A need for independence, a reckless desire for adventure, the urge to see the world, and above all, a girl who turned you down.”
Sanji smiled and looked at the general knowingly.
“And the girl was the one who later became your wife?”
“No. I met my wife while stationed in East Blue, when I was studying law and she had just begun  treat people by listening to them. The girl who turned me down was Sora.”
Sanji froze, mouth open, bite halfway to his lips.
Goodwin burst out laughing, amused by the young man’s reaction.
“In truth, we had been seeing each other for a couple of months. I met her through Haruto, Judge wasn’t in the picture yet, and she was still convinced she wanted to become a geneticist.”
Sanji’s eyes widened.
“My mother wanted to become a geneticist?”
Goodwin nodded.
“I believe she and Judge met during their studies, before she changed her mind and turned to general medicine.”
Sanji opened and closed his mouth, then took his first real sip of wine.
Goodwin watched him with a kindly air.
“Unfortunately, I had lost touch with your mother during her studies, so I don’t know the details. I only know that when I returned home a few years later, together with the woman who would become my wife, I found Sora hopelessly in love with this tall fellow, not without charisma — a little reserved, a little gloomy, intelligent, ambitious, with a plan.”
Goodwin noticed Sanji listening with eyes wide. He smirked ironically.
“You don’t like the lasagna anymore?”
Sanji finally put the suspended bite in his mouth and chewed slowly, without taking his eyes off his interlocutor.
“Did you invite me to dinner to tell me these things?” he asked at last.
“Primarily I invited you out of curiosity. To be honest, I found you likable right away, from your comment about the missing painting of you as a child. And when you called me Judge’s lackey, you reminded me of Sora. Ironic, passionate, a little melodramatic.”
Sanji blushed furiously, but Goodwin seemed not to notice.
“She and Mari got along right away.”
They ate a bit more in silence.
“So my mother was a scientist?” Sanji repeated.
“And quite a brilliant one, as far as I know. As I told you, by then we had lost touch. I was studying and making a career in the army, and whenever I could, of course, I ran to see my fiancée, who was specializing in the study of childhood trauma. The fact is, once Mari finished her studies, we decided to settle in my native country. And, as I told you, there we found Sora again and met Judge.”
Sanji took a sip of water.
“And they were in love. It seems unbelievable.”
The general laughed.
“Judge wasn’t always as you’ve known him, Sanji. Or maybe he was, but he wore his mask well. Back then, the only things I didn’t like about him were his lack of humor and his tendency to belittle Mari’s studies. He said focusing on the weak led nowhere. But at the time neither of us paid much attention. Judge certainly had a dream, or perhaps, in hindsight, just an obsession. I never learned to tell the two apart. Sora told me about it, about Judge’s dream she had made her own. They wanted to create a new state, a utopia, using Judge’s native land, Germa, as its foundation. I barely knew the history of this floating kingdom, and frankly I was very wary of the whole business.”
“Because of Judge? Or because of my mother?”
“Because I had seen dreamers before, utopia-builders, in my missions, more than I could count. And every one of them turned into dictators. Of course, I never met them in their ideation phase, these great visionaries, only in their fully — and frighteningly — realized phase. But if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that a dream always turns very quickly into a nightmare for those who don’t share it.”
Sanji looked unsettled, and fell silent for a few minutes, thoughtful. He focused on his meal and finished his lasagna.
Goodwin did the same.
“Unfortunately, my housekeeper didn’t prepare a second course. If you’d like, I can serve you another portion of lasagna.”
“With pleasure,” Sanji said with a smile. “They really are exquisite.”
Goodwin served Sanji a second portion and took some for himself as well.
Sanji ate a bite and drank a sip of water.
“And yet you collaborated in the creation of Germa, General. Very actively, at that.”
Goodwin responded to the remark with a half-smile.
“Yes. Haruto and I were the only ones in that group who weren’t scientists. For a soldier fresh from legal studies, pursued with passion no less, the temptation was too strong. We always think it’ll be different for us, that we’ve learned from the past, that we’ll do better. Now I’m sincerely convinced that in this world there are two kinds of people: those who don’t know history and make it repeat, and those who delude themselves into knowing it — and repeat it worse.”
They finished dinner in silence.

For dessert, Caspar Goodwin had arranged a lemon sorbet. They ate it in the living room, accompanied by a flute of chilled Brut, which Sanji barely touched.
Goodwin smiled.
“Still don’t trust it? Do you want to stay clear-headed?”
Sanji flushed slightly.
“I’m afraid it’s stronger than me, General.”
Goodwin nodded.
“May I ask you a question, Sanji?”
The young man nodded, cautiously.
“At the party I asked Zeff if you had ever told him about your life here. He made me understand you hadn’t. I’d like to ask why.”
Sanji closed his eyes for a few seconds.
“May I ask why you asked him that?”
Goodwin emptied his flute and refilled it.
“Because he spoke of you as a true earthquake, while I had a completely different memory. I was curious — and probably indiscreet. I regret that.”
“The damage is done,” Sanji sighed, then fell silent for a few minutes, reflecting on the question posed to him.
“As my wife would have said, don’t censor yourself, Sanji,” Goodwin encouraged him. “What you say won’t leave this room.”
Sanji gave a tight little smile.
“May I ask why it matters to you?”
“It’s tied to the reason for my dinner invitation.”
Sanji’s expression grew more guarded. Goodwin noticed the young man scratch at a bit of skin on his thumb with his index finger and bite the inside of his cheek.
“I’ll be completely honest. If I end up regretting this…”
Goodwin nodded.
“Understood.”
Sanji fixed his eyes on the general, faintly frowning. For a few seconds he said nothing, long enough that Goodwin thought the young man might simply get up and leave without another word. But then Sanji drew a deep breath and began to speak.
“Because what happened to me here makes me feel weak, stupid, and inept. A failure. Wrong. Pathetic. I owe Zeff a lot. More than you can imagine. And I don’t want Zeff to see me as some damn pitiful case or a stupid victim. Nor do I want my crewmates to. Therefore, I’d ask you, in the future, to be more discreet about matters that don’t concern you.”
Goodwin nodded, with a faint smile.
“You’re right, I should have minded my own business. I'm sorry.”
Sanji finished his sorbet, checked the clock while stifling a yawn, and stood up.
“I really should be going now. I have to get up early tomorrow. Have I answered your question?”
Goodwin rose as well.
“Yes. And now I can come to the other reason, beyond my curiosity, for which I invited you to dinner.”
Sanji’s gaze sharpened.
“So we’re going to talk about the coup?”
The general smiled.
“It’s still too early for that. But we will, I promise. No, I was referring to something else.”
The general walked over to a cabinet with drawers, opened one, and took something out.
“The reason I invited you was to apologize, Sanji. You see, nothing merely ‘happened’ to you here, as you put it — you were deliberately harmed, methodically and knowingly. Respect for human dignity was the foundation of my constitution, it should have been the cornerstone of Germa, and instead yours was violated with intolerable ferocity. I watched it happen, again and again, and I turned away. And when you told me about the cell…”
Goodwin had not taken his eyes off Sanji, who had gone pale as a sheet.
“Shut up, General,” the young man hissed, his voice trembling. “Shut up.”
The man laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Sanji stiffened and stared at him in astonishment.
“Sanji,” Goodwin went on, “it is not you who should feel ashamed of what you endured. You are not a victim, but a survivor. And I am not dabbling in amateur psychology — I am simply stating facts. My boy, you are much stronger than you think. You’ve already proved it, and you’re proving it now. Sora would be absolutely proud of you. And it would be wonderful to see you leave here even partly aware of your worth.”
Sanji couldn’t say a word, and stared at the general with a shocked expression.
“I really must go now,” he managed to whisper. “Thank you for the evening.”
Goodwin nodded with a half-smile. He had the suspicion he had told him too much all at once, and wondered what Mari would have said. Then he turned his attention back to Sanji.
“Of course. In any case,” he replied, then handed him what he had taken from the cabinet, “this belongs to you.”
Sanji took the object Goodwin placed in his hand and looked at it. It was an old-fashioned key, rounded, a bit dull. He swallowed.
“It’s…”
“Yes. The key to cell number three.”
For a few seconds the young man continued to stare at the key. He seemed afraid to close his hand around it. Then, with a slowness that looked almost like effort, he took it with his other hand and slipped it into his pocket.
“Have you thought about what to do with it?” Goodwin asked.
Without a word, Sanji shook his head and regained partial composure. He looked back at the general, cautious, a bit tense.
“Thank you, General. For the key, and for the evening.”
“Thank you, Sanji. Shall we see each other tomorrow?”
Sanji nodded and left.
Goodwin watched him until he disappeared into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Sanji no longer felt weak in the knees, but his ears were still ringing.
He couldn’t get his mind off that absurd evening, especially the last part, which had hit him like a low blow that had probably unsettled him more than it should have.
Of all things, I never expected an apology, Sanji thought.
It was a strange feeling: at first, when Sanji had told the general why he had never told Zeff anything, he had felt like a complete idiot, but at the same time it was as if a weight had been lifted. He told himself it was probably because the general knew firsthand how cruel Germa could be: he had lost his wife, given up his children, and his dream had been literally raped day after day by the very man who was supposed to inspire it.
Caspar Goodwin knows. And understands.
But when the general had bluntly thrown back in his face what had been done to him, Sanji had faltered. It had been like being caught in a lie. Like being ambushed, or assaulted. Like when your house is destroyed from its foundations by a calamity, and the only thing you can do is look around, trying to make sense of what you see before your eyes. Searching for an answer in the rubble.
Or in what remains of the explosive.
And Sanji had spent the last minutes doing just that. Turning the bomb over and over in his mind. Taking it apart and putting it back together. Reliving the detonation. Repeating to himself, again and again, the words that had hurt him the most. Owning them. Trying to understand what they meant and what he was supposed to do with them.
Nothing merely ‘happened’ to you here. You were deliberately harmed, methodically and knowingly.
Your dignity was violated with intolerable ferocity.
That last thought was so painful it took his breath away. And yet his mind lingered there, as if insisting on that wound, inflicting it on himself again and again, might eventually make him immune to the pain.
My dignity was violated with intolerable ferocity.
At that thought—at yet another variation of that thought—Sanji felt his breath cut short, his stomach tighten, and his heart leap to his throat. Once again, it was clear to him that defeating Queen and destroying his Raid Suit hadn’t been enough to put everything behind him. That it wouldn’t be so easy. So quick.
So painless.
Sanji leaned against a wall and, almost without realizing it, slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the key to his cell. He clenched it in his fist, trying to press into his hand the consistency, the substance of that object which, he now knew with undeniable clarity, wasn’t just an object.
Then he pulled it out and looked at it.
And what am I supposed to do with this?
The young man closed his eyes for a few seconds and counted thirty breaths, keeping his palm open. He felt calmer and opened his eyes.
The key was still there.
He looked at it for a few seconds, then slipped it back into his pocket.
One thing at a time, he decided.
Determined to maintain his regained clarity, Sanji lit a cigarette and checked the time: just a quarter past eleven. He came up with a plan: he would go back to the castle, have a strong drink, and go to sleep.
Having something specific to do gave him an additional layer of calm. However, there was one obstacle: it was still too early.
Going to his room and taking advantage of the guest minibar was out of the question: apart from the fact that the chances of Zoro having already drunk everything bordered on certainty, the problem was that if Zoro saw him drinking anything stronger than a light lager or a glass of wine, he would probably get suspicious. And Sanji wasn’t ready to face his suspicions; besides, the cook felt the need to be alone for a while.
The other option was to go to the kitchen, but since it was still early, there was a chance someone might be there.
Specifically, Zeff.
And right now, Sanji wanted with all his heart to avoid being alone with him.
Goodwin. I get the good intentions and the desire to understand, but what the hell!
Because it was likely that now, thanks to the general’s curiosity, Zeff would want to know who Sanji had been before running into him.
It was very likely that Zeff was already wondering.
And it was absolutely certain that, at the first opportunity, he would ask him.
And then I’ll tell him my tearful, tragic story, and he’ll look at me like some pathetic case. Like he used to look at those clumsy apprentices no one wanted, the ones with equally tearful, tragic stories. And if he looks at me like that, first I’ll kill him and then I’ll kill myself.
And Sanji, even knowing it was something inevitable, wanted to delay that moment as long as possible. So he would have to stall for at least fifteen minutes. Half an hour to be sure.
Better make it half an hour.
The cook thought that it had only been five days since he had been at Germa, and so many things had already happened. Maybe too many. Especially inside him.
And especially about my damned steel box. The shit coming out of it gets bigger every day. Not to mention the stuff I didn’t even remember putting in there.
Sanji rolled his shoulders to relax his muscles, and decided he would spend the next half hour walking through the gardens. Plants—especially flowers—had the power to calm his nerves. A bit like the sea: things both eternal and impermanent, before which everything lost its importance.
And right now, he desperately needed to feel insignificant. To make insignificant everything that had happened, everything he was now, everything he felt. He needed to restore the right perspective to things.
Resolved in his decision, Sanji began walking along the small grassy paths around the castle, determined not to let anxiety take over but still checking the time roughly every minute. Suddenly, in the distance, he saw the silhouette of a clone, probably a night guard, coming toward him. The sight gave him half an idea, an inspiration, and so he approached the guard.
“Excuse me,” he asked politely, “could you tell me where Sanji Vinsmoke’s tomb is?”
The clone remained silent for a few seconds, probably puzzled, and Sanji found it a little amusing. He needed that.
“You are Sanji Vinsmoke,” the clone pointed out in a monotone voice.
Sanji was tempted to retort that he was Black Leg Sanji, but decided to let it slide so as not to complicate things. He smiled at him.
“I know who I am. More or less. But would it be possible to visit the tomb? Could you tell me where it is?”
The clone stood still, moving his lips without saying anything. Sanji vaguely feared he had short-circuited him, so he tried to explain his request more clearly:
“Years ago, Sanji Vinsmoke, as a child, was declared dead. He even had a State funeral. I was wondering if his tomb still exists. If so, I’d like to visit it. Is that possible?”
The clone remained motionless, continuing to move his lips slightly.
Sanji thought he had somehow overloaded him and was tempted to drop it, but finally the clone seemed to snap back and replied.
“The tomb is located on the west side of the orange grove. To reach it, just take the path to the right.”
Sanji thanked him and headed toward the place of his burial.

When he saw Reiju’s figure standing in front of the grave, Sanji was tempted for a moment to turn around and leave, but then he changed his mind.
He swallowed, took a deep breath, and finally walked toward her.
“Not bad!” he began in a casual tone. “Really impressive. I bet mine’s the most beautiful grave in all of Germa.”
Reiju flinched slightly and turned.
Sanji stood next to her, his gaze shifting between his sister and the headstone. Reiju looked at him with curiosity for a few seconds. Sanji thought she might walk away, but instead she stayed, and turned her eyes back to the grave.
The headstone was marble, with golden inlays framing the picture of a very small Sanji. As was customary, there were no dates, but there was an epitaph:
Your father weeps for what you could have become.
After reading that phrase, Sanji lit a cigarette with trembling hands, pressing his lips so tightly together that he nearly deformed the filter. He felt a scream rise in his throat, and repressed it until it became a lump, one he couldn’t quite swallow down.
“It is,” Reiju replied. “It had to be. He called in the best craftsmen. Even the funeral was… majestic. He really put effort into it.”
Sanji’s voice came out as a growl.
“Go figure. That’s what they call a father’s love.”
Reiju kept staring at the headstone, as if it held the solution to a riddle. Her voice was absorbed, thoughtful, meditative, almost dreamlike.
Or maybe, Sanji thought, simply lost in memories.
“You were definitely more useful to him dead than alive. You were a splendid tool of propaganda. He was never loved so much as when you died.”
Sanji shoved his hands into his pockets. On impulse, he squeezed the key to his cell. Then he pulled his hands out and crossed his arms. He focused on the photo of the child. The boy was little more than an infant, with the hint of a smile.
In the more recent photos, I probably had a black eye, or a bandage, or who knows what else, he reflected. Or maybe there simply weren’t any recent photos.
He felt Reiju watching him.
“Glad I could be of some use,” he said flatly.
Reiju kept looking at her brother, who remained completely focused on the headstone. Then she touched his arm lightly, making him turn toward her.
“I think, in his own way, he loved you,” she whispered, watching him with a certain intensity.
Sanji couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh, and turned back to look at the child’s photo as if it belonged to a stranger.
“A shitty way, if you don’t mind,” he shot back.
Reiju gave a faint smile.
“We are what we are, unfortunately. Or fortunately, from some points of view. We definitely have our limits. Enormous limits.”
She kept looking at him, and he held her gaze. Then she sighed.
“You know, on paper, you were the strongest.”
Sanji raised his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that your progress, taken on its own, without comparison to the others, was incredible. Astonishing. The others weren’t nearly as remarkable. But you insisted on staying a normal human being. Your genes never made the leap. That infuriated him.”
Sanji forced a tight smile.
“It breaks my heart.”
Reiju looked thoughtful.
“More than a failure, you were a waste. From his point of view, I mean. He couldn’t accept it. He thought you simply weren’t trying hard enough. And then your compassion, your wish to cook, your stubbornness to be who you are…”
Sanji’s body stiffened.
“Damn, you’re right. What a terrible son I was. A complete piece of shit.”
Reiju lowered her eyes and reached out to gently stroke his arm. Her movements were cautious, as if afraid of hurting him or making him pull away. But Sanji stayed still.
“You know that’s not what I meant. And it’s not what I think,” she whispered.
Sanji took a long drag from his cigarette.
“I’m not so sure. Anyway, when I die, I want to be thrown into the sea. Tomorrow I’ll order this crap torn down. No, I’ll do it myself. With my own kicks.”
He turned toward the headstone and took another, shorter drag. Reiju tried to see her brother’s face, but it was hidden by his hair.
“Yeah, tomorrow I’ll tear this bullshit down with my kicks,” he repeated, rough and brooding, his voice hoarse and full of anger. Then he tapped the tip of his shoe against the base of the stone, as if testing its resistance.
“Maybe it’ll be cathartic.”
Reiju smiled.
“You know, I come here often.”
Sanji put out his cigarette, crushing it on his own gravestone.
“Nice way of telling me you’d prefer me dead?”
Reiju let out a short laugh and rested her temple against her brother’s shoulder.
He didn’t move, but Reiju felt his body tense.
“Can you imagine? You could have been the strongest of the family.”
Sanji answered instantly.
“I’d rather not imagine.”
Reiju breathed deeply.
Sanji had the impression his sister was about to confide something.
“After Whole Cake Island, Father just became unmanageable. Even the others didn’t know how to deal with him. I stayed well away.”
Still leaning on him, Reiju took his arm. She slowly closed her eyes.
“Then, when he found out about Queen…”
She fell silent.
“What did he find out about Queen?” Sanji asked.
“Everything. That your genes had finally made the leap. And that you threw it all away by destroying your Raid Suit.”
Sanji sighed and bowed his head.
“And what happened when he found out about Queen?”
“He practically lost his mind. I think he felt betrayed, Sanji. He really cried for what you could have become.”
Sanji lit another cigarette.
“Did he take it out on you?” he asked quietly.
Reiju shook her head.
“On the contrary. Suddenly, I became the favorite daughter.”
Sanji gave a small smirk.
“Maybe because you’re the only daughter, Reiju.”
She snorted and nudged his shoulder with her forehead.
“Funny. Anyway, he kept asking me all sorts of questions—about my thoughts, about when I helped you escape, even when I treated your wounds as kids. He said he had miscalculated, that he needed to reevaluate, reexamine the data. He had literally started living again. A couple of times he even said maybe Mother hadn’t been entirely wrong. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. His eyes were shining like I had never seen before. It was like being able to feel freely for the first time. I was dizzy. And then he vanished. They all vanished.”
Reiju fell silent, and Sanji asked:
“Did he say anything about me?”
“No.”
Sanji took a drag and blew the smoke toward the sky.
“Better that way.”
They were both quiet for a few seconds. Then Reiju leaned closer to her brother.
“Sanji, I wanted to hurt you the other day. I wanted to wound you.”
“I noticed. I heard the things you said to me.”
“You helped us. And you’re still helping me now. And if you want to leave, if you want to abdicate, I don’t blame you.”
Sanji’s voice was dry, clipped.
“I’ll leave after we’ve dealt with the Citadel Requiem matter. Zeff taught me you don’t leave things half done, there are no excuses for mediocre work. So I won’t leave things half done, and I won’t work in a mediocre way. We’ll finish this business. But after that, I’m done. No matter what.”
Reiju nodded.
“Understood.”
They were silent for a few seconds. Then Sanji spoke again.
“You thought I wanted revenge. That I wanted to get back at you. That I was working behind your back to…”
His voice was hoarse, with a slight tremor.
“I’m not that kind of person, Reiju. I’m not.”
Reiju pulled away and stood in front of him, looking into his eyes.
“Sanji, when Father asked me all those questions, I realized I don’t know anything. That I can’t feel. That there are pieces missing. I can’t explain it well. But I can’t feel the way you do. I don’t know if I ever will.”
“Reiju…”
“I know it’s not an excuse, but when Standish told me you wanted revenge, it seemed plausible. Logical. Perfectly justifiable, in a sense. And then, you could have come after me with every reason, and you didn’t.”
Sanji lowered his gaze, and Reiju took his hand.
“And then I thought about it afterward. And I realized I believed him because I can’t feel. Not properly. Not fully. And you’re complicated. And I don’t know you.”
He lifted his eyes back to his sister, who gave him a strangely shy smile.
“You were kind to send Nami to talk to me. She told me you would help me. Will you? Because the way I am, I can’t be regent. Standish made me realize that. And you made me realize it too.”
Sanji nodded, pressing his lips together. He pulled his hand away from hers and rubbed his palms over his eyes. He let out a long, shaky breath.
“Okay. What matters is that you came out of your apartment.”
Reiju smiled. Her relationship with emotions was far from perfect, but enough for her to understand her brother wanted to close the conversation. She gently caressed his face.
“See you tomorrow morning?” she asked. “Maybe we can have breakfast together and you can update me?”
Sanji nodded again. He seemed to struggle to speak. His voice was muffled.
“All right. Let’s do eight, with Nami and the others? So I can introduce you to Zeff.”
“That would be perfect. Thank you, Sanji.”
Sanji sighed again and lowered his hands from his eyes.
“Then goodnight,” he whispered, sniffing faintly.
“And thank you for sending Standish away,” Reiju added. “I don’t want to talk to him alone anymore. I don’t think he’s just a simple emissary of the World Government.”
“All right,” Sanji said very softly.
Then he left without another word.

Chapter Text

That morning Zoro was woken by the sound of Sanji taking a shower.
The night before, he had thought of staying up and asking him how it had gone, but he had fallen asleep. And when, that night, he had gotten up to go to the bathroom and had seen the cook sleeping on his bunk fully dressed and with a faint smell of alcohol on him, the swordsman had felt a strange pang in the pit of his stomach. It was a sensation similar to the one he had experienced after arguing with him, but also different: less sad, more angry. And while he was in the bathroom, still half asleep, Zoro thought that feeling wasn’t directed at the cook, but at the situation in general.
You’re with the strong ones, I’ll never be.
Again, Kuina came to mind.
She believed she was flawed because of her sex, that damned cook believed himself flawed by something just as internal, but subtler, maybe even nastier, more dangerous. And the only thing Zoro had managed to do with Kuina was throw words at her that had been useless. Words that had bounced right off her. Words returned to sender by that stupid conviction that being a woman would make her weak with no way out. Words that had only managed to extract from his opponent a promise she clearly didn’t quite believe in.
And that was after she had beaten me two thousand and one times.
Zoro remembered perfectly how that nighttime conversation had shaken him from the inside, turning Koshiro from a master into a mere instructor.
And then Kuina had died.
Only later had he wondered what kind of father would put into his daughter’s head the idea that she was born weak just because she was a woman.
And you, cook? What the hell did they put into your head? What’s your stupid conviction?
He thought back to what Nami had told him the previous day, to the anger the navigator radiated.
He thought back to when he himself had attacked the cook.
He thought back to when he had heard the cook cry.
What the hell did they do to you?
Zoro left the bathroom and for a moment stopped to look at Sanji sleeping. He still had his jacket and shoes on.
He was lying face down, one hand open near his face hidden by his hair, the other clutching something Zoro couldn’t see.
He probably just crashed into bed like that.
Zoro sighed. The smell of alcohol worried him only up to a point: even on the Sunny, it happened that after a particularly heavy day, the cook would drink something to loosen his nerves and then crash into bed, so nothing too irregular. Of course, here it wasn’t just about one particularly heavy day, but a whole mess that was clearly tormenting the cook, and for that very reason his behavior still fell within the realm of the plausible, even the justifiable.
If it happens again, I’ll see what to do.
Zoro watched the cook roll over, still holding something in his hand, snorting in his sleep and curling up in his jacket.
The swordsman looked at him for a few seconds, and he thought that in the same situation, with roles reversed, the cook would probably have taken off his shoes and thrown a blanket over him.
In fact, it was a sure thing.
He’s done it even when I acted like a bastard, he reflected with unpleasant regret.
So he wondered if he should do the same, and got angry at himself for even asking the question. He wasn’t the type to take care of someone—he was the type to protect. Taking care was the cook’s job, or Chopper’s. And the fact that that damn cook confused the two things, throwing himself into the fray like a lunatic with suicidal tendencies, wasn’t his problem.
The fact remained, it wasn’t Zoro’s job to take care of anyone. It wasn’t something that concerned him.
And yet.
Shit. What the hell’s wrong with me?
Rubbing his eyes, Zoro looked at the clock. It was a little after three in the morning. In just over an hour the cook would wake up anyway. Zoro would never admit it out loud, but he envied the cook’s ability to get by on four or five hours of sleep. There had been a guy he’d once worked with, back when he was a bounty hunter, who had that same ability. Zoro loved sleeping, but sleeping less was objectively a huge advantage.
The swordsman turned his gaze back to Sanji.
Is this a truce? Like when we fight side by side?
Snorting, Zoro grabbed a blanket and laid it over the cook.
Then he went back to sleep.
Until he heard the sound of the shower.

When Sanji came out of the bathroom in just his boxers, he saw Zoro sitting on the bed, as if he had been waiting for him.
He looked at him in surprise.
“Already up?”
Zoro stifled a yawn.
“How did it go?”
Sanji eyed him cautiously.
“It went.”
Zoro sighed, stood up, and walked toward the wardrobe.
“Yesterday, Cosette was terribly upset that you took her prisoner's dinner away from her."
The cook stared at him in disbelief.
“Her prisoner?”
Zoro nodded.
“That’s what she calls him.”
Sanji crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his gaze on him.
“Her prisoner is a lunatic who hates women.”
Zoro’s eye widened.
Sanji gave a faint smirk, and for a few seconds neither of them said anything.
Then the cook sat down on the bed to put on his socks.
“I feel sick when I think of the risk she took.”
Zoro kept watching him.
“Anyway, she can relax,” the cook went on as he slipped into his pants. “I was planning to ask her to do something else. Maybe two things. But damn, Cosette really needs to calm down.”
Zoro chuckled and turned back to the wardrobe with a sly look, lazily picking out what to wear.
“You’ve created a monster, Curly,” he sneered.
Sanji laughed.
“At most, I just let it out.”
Then he went back to dressing. As he pulled his pants on, he looked again at the swordsman, puzzled.
“You’re not going back to bed? You never get up at this hour.”
Zoro looked at Sanji in a way that made him vaguely uneasy.
“Too late now, I’m already awake.”

When Zeff saw that the swordsman was there too, he felt vaguely disappointed. He had sincerely hoped to speak to Sanji alone, and yet he found himself not unhappy to stall a little. Ever since he had spoken with the general, the old cook couldn’t stop brooding, thinking and rethinking about when he had taken Sanji in.
The brat had been about ten years old. According to him, he had been working on the Orbit for almost two years. As far as Zeff knew, Sanji had grown up there.
The Orbit was a quiet ship, and it had never crossed Zeff’s mind that there might have been a “before.”
In the early days, when Sanji really caused problems, Zeff tried to ask him who his parents were, if he had relatives. He had tried to make him understand that perhaps sea life was not for him, that in the end he was just a child, and that children should not be cooks on ships, but should stay at home, playing with their parents.
I had never done it!, Zeff recalled, almost fondly. That child had one of the most violent fits of anger Zeff had ever seen, and he, exasperated, threatened to throw him back into the sea.
Sanji had dared him to try, looking him straight in the eyes with furious, unyielding determination, as if it were a matter of life or death. The same relentless fire with which he had threatened him with a knife, on the island, to get his hands on food.
And Zeff had realized, with both shock and horror, that the brat had taken his threat to throw him back overboard literally, and that he was ready to fight tooth and nail to keep his place in what was now clear to Zeff the boy already considered his home.
That had been the only time Zeff had a sharp, unmistakable impression that something truly bad had happened to that child. Yet that evening, to punish him for his behavior, Zeff had forbidden Sanji from going near the stoves for a week, and had made him clean the toilets for a month.
“You want to be treated like an adult? Then I’ll treat you like an adult.”
Carne had pulled him aside.
“So you’re picking a battle of stubbornness with a ten-year-old? You've gone dumb?”
But Zeff hadn’t budged an inch, and Sanji even less.
The old man began treating the boy like an adult, and the boy learned to act accordingly.
And now, Zeff looked at that brat, now a grown man, watching the kitchen looking for the first thing to do while re-examining plans for the day. And he remembered, he almost relived, some almost exalted, almost contemptuous glances of his, as if the brat wanted to ask him, every time he punished him, if what he had given him was really a punishment, and he reiterated to him, tacitly and with a certain arrogance, that they had done worse to him anyway.
“Oi, geezer. You can go back to sleep if you want. I’ll handle things here. Cosette will be here soon anyway.”
Zeff shook himself from his thoughts.
“Are you implying something, brat?”
“I don’t imply, old man. I see.”
And Zeff noticed he was about to slice a zucchini with a cleaver. He turned his attention back to Sanji, who was looking at him with a wry smirk and a sharp gaze, with a trace of that feral quality that had marked him as a child and, evidently, still accompanied him now.
Was he like this even on the Orbit? How the hell did they manage it? Zeff had asked himself more than once.
And now, watching Sanji prepare a fruit salad and glance at him as if daring him to say he was slow—just like the old man had done as a child—Zeff regretted never having asked him anything. Now, the thought that there had been a “before” the rock, before the hunger, that terrifying hunger, and that this “before” had been something painful, tormented him. It made him suspect he had gotten everything wrong.
Zeff watched Sanji finish the fruit salad, wash his hands, and start preparing a dough of water and flour to put in the fridge as a reserve, to get ahead. And he reflected that he had never been able to, and still couldn’t, resist that tenacity, that fire, that resolve that kept the boy standing, against everything, against everyone, no matter the circumstance.
They had never said I love you to each other, but Zeff was perfectly aware that he had been chosen by that child. And with time and experience, he had understood that that choice was both an honor and a responsibility. Because once Sanji chose to love someone, he did it in an absolute, total, outside of measure way, like everything else about him.
And the thought that someone might have hurt that boy, that child, was something that—
“Oi, old man. Seriously. You okay? You’re zoning out.”
Zeff turned his gaze to Sanji, and saw that he was looking at him with suspicion and a hint of concern.
“Ah, hell, today’s not my day.”
“Oh, well, it happens to everyone,” the young man said lightly, without taking his eyes off him.
“Not to me,” Zeff grunted.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, old man.”
Cosette entered the kitchen.

They were setting the table, and Cosette was listening wide-eyed as Sanji told her about Alabastor Sartori. In the meantime, Nami had also come in and started helping with the table, while Zoro stood watching everyone with his arms crossed.
“Lunarian agent Sigma 143?” Nami asked.
“Yeah,” Sanji replied.
Zoro let out a grin.
“So he searched your eyebrows? Damn, I wish I’d been there.”
“Fuck off, Marimo.”
“Let me have a look too?”
“Try it and I’ll break your fingers, Mosshead. Oi, Cosette, we need to set one more place. My sister’s coming too.”
Nami, who was arranging small bowls of honey and jams, lifted her gaze toward Sanji, who smiled at her.
“We talked last night. Thank you so much, Nami-san.”
Then the cook turned back to Cosette and asked where her clones were.
“They asked me for them to run some tests. You know, initiative, independent action… from what I understood they need to be monitored.”
Sanji frowned, and Cosette looked at him questioningly.
The girl shrugged.
“That’s what they told me.”
Sanji smiled to reassure her.
“Don’t worry. Do you know who gave the order?”
“No.”
“But they talked about tests. About them moving on their own, and so on.”
“Yes.”
Sanji started slicing the bread, thoughtful.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“They told me the boys should be back working in the kitchen tonight,” Cosette said, looking uneasy.
Sanji nodded and kept quiet, still brooding.
“Did something happen?” Cosette asked. “Did the boys do something? Are they in danger?”
“Cosette, relax. Your boys should be safe. It’s just… I’ll need your help questioning them.”
Cosette’s eyes went wide.
Sanji handed her a glass of water.
She drank it without taking her eyes off the young man.
“There are some things that don’t add up about their operation,” Sanji explained calmly. “And I have reason to believe things didn’t go the way Tulip said at the last meeting. I’m worried that now, somehow, they’re being… altered.”
Cosette looked horrified.
“So, I’d like you, tonight when they return, to watch them. I’ll be there too. And tomorrow we’ll try questioning them. They’re attached to you. If you’re there, I think it’ll be easier.”
Cosette broke into a huge smile.
“A real interrogation?”
Sanji blinked, then burst out laughing.
“Let’s call it more of a chat. Maybe while we cook. What do you say?”
Cosette nodded, finishing setting the table with renewed enthusiasm.

Throughout breakfast, Zoro never took his eyes off the cook’s sister. The princess seemed almost intimidated, especially by Nami and Zeff. When Sanji introduced her to Zeff, Reiju shook the old man’s hand with a deference that struck the swordsman, and for the whole meal she behaved cautiously, attentively, as though she were studying the situation. She was surprised when Cosette and Époni sat down at the table with them, but said nothing, and blushed furiously when she heard both maids call her brother simply “Sanji,” treating him with familiarity. This amused Zoro enormously.
The cook treated her in a friendly but cautious, guarded way, as if he didn’t fully trust her.
A bit like he acted with me after I screwed up.
Did you screw up too, princess?
Sanji told her about the coup, about the spies who maybe weren’t spies or maybe were spies but not from Citadel Requiem, about the Lunarian agent, and about Mortimer Ravàn.
At that name, the princess raised her eyebrows.
“Mortimer Ravàn? Morty?”
Sanji’s gaze sharpened.
“You know him?”
Reiju nodded.
“Father adored him. And Morty was very good at buttering him up. I always thought he wanted to take Tulip’s place. He was always there whenever Father asked me questions about my emotions. He even asked me some himself. A couple of times Morty even asked me about you.”
“Really?” The cook’s voice was a growl.
The princess took a sip of milk.
The cook kept staring at his sister.
“Was Ravàn involved with the experiments at Citadel Requiem?”
Reiju shook her head.
“That I truly don’t know, Sanji.”
“Then we should try to find out.”
“So we’re going to talk to Ravàn?”
Sanji considered it.
“No. Let’s leave that bastard isolated and without cigarettes.”
Cosette raised her hand to ask for permission to speak.
Sanji gave a nod.
“Can I bring him food myself?”
Sanji smiled.
“Granted. But don’t say a word to him. Don’t even look at him.”
Cosette nodded, and Reiju looked at her brother with a surprised, amused expression.
“You’re cruel, little brother.”
“No, I’m fucking pissed off,” the cook replied pleasantly.
Then he bit into a croissant.

Chapter Text

From where he was—momentarily banished from the consortium of respectable people and exiled to the smokers’ limbo, sitting on the bench beneath the willow—Sanji had a perfect view of the entire hall table. Luffy sat at the head, chatting animatedly with Reiju and Brook. Zoro was talking with Robin, and Franky, Usopp, Chopper, and Cosette had formed their own little group; Nami was seated at the opposite head of the table from Luffy, and Zeff and Jinbe were sipping a glass of juice.
All of a sudden, Nami turned toward him, motioning for him to join them, but Sanji, smiling, let her know he still had to finish his cigarette. In truth, he had already finished it, and he didn’t want to join the others simply because he had a headache. It wasn’t anything particularly crippling, but perhaps the night before he had gone a little overboard.
Long live aspirin!
Instinctively, the cook reached into his vest pocket and felt the shape of the key to his cell through the fabric. As soon as things calmed down, he would get up and drink a nice cup of coffee, then send a servant or a clone to Goodwin to arrange a meeting and take stock of the situation.
Unless Goodwin contacts me first.
Because there was no shortage of matters to discuss.
Specifically, Ravàn and Sartori. As for the third prisoner, he would speak with Époni later that evening.
Of course, then there are the things Reiju told me about Judge, but for now I don’t trust talking to the general about that. Better to wait.
Thinking it over calmly, what troubled him most about the general was his reluctance to speak openly about the coup.
I know it and he knows it. What’s the point of acting mysterious? What’s the sense of saying he’ll talk about it later? Why it’s too soon?
Trying not to be noticed, Sanji lit another cigarette. He inhaled, exhaled, watching the smoke curl in front of him.
And what if the good general is considering the idea of ditching the others and playing his own game? What if he’s testing the waters for himself?
On his side, Sanji had the advantage of knowing that Standish was playing both sides, juggling between the conspirators and his sister.
And my sister and I are the only ones who know.
As if following his thoughts, the cook’s gaze stopped on Reiju, who was laughing at something Brook had just said. At that sight, a vague melancholy took hold of him, mostly because Sanji didn’t feel he could trust his sister.
Sighing, the cook let his eyes wander once again over the entire table, allowing his thoughts and emotions to drift freely for a few minutes.
His mind went back to that same morning, when, woken up by his relentless biological clock, he had realized there was a blanket over him. His eyes had gone to Zoro, snoring away peacefully and steadily. Embarrassed and stunned by that unexpected gesture of care, Sanji had gotten up, undressed in perfect silence, and taken his shower slowly, even allowing himself, for the first time since he had found himself in this mess, to linger on the memory of the Lovely Lady with whom he had first had sex, on Julian’s voice and eyes, his first true love, and on Ace’s smile, the one who had even spoken to him of a future, only to die later. As he washed his face, Sanji reflected that everyone who had come after Ace had been little more than a distraction: Viola (“is your mind always this filthy?” “just so you know, I’ve been restraining myself for you, oh enchanting vision. It’s actually much worse.” “excellent.”), Law, and all the others with whom he had exchanged a little confidence, some affection, the bare minimum of intimacy.
I wonder if Dr. Lys ever wrote something like ‘Childhood trauma and perpetual horniness.’ Maybe she even started researching it. I could offer myself up as a case study to one of her colleagues.
Because, of course, it had never just been desire, had never been only desire, and it never would be. Not even in the lightest, most playful, most exquisitely physical encounters.
It was longing.
Longing. Such a mysterious thing. So beautiful, and so terrifying.
Caught up in these memories that were also thoughts and emotions, Sanji barely noticed Nami had gotten up from her chair and was coming over to sit next to him.
“Sanji-kun! Just how long is this cigarette?”
“It’s the first of the day, Nami-san. It sets the tone for everything. It has to be savored properly.”
Nami looked at him for a few seconds, skeptical and amused.
“The first cigarette? Are you sure it’s the first cigarette?”
“The first cigarette is a state of mind, my beloved.”
Nami chuckled.
“Woke up philosophical today, Sanji-kun?”
Sanji smiled back at her, sneaking a glance at Zoro, who was watching them.
He only put a blanket on you, he told himself. It’s not like you’ve stopped annoying him. He probably isn’t giving you shit because he pities you. So stop getting ideas.
“Maybe a little.”
Both fell silent.
“Everything okay, Sanji-kun?”
“More or less. A lot to do, but at least I’m starting to see the end of it.”
Nami was quiet for a few seconds. Then she sighed, looking at him seriously.
“Listen, I have to tell you something. When I spoke with Reiju, she told me some things. Or rather, she hinted at them. Things about your family.”
Sanji clenched his jaw and made a tremendous effort not to avert his eyes from the navigator.
End of the first cigarette. Here we go.
“I see.”
Nami tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“There’s something else.”
The cook gave a small nod to invite her to continue.
Nami leaned in closer to him.
“Your sister also mentioned certain things she told you,” the navigator went on. “She called them unforgivable. So I wanted to ask if you forgave those things.”
Sanji opened his mouth and shut it again. He hadn’t expected that question. He had been bracing himself for the usual you’re strong-you’re brave-you’re courageous pep talk, and he had already mentally prepared himself not to lose his temper—or at least to try.
But this.
“Did you forgive those things, Sanji-kun?”
At that question, Sanji felt a lump form in his throat, which he swallowed down before answering.
“No. I didn’t forgive them, Nami-san. I decided to let them go, but I didn’t forgive them.”
Nami smiled warmly at him.
“Good. I’m glad, Sanji-kun. Really glad.”
Sanji hadn’t expected that comment, and it left him completely wrong-footed. He kept watching Nami, who seemed like she still had more to say.
“The things Reiju made me realize… they’re frightening, Sanji-kun. They scared me.”
The cook looked away. His throat felt tight, his stomach twisted.
“I’m sorry, Nami-san. I shouldn’t have asked you to—”
“No, no, Sanji-kun. I’m the one who’s sorry. Really. It’s just that I was shocked. And I had to talk to someone. Otherwise, I would’ve exploded.”
Sanji closed his eyes, lowered his head, and let out a sigh.
There. That’s it. It’s all exposed, all out in the open, he told himself. And now it’s only natural for people to look, and to want to keep looking. Everyone will see everything. They’ll draw their conclusions and act accordingly.
Might as well resign myself.
“Who did you talk to?”
“Sanji-kun…”
“Who, Nami?”
Nothing for a few seconds.
“Zoro.”
Sanji opened his eyes again. If it had been Robin, as he had thought, it would’ve been easier. But Zoro. Nami bickered with Zoro almost as much as he did.
“Zoro?”
Nami nodded.
“I was looking for you and found him. And I told him that what Reiju made me realize, I didn’t like it. Nothing more.”
Dazed, Sanji bit the inside of his cheek while staring into space, then turned back to Nami, who hadn’t taken her eyes off him, forcing a smile.
“Thank you for telling me, Nami-san.”
“Sanji-kun…”
Sanji’s smile widened.
“Thank you, Nami.”
After a few seconds, the navigator stood up. She seemed to be preparing some kind of speech, but then looked at him and seemed to change her mind.
“I’m sorry, Sanji-kun.”
Then she went back inside.
Zeff, Nami, Zoro. They’re circling around me. And they’ll know. They’ll know everything. The only question is whether they’ll find out on their own or if I’ll be the one to tell them.
Shit. What a fucking mess.
Sanji looked for Zoro, and noticed that he was looking at him too. After a few seconds, Zoro turned his attention toward Nami.
He started talking to her.
He pities me. End of story. Better that way.
Sanji stayed still for a few minutes, silent, watching the hall empty out, wondering how he should behave. Then he got up from the bench and made his way inside.

When Zoro saw Nami come back he stepped in front of her.
“Witch. Did you tell him we’d talked about him?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I don’t want to make a fool of him, idiot. And you shouldn’t want to either.”
Zoro clenched his jaw .
The witch’s right.
He glanced at the cook, who was sitting motionless and looking at them with zombie eyes.
What the hell do I do now?
“So?” Zoro said.
Nami gave him an oddly gentle look.
“So we wait and see how he takes it. We’ll accept whatever happens. And we’ll stand by him no matter what.”
And what does this mean in practice?
“No way I’m babysitting him, witch. It’s his business. What that idiot has in his head isn’t my problem.”
Nami simply let out a sigh that was very much like a huff.
“You just make sure you don’t do any more damage.”
“More damage? You did everything! I was just training and minding my own business!”
But Nami didn’t add anything else; in fact she left the hall with a calm step and without even looking at him.
Because she knows I’m right, damn it.
Meanwhile the cook had decided to come back in and was pouring himself a large cup of coffee. Only he, Zeff, Cosette and the cook’s sister remained in the hall.
Zoro approached him.
“So today you gonna try to kick my ass, Curly?”
The other answered with a smirk and, for a few seconds, said nothing, only looking at the swordsman.
“Exactly, Marimo. I’m gonna kick your ass. Like every blessed time.”
Zoro snorted.
“In your dreams, cook. In your dreams. Actually, not even in those.”
Sanji was about to reply when he saw a servant lingering at the doorway trying to get his attention. Zoro watched the cook head toward him at a brisk pace, immediately followed by his sister, listening while looking straight ahead. After nodding a couple times while the servant continued to speak, the cook raised his eyebrows in surprise and glanced at his sister, who was smiling. When the man finished speaking, the cook turned to him and the girl with a vaguely melancholic air. As the cook talked, she grew more serious, nodded, and left the hall, lightly stroking his arm. Finally the cook gave the servant a few instructions; the man gave a slight bow and left too.
Zoro expected the cook to come back and continue their conversation, but he didn’t — he stayed where he was, with a slightly furrowed expression. Zoro saw him put a hand in his vest pocket and pull out something Zoro couldn’t identify. As soon as he finished his coffee, Sanji went back into the garden and lit a cigarette.
The swordsman followed him.
“You running away?”
The cook turned, cigarette in his mouth and a scowl on his face, and took a step toward him.
“Pardon?”
“We were having a discussion. If you’ve finished what you had to do I’d say it’s time to pick it back up.”
Sanji didn’t answer right away; he smiled and snorted through his nose.
“We’ll pick it up around four-thirty, after I’m done with Cosette.”
Zoro pursed his lips.
“So after teaching her how to fall, you wanna show her how to catch hands?”
The cook replied with a slightly high, almost forced laugh — a laugh that unsettled the swordsman a little, though he decided not to read too much into it. Once he stopped laughing, the cook looked at him with a touch of irony and regret. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and took two steps toward the swordsman.
“No, Marimo. That’s definitely not my intention. Far from it.”
Zoro instinctively put a hand on his sword and also stepped toward the cook. They were so close their noses were almost touching.
Oh, thought Zoro. Finally, some normality.
Of course the swordsman knew this wasn’t exactly normal. He also felt something odd in the cook — a kind of detachment, a sorrow. Zoro realized Sanji wasn’t acting like usual, but he attributed the oddness to the tension and the circumstances. Maybe to the bad memories that place evidently brought back for him.
Still, Zoro felt they were taking a step in the right direction. Or at least a direction that felt more comfortable and familiar to him. He was absolutely convinced that trading swords — or feet, in the cook’s case — would do both of them good. The day before both of them had had a taste of how good a physical release could feel, and now they were there, provoking each other, teasing, feeling the other’s heat, stoking the energy and tension, bouncing it back and forth and turning an instinctive mutual dislike into something liberating and constructive for both.
“Your intention will have zero influence on how things go, Curly.”
Again the cook answered with that tenser-than-usual laugh, with clear shades of bitterness and regret.
“I really hoped it’d be a truce, Marimo,” he said flatly. “Too bad.”
Zoro blinked, genuinely confused. Some of the momentum, that nice intensity he’d built up, slid off him, leaving a hole of perplexity that almost took away his enthusiasm.
“So you running?” the swordsman snapped back, trying to recover some drive.
The question seemed to pique the cook’s interest; he raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“No. I’m not running, Zoro. Not even close.”
The cook had said it slowly, and Zoro had the unpleasant feeling he was dancing alone.
“So, four-thirty, then?”
“Absolutely. I think we’ll have half an hour fully to ourselves. Please, Marimo, give me the worst of you. Don’t hold back.” the cook concluded with strange calm.
Why the hell should I hold back? Zoro wondered, increasingly confused, watching the cook flick his butt into an ashtray. Then he watched him head back into the kitchen with slow steps and his hands in his pockets.
Go fuck yourself and the witch, asshole! Today’s the day I tear you to pieces!
After finishing one last glass of juice, Zoro returned to his room. The same servant who had been in the hall earlier was taking down the cook’s cot. The swordsman asked why, and when the man replied that the regent had ordered the cot removed so the swordsman could enjoy a room entirely to himself, Zoro felt even more irritated.

When Cosette finished her shift and Zeff and Sanji were left alone, the old man felt strangely awkward. The young man, while finishing loading the pots into the dishwasher, kept casting him dark and thoughtful glances, as if he were making a decision about him. Moreover, Zeff thought Sanji seemed tense, mechanical in his movements, rigidly methodical in doing what needed to be done.
“What’s on your plate today, brat? A day full of regent bullshit?”
Sanji gave him a strained smile.
“Not really, actually. Just a meeting at lunchtime, unless something unexpected comes up. Other than that, this afternoon I’ll work a bit with Cosette, do some sparring with Zoro, and tonight I’ll try to check on the clones.”
“So you’re free now. What are you going to do?”
“I was thinking of visiting my mom for a while, then checking on some work. Yesterday I mentioned wanting to remove a sort of monument, a piece of pure propaganda, and my sister immediately set things in motion, thinking she was doing me a favor. Earlier I corrected her instructions, so later I’ll go make sure the job’s being done properly.”
Zeff smirked.
“So a regent also oversees the manual labor?”
“This regent is the lowest of the bastards, so yes, he does.”
They both fell silent for a few seconds. The boy couldn’t shake off that tormented look. Zeff was about to say something, but Sanji spoke first.
“Can I ask you something, Zeff?”
The old cook nodded.
“What impression did my sister give you?”
Zeff considered the question.
“She struck me as someone who hasn’t spent much time around other people. Odd. I couldn’t say much more than that.”
Sanji nodded and didn’t press further. He started cleaning the counters, still with those stiff, tense movements.
Zeff didn’t take his eyes off him.
“And how did the dinner with Goodwin go? He’s on your side now?”
Before answering, Sanji took off his apron, put his jacket back on, and looked the old man straight in the eye.
“I know the general put a bug in your ear, Old Geezer. That he asked you about my life here.”
Sanji let out a long sigh without breaking eye contact.
“You know his wife was a psychiatrist? I’m thinking of borrowing a couple of her books.”
Zeff simply held his gaze, arms crossed over his chest. His expression wasn’t exactly frowning, but watchful. He could feel something was about to happen, and he decided he would be ready.
Sanji kept looking at him. Then he rolled his neck and shoulders.
Zeff had the impression the boy was gathering his strength somehow.
Or maybe working up the courage.
Sanji took a deep breath, pushed his chest out and raised his head high.
“Do you want to come with me?”

Seeing the boy’s name carved on a gravestone had an effect on Zeff, and he felt the need to break the tension.
“Weren’t the graves around here supposed to be plain and unadorned?”
“This isn’t a grave, I told you. It’s propaganda. The king’s son dies while developing his strength for the good of Germa. What a load of crap. Anyway, according to my sister, it worked.”
The workers circled the coffin, cautious and hesitant.
Sanji smiled.
“Looks like you’re afraid to touch it.”
“King Judge cares about it a lot.”
“No doubt, but I think the opinion of the one whose name is written on the tombstone counts more. All the more so if he’s the regent.”
Zeff’s gaze flicked between the workers, the name on the gravestone, and the young man he had come to think of as his son. Sanji stood straight and stiff, face partly hidden by his hair, hands in his pockets. The old cook was caught by the movement in the pocket on the right side, right under his eyes. It looked like Sanji was turning something over in his hand.
“You know you took everything from me?” the boy suddenly said.
Zeff raised his eyebrows.
“On the Orbit,” Sanji went on, without looking at him. “I’d been living there for about two years when you showed up. When they first took me on board, I wasn’t in good shape. The doctor was always on my back. Vitamin D deficiency, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I couldn’t be outside, even strong electric light hurt my eyes, my sleep cycle was completely broken. They’d taken me in as the child of political prisoners, which wasn’t too far from the truth. In fact, they didn’t even want me, afraid of complications with Germa, but the doctor insisted. Said his profession wouldn’t allow him to abandon a child in that condition.”
Sanji lowered his head. Zeff heard him count a few breaths.
“Even moonlight bothered me at first. After about a week, I could be in the sun for maybe half an hour in the early morning, always fully clothed, of course. That was the best thing of all. It still feels like a miracle, sunlight. I got tired so easily—if I climbed a single flight of stairs, my whole body hurt. I wanted to work, but the doctor said it was completely out of the question. He kept saying it for about four months.”
Zeff didn’t fully understand what Sanji was telling him, but held back from asking questions. The workers had started on the gravestone, making a terrible racket. Zeff gently took Sanji by the elbow and the two of them moved a bit away. Once they were alone, Zeff let go of his arm.
Sanji pressed his lips together for a few seconds and closed his eyes.
“The problem with long-term melatonin deficiency is that you never really recover. Joint pain when it’s damp, headaches when there’s too much light or too much darkness, things like that. Things you’ve seen yourself. Even now, if the lights go out suddenly, I always get a bit dizzy. The doctor told me flat out I was marked for life. But damn it, I worked hard. You know I’m someone who works hard.”
“Of course, brat.”
Sanji nodded without looking at him.
“After a little over a year, I was almost a normal kid. Sure, I had to follow a rigid routine, but I could more or less sleep. Then there was all the work on the atrophied muscles, on the bones, on my impaired field of vision. The doctor asked me if they’d put me in blinders. Luckily I hadn’t been completely immobilized, so from that point of view I recovered fairly quickly. I kept working hard.”
The boy’s voice had started to tremble. His fists were clearly clenched in his pockets.
“I had a place where I could be calm, things to do, I was learning. Nobody hated me there. I worked hard. Someone had even started to like me. And then you showed up with your crew. You took everything I had, everything I’d worked for. All the things I’d earned. That wave was just the finishing blow. And then on that island, for no reason at all, without me having earned a damn thing…”
The boy fell silent again. He was panting.
Zeff swallowed dryly.
“Sanji, you don’t have to—”
“Yesterday I told my sister I wanted to smash that piece of crap to pieces with my kicks. You don’t know this, but that epitaph is an insult, the final insult in a long line of insults. Then I changed my mind. Because the child buried in there never did anything wrong. Ever. He never made trouble for anyone. He always said please and thank you. He always did his best, even if it wasn’t enough. He doesn’t deserve for his grave to be desecrated. He doesn’t…”
Sanji covered his eyes with his palms, let out a sob, and folded in on himself. Zeff heard him sniff and moved to go closer, but Sanji stretched out his hand to keep him away.
“You took everything from me. And then you cut off your leg to keep me alive, damn it. You didn’t want me but you kept me anyway. Every kick you gave me, I deserved them all—and maybe I deserved more. You taught me that surviving isn’t enough. You gave me responsibilities and made me feel capable of carrying them. You taught me everything. You made me feel capable of… Damn it, I’m so sorry, Zeff!”
Sanji broke down in sobs, and the old man went to him and embraced him. He held him tightly. Sanji didn’t return the embrace but stayed rigid, tense, trembling, his eyes still covered, while Zeff awkwardly rested the boy’s head on his shoulder, caressing his nape with all the gentleness he could muster.
“I’m sorry, Zeff. I’ve never… been… what I was supposed to be. I never… gave you anything back. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The old man’s mouth was dry, his voice strangled.
“Eggplant. It’s all right. Shhh. It’s all right.”
“I’m… sorry, Zeff. Here… they… did this to me… here…”
“Easy, brat, easy. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. When you want to.”
“No. They… my family… your leg… you… I’m so damn sorry, Zeff… Damn it, I love you so much I can’t…”
Zeff kept holding Sanji tight, stroking the back of his head.
I love you.
I should’ve said it first.
And I should’ve said it more often.
“I’m so… fucking sorry, Zeff. I’m so sorry. You got stuck with Germa’s… defective goods!”
Zeff pulled slightly back from Sanji, just enough to take his face in his hands.
“Oi, brat. Look at me.”
Sanji shook his head, still racked with sobs.
“Sanji. Look at me.”
Sanji uncovered his face and looked at Zeff with such despair that the old man could barely hold his gaze.
“Listen to me carefully, brat. Raising you was a privilege. A fucking privilege. You’re the best thing in my life. You’re worth all the legs in the world. You’re my fucking pride. But if I ever hear you talk about yourself the way you just did again, I swear I’ll smash your face in. Am I clear?”
Sanji nodded, shaken by another wave of sobs.
Zeff hugged him again, even tighter.
“It’s all right, Eggplant. It’s all right.”
And he swore to himself that whoever had hurt his brat would pay dearly.

Chapter Text

When Sanji entered the meeting room, just before noon, he saw Reiju leafing through the files arranged in front of his seat. The girl was so absorbed in her reading that she hadn’t even noticed Sanji standing in the doorway.
“You sit at the head of the table,” he told her.
Reiju lifted her gaze and held it on her brother for a few seconds, as if she were trying to figure something out.
“You look strange,” she finally commented.
Sanji smiled.
“I think I just look like someone who’s had his grave dismantled.”
“When Father comes back, he’ll take it very badly.”
“Excellent.”
They fell silent.
“Your friends are nice. Informal,” Reiju then said, her voice almost timid.
“I’m glad you like them.”
“Zeff is a bit intimidating.”
Sanji let out a brief laugh. A little voice inside his head kept telling him he had acted like a fool, made himself look ridiculous, that the words Zeff had spoken to him weren’t true, that the old man had only said them to cut short the pathetic spectacle in front of him.
Go on, say whatever you have to say, Sanji answered inside himself, sooner or later you’ll fall silent.
That morning, once Sanji had calmed down a little, Zeff had taken him into the kitchen and made some zabaglione coffee for both of them. They moved around each other warily, faintly embarrassed. They only relaxed once they sat across from each other to drink the coffee. They didn’t say a word, and when Sanji was halfway through his cup, he got up and set a small pot of water to boil. Zeff watched him curiously.
“Nami-san says chamomile bags reduce swelling in the eyes. I’ve got some regent bullshit to deal with later. I can’t show up like this.”
“You’re the king, brat. You can show up however the hell you like.”
Sanji smiled.
“Thank you, Zeff,” he said after a few seconds.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel like an idiot before.”
“And do you feel like an idiot now?”
“A little.”
“Then cut it out. There was nothing idiotic about what happened before. Nothing. So get it out of your head, brat.”
Now, sitting down in front of his sister, Sanji thought that what the little voice was telling him might be true, but it wasn't important. Because what mattered was that Sanji loved, that for the first time in his life he had told the most important person in his life that he loved him, and that was the most important thing of all. That Zeff knew with unequivocal clarity that he loved him. 
That’s the only thing that matters, he repeated to himself. Everything else can go to hell.
Sanji smiled to himself, and Reiju eyed him sideways.
The young man turned his attention back to his sister.
“You sit at the head of the table,” he repeated. “There’s only Goodwin, but the state of things needs to be clear. I’m here just for a bureaucratic matter. You are the regent.”
Reiju smiled and did as Sanji had told her.
“I’ve started reading our constitution. It’s not a bad thing, but I don’t understand much of it. Mostly, I don’t understand how it could be carried out, how it could be applied here.”
“That’s because when I wrote it there were no clones, Germa wasn’t a military power but a technological and scientific outpost, and we founders were truly guided by the light of knowledge and spurred by the desire for independence. Or at least, we believed we were,” explained General Caspar Goodwin, standing at the doorway. “In fact, it should be reviewed and updated. Article Nine, for example, no longer makes any sense. That said, I’m glad to see you in good health, Princess.”
Reiju, after smiling and thanking the general with a nod, was about to open the book and look up the article in question, but Sanji spoke first.
“Article Nine: Every decision of the State must take into account its impact on future generations. Knowledge, resources, and technological innovations must be preserved, improved, and constantly updated, in order to guarantee continuity and sustainable progress.”
Goodwin smiled and sat down where Reiju had been sitting before.
“Still top marks, Regent. I’m starting to think you really are a nerd.”
Sanji laughed.
“I only memorized the first ten articles, General.”
Reiju smiled.
“Then I’ll have to learn them too. Actually, I’ll have to reach at least the eleventh,” she said jokingly. “There’s no way my little brother is going to be better than me.”
Sanji laughed again.
“But the law should not only be studied, it should also be applied. Right, General?”
“As long as it can be applied, of course. Law, like tradition, is a path, not a noose. The confrontation with reality, with the daily life of the reference community, must be constant. One shapes the other. And here we return to Article Nine.”
“And what’s the problem with Article Nine?” asked Reiju.
“Simply that in Germa there are no more future generations. There are no children, Princess. Of course, we take them from the colonies, but they’re trained only for those tasks considered inferior and yet too sophisticated for the clones.”
“Like cooking?” asked Sanji, smiling.
The general returned the smile.
“Exactly. Like cooking. Or management tasks. But for those, before long, as research and experimentation advance, the clones themselves will take care of it.”
Reiju was taken aback. She was used to the council’s hostility, to her father’s indifference toward its members and their passivity in that regard. She realized this was the first civil conversation she had ever had about Germa’s governance. And it was a pleasant thing. She caught herself thinking that Germa was her home. And that her home had something wrong with it.
And that her father had done nothing about it.
“And how long has it been since there were children, General?” Reiju asked.
“Your brothers were the last, Princess.”
They fell silent.
After a few seconds, Reiju noticed both Sanji’s and the general’s eyes were on her.
“Shall we begin?” she said, with an almost embarrassed smile.

It was a strange feeling, made even stranger by the fact that Reiju wasn’t used to paying attention to her own feelings. The meeting lasted barely half an hour and, on a practical level, led to nothing concrete: the general hadn’t managed to speak with Aokiri, who had made himself practically unreachable; Sanji would deal with the clones in the evening; there was no material on Sartori; and the file on Ravàn was incomplete. Reiju decided she would spend the afternoon studying files, continuing to read the constitution, trying to understand this kingdom she had practically never left but which, it was clear, she didn’t know at all.
There are no children in Germa. The last children of Germa were my brothers.
The girl’s gaze shifted between Sanji and Goodwin, but her mind was tormented by that thought. By the children. Or rather, by the absence of children. It was as if the princess had woken from a spell, from an eternal present made of thoughts, thoughts, thoughts that were nothing but distractions.
Sanji was speaking about the absence of the brigade’s clones.
Was it possible that Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji didn’t care about children? That Father didn’t care about the fact there were no children? What was a kingdom with children like? Father did nothing but destroy, annihilate, conquer. Things, things, things—so many things, so many beautiful things, so many magnificent things, and yet they led nowhere, because they didn’t build a future. Because perhaps there was no need to build a future, since that future would not be lived by anyone, since no one had children.
Maybe the others don’t think about children, because they’re men, and they can only feel the things Father allowed them to feel.
But Father? Father had had them, had had her, but had never thought of grandchildren. Logically, he should have. Her brothers were twenty-one, still young, but she was almost twenty-five. She was of age to marry, to give birth, to give the kingdom a future.
Reiju, lost in thought, picked up a file.
Yes. Marry a prince of some noble but small kingdom, maybe even a poor one. That way Germa would remain in a position of power. I wouldn’t be the queen of that tiny, unknown kingdom, but my consort would be the prince of Germa. And I would give a child to Germa. Perhaps more than one. A child to Germa and a child to the unknown kingdom.
And yet the only one with a marriage prospect had been Sanji. Sanji would have married, the alliance would have been sealed, and if the Charlottes had wanted a blood tribute, Sanji would have paid it, without compromising the family’s strength. Which would have remained unchanged, untouched. Whose power would have stayed intact.
But can one be powerful without a future, without children?
“Princess? Are you all right?” Goodwin was watching her with a hint of concern.
“Of course, General.” Reiju adjusted herself in her chair and addressed him with a graceful nod. “I was simply thinking of the things to be done. I must have drifted off.”
Goodwin smiled at her and resumed speaking about the suspicious lack of information on Sartori.
“Maybe there’s nothing because he’s never caused any problems?” Sanji intervened.
“Here we keep files on every inhabitant of the colonies,” Reiju replied. “It’s our custom to record everyone. And yes, I agree with the general that the complete absence of documentation is very suspicious.”
The general nodded, and Reiju focused on him.
Reiju thought of Mariselle, the general’s wife, a dear friend of Mother’s, perhaps Mother’s only friend, of Mariselle, who had died in childbirth. Her children had died with her. Rumor had it the general had secretly sent them away, so Father wouldn’t get his hands on them for his experiments. But what father sends his children away?
Emotions, emotions, emotions. Curse them all.
Now it was Sanji watching her with a worried look, so the princess tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled haughtily.
Sanji. I wonder if he wants children, Reiju thought. If there’s a Vinsmoke who could reproduce without causing damage, it’s him.
“Reiju? Are you with us?”
The princess nodded.
“I was thinking that Ravàn and Sartori must take priority. And what if we turned to Pryx for the matter of the clones?”
Sanji glanced at Goodwin, who nodded.
“Stupid of me not to think of that sooner,” Sanji muttered, before smiling at her.
Reiju shifted in her chair, bringing her attention back to the present. Or at least trying to.
The princess felt as she did when, shut away in her chambers, she thought of Sanji’s kindness, of her mother, of the severely limited access she and the others had had to emotions, and thus to life. Of how she had always had to suppress, regulate, use her feelings only when useful, or necessary.
Sanji’s compassion had teased something in her that had become a flood. Nami’s prodding had brought her in touch with fear. And now the absence of children made her feel almost drained.
Why does this take my breath away? Do I want children? Do I want a partner, a husband? Or simply friends, like the ones Sanji has? Do I want a father like Zeff?
Again, the princess felt her brother’s puzzled gaze on her. So she shook her head, smiling to herself.
“Working this way is interesting but exhausting,” she said. “For me it’s a complete novelty. I find myself thinking about what was just said even when we’re talking about something else. Where were we?”
“We were deciding when to arrange the next meeting,” replied Caspar Goodwin, while Sanji kept watching her intently. “We thought of setting it for a couple of days from now, to have time to get everything done. Unless something important comes up, of course.”
Reiju summoned all her composure.
“Very well, then. We’ll meet in two days. At noon again?”
“Perfect,” Sanji replied. “If we’re done, I’ll go have a cigarette.”
“You should quit,” Reiju shot back, with an unexpected burst of impulse.
Sanji raised his eyebrows.
“Maybe the fifth time is the good one,” added Goodwin.
Sanji looked at the two of them as if wondering whether they’d lost their minds. Then, shaking his head without saying anything, he stood up and left the room, followed closely by the general, who seemed intent on telling him something. Reiju remained alone with her thoughts and her files.

When Reiju left the meeting room a few minutes later, Sanji was waiting for her in the hallway.
She walked up to him.
“The general wanted to talk to you alone?”
“He just wanted to tell me that he’s had a room prepared to teach Cosette how to fall on hard ground. Close to the kitchen, to make things easier. And I asked him to lend me some of his wife’s books. Don’t worry, we’re not plotting anything. Or rather—I’m not. Him, I still haven’t figured out.”
Reiju nodded.
“Everything alright?” he asked after a few seconds of silence. “What did you think of the meeting? Aside from the fact that it was completely useless, of course.”
“No, I wouldn’t call it useless. We talked, exchanged ideas. It was strange, but not entirely unpleasant. Quite the opposite, actually. Caspar Goodwin was kind. Approachable. He didn’t look like he was plotting to betray the kingdom.”
“I don’t think he wants to betray the kingdom, but to betray Judge. And frankly, I can’t blame him.”
Reiju looked at him for a few seconds, and he met her gaze.
“You said you could help me. With the fact that I feel poorly, and badly,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Good. Can I ask you something?”
Sanji nodded.
“I hate the way I feel when I talk about what I feel. I feel clumsy, stupid, and limited.”
Sanji chuckled.
“Welcome to the club. I’d love to tell you that you get used to feeling stupid, but the truth is, every day is a new discovery.”
Reiju seemed to weigh her brother’s words, but then chose to tackle the question that weighed on her.
“Do you think Father wants to become immortal?”
Sanji raised his eyebrows.
“Where did that come from?”
“Because of that whole business with children. I can’t get it out of my head. Why do people have children? We’ve never talked about it. I don’t know anyone outside of Germa, and I don’t know what it means to have children. I always assumed I would have a political marriage and provide an heir. But now I don’t know. Would you like to have children?”
Sanji blushed.
“I’ve never really thought about it. Not seriously. I don’t dislike children, per se. But raising one—or more than one… Right now I have other things to do. Not to mention I’m missing the main ingredient.”
Reiju frowned.
Sanji smirked.
“I’m missing the woman to have a child with. I can’t do it on my own.”
Reiju let out a little smile.
“Maybe Father could experiment in that direction.”
“Without a doubt. But apparently he doesn’t want to, or else he would’ve done it already. And thank heaven for that, if you ask me.”
“Indeed. He creates clones, creates weapons, focuses on human enhancement. Works obsessively on the Raid Suits. Model after model after model. Maybe he sees the Raid Suits as his new children.”
Sanji stayed silent.
“We’re the result of his experiments,” Reiju went on. “Why did he stop after Mother died?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji are the pinnacle of his research. Father could have taken a woman from the colonies and kept experimenting. Maybe a woman with a good pedigree, like Mother had.”
Sanji lowered his head.
“Reiju, I’d rather you didn’t talk about Mom in those terms. You’re giving me the fucking creeps, damn it. And you’re also pissing me off a little.”
Reiju waved her hand as if to brush off Sanji’s words and steer him back to the subject.
“But think about it—you’re one of the last children born in Germa. After you and the others, no one else was born. And you’re old enough to have a child of your own.”
Sanji reflected on her words, and his mind wandered to love—its countless languages, the importance of being felt by those it’s directed to, the sense of fulfillment it brings. He thought of Zeff, of Luffy, of Cosette, of the crew. Of Nami. Of Zoro.
I want to cook something absolutely spectacular tonight. Something warm, something truly good. Something that really nourishes them, that makes them feel special. And I’ll watch them while they eat. I’ll know I did something for them, something that makes them feel good. And that will make me feel alive and part of something. Part of everything. Part of life.
Too bad Judge didn’t see any value in life. No one’s life but his own—and perhaps not even that. To him, everything was a matter of strength and usefulness.
“Maybe he just got tired of experimenting, at least in that sense. Maybe because he doesn’t have full control over either the mother or the child, so he’d rather work on adult clones.”
“But those are limited by design. They’re born with a fixed genetic makeup and limited ability to learn. They don’t grow. They don’t have a future. They’re not made for one. That’s why I wonder if Father wants to become immortal. A body of knowledge that can only expand and perfect itself, without needing a future. In that case, children aren’t necessary.”
“He probably does think like that. Sometimes, I admit, I wonder why Judge is the way he is.”
Reiju smiled.
“Because you’re kind. But if he became immortal, we’d never stop being children.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m not his son.”
“You are, whether you like it or not. Like me, like the others. Only, he hurt you, so you distanced yourself from him. For me, it’s complicated. When I was alone, I thought back to all the things I said to you. When I called you trash, sewer rat, viper in the bosom, reject…”
Sanji crossed his arms over his chest.
“You don’t need to list all those insults again, Reiju. I remember them. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“… and you told me he hurt me too. Well, this whole thing about children… it’s like I’m starting to realize it. Along with other things, like the fact that I don’t quite understand what I feel. I need to think about it.”
They fell silent for a few seconds.
“I’m really sorry, Reiju,” Sanji whispered.
Reiju shook her head, then smiled at him, as if she had dived deep within herself and was now resurfacing.
“Maybe I’ll think about it between one file and the next. I’m considering sending a servant to Tulip and asking for his documents as well. You know, notes about Requiem Citadel, that kind of thing. Even the more technical stuff. Maybe we could make something of it.”
“Great idea.”
The princess went quiet for a moment, then gathered her files and said goodbye to her brother with a caress on his arm, then gently squeezed his hand.
Sanji watched her go, and decided to relax for a while before meeting first with Cosette and then with Zoro.

Chapter Text

The regent has arranged for me to have a room all to myself, Zoro thought, mocking to himself the words the servant had just told him.
The swordsman was lying on the bed, trying to relax. He would have liked to make up for the early rise that morning, but all he could do was toss and turn.
And the fact that the bed was huge was only a poor consolation.
Well, the regent’s an asshole. The regent is the king of all assholes. And I swear I’ll tear him to pieces today.
Zoro was furious. And the worst part was that he was furious because he didn’t even know why he was furious. Because, at least in theory, things had actually turned out pretty damn well for him.
Fuck, finally, a room of my own. Where can I drink what I feel like without that asshole looking at me like I'm the last of the junkies. He. That if we took all the money that idiot throws down the toilet to poison his lungs, nothing but One Piece. We could buy the whole known world, and even the unknown one. We could buy world government!
And yet, the thought that that damned cook, on his own initiative, without even bothering to say anything, had freed him from his presence made Zoro fume. And the fact that he was fuming about that made him fume even more.
Zoro felt like he was boiling inside. He couldn’t wait to fight, to unleash his swords and his nerves.
Evidently it's not just the chef who needs to move. Holy shit, a good fight and see how he gets rid of his bullshit. Then, in the end, it would be enough if he didn't come and bust my balls, what the fuck.
Zoro was so frustrated that he sprang off the bed and started doing random exercises, whatever came to mind. Only after a good half hour did his training start to take some kind of shape, giving vague order to the mess in his head.
Germa. A shitty place, with shitty people, where shitty things happen.
Zoro spent the next two hours doing push-ups, bodyweight pull-ups, sword sequences in the cramped space of his room—which was always useful. Then, when his muscles felt like they were about to explode, he sat down to meditate for a good half hour, dripping with sweat and energy, before resuming his sword practice.
Better? Meh.
Zoro still felt confused and angry, but at least he had worked off some of it, managing to handle that discomfort in a vaguely productive way. Just vaguely.
Fortunately, his body came to the rescue: a deep rumble and an empty feeling brought him back to the present, to contact with real things, and gave him direction. Zoro stretched his muscles, looked at the clock on the wall, and saw it was almost lunchtime. So he showered and went to get something to eat.
When he entered the main hall, he saw the others already serving themselves: meat, salad, some soup. Old Zeff, who was overseeing the meal, waved him over to the kitchen as soon as he saw him, and Zoro, annoyed but curious, followed him. Once inside, the old man handed him a tray with three large onigiri.
“These are yours. The brat had them prepared before he left and asked me to set them aside for you. The fillings are mushrooms with tofu, mixed vegetables, and salmon. He also asked me to tell you the rice isn’t the usual kind but a higher-protein variety, or something like that. He found it digging through the pantry and thought it would suit you. Eat.”
Zoro gave the old man a puzzled look, then bit into the first onigiri. It was the vegetable one.
“And where’s the cook?”
“Meeting. Regent crap.”
Zoro didn’t reply but nodded, continuing to eat.
The old man didn’t take his eyes off him.
“What are you staring at?” Zoro asked.
“You, eating,” Zeff replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
Zoro grunted, then went back to his meal.
Zeff kept watching him, his gaze sharp and watchful.
Neither of them said another word.

The next three hours dragged on with exasperating slowness. Zoro found himself wondering again whether it was really the cook who needed to let off steam—or him. Restless, the swordsman wandered through Germa’s corridors and gardens. The thought of that lunch prepared just for him made him uneasy, especially considering the strange atmosphere of the morning.
Damn cook.
Because those onigiri weren’t just delicious—they were simply perfect. Because Zoro felt full yet clear-headed, satisfied without being weighed down. Because after eating them he hadn’t craved anything else, hadn’t grown sleepy—on the contrary, he felt brimming with energy.
After an hour, the swordsman returned to his room. The plan had been to take a half-hour nap to prepare for the fight, but of course there was no chance of that, so he devoted himself to active stretching exercises, an activity that usually helped him focus and relax at the same time. But this time his training routine was hardly more than a distraction.
Finally, four o’clock came.
Zoro washed his face, put on something comfortable, and set his katanas in order. He stood for a few minutes before the full-length mirror in his bedroom.
You're with the strong, I never will be. You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
Zoro realized this wouldn’t be just another sparring session, because so many things had happened over the past few days: they had argued and the cook had let it slide, leaving too many things unsaid or barely hinted at; the cook had shoved a girl; Nami had told him things and hinted at worse, forcing him to form his own conclusions; finally, the strange conversation he and the cook had shared that very morning had been full of undertones—things Zoro didn’t understand and didn’t care to understand, but which he had to keep in mind. In a way, it was like fighting a stranger,but a stranger with whom he had shared a past, experiences, someone who had covered his back countless times. Not even a week had passed, and it was as if the world, somehow, had completely turned upside down.
Is this a truce? Like when we fight side by side?
Zoro left the room determined to see what was happening as a new trial, a challenge that, like all the others, he would take head-on and face unflinchingly. The swordsman knew he had to become stronger: it was his mission, the price to pay to reach his dream. And becoming stronger also meant becoming more skilled, more alert, more prepared. Being able to move across alien, unknown ground, through marshy terrain, learning to tell real enemies from false ones, dangers from mere shadows. And Zoro, who still felt lost and pushed against his will into things he didn’t know, understood he had to learn to move through them.
As he walked, he silently thanked Kuina—for continuing to guide him, for accompanying him in his dream, for always driving him forward, for offering him, even now, a map, a steady support, a foundation to rely on.
I owe you so much, Zoro murmured inwardly, gently caressing Wado Ichimonji. And I swear, we’ll grow stronger together.

When he entered the dining room, Zoro saw that the cook was already there, standing by the French window that opened onto the garden. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at something he held in his hand. As soon as Zoro came in, Sanji noticed his presence, and after casually slipping the object into the pocket of his jacket, he turned toward him.
“You’re early,” he said.
Zoro crossed his arms.
“Cosette?”
“We started earlier. We’ve got a room now. We worked on the tough stuff.”
Zoro moved closer, a faint smile on his lips.
“You sent Cosette away because you don’t want her to see how I wipe the floor with you?”
The cook chuckled, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and turned back toward the garden.
“Cosette’s not here simply because you’re early, Marimo. I already told her that today, among other things, I’d show her how to hold her ground if someone attacks her with a weapon. You know, those little tricks that always work to push the enemy back and get into a safe position. Do you mind if I finish my cigarette first?”
Zoro grimaced.
“I was hoping for something more serious than a self-defense lesson, Curly. If that’s it, I’ll just go back to bed.”
“If you don't feel capable, go ahead. I’ve got my own things to do.”
Zoro welcomed the little provocation with a certain satisfaction.
They fell silent, motionless, while Zoro savored the feverish energy that was beginning to build.
Suddenly, the cook turned toward Zoro, eyes blazing, resolute, the cigarette still between his lips. He walked up to him and stood face to face. Still holding Zoro’s gaze, Sanji slowly, deliberately removed his jacket and then his vest, laying them neatly on the nearest chair. Then, without looking away from the swordsman, he raised his wrist and slipped off his watch. Next, he loosened his tie, removed it, folded it, and placed it carefully beside the rest. He unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his shirt, took a drag on his cigarette, and exhaled sideways so as not to blow the smoke in Zoro’s face. Finally, turning his eyes back on his opponent, the cook unfastened his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, baring his forearms.
Zoro watched him in silence, a smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth, one hand caressing his swords.
A truce? Like when we fight side by side?
Zoro caught himself thinking he didn’t know, but that it was fine that way. He could feel in the air that this clash would be both for him and against him. Because he sensed that there was something new in the cook, a different tension, a strange urgency to prove something—not just to him, but above all to himself.
At that thought, Zoro felt a flicker of unease, as if much of the situation—of what was happening, of what he himself had helped to create—was slipping out of his hands, or didn’t really concern him. He recalled the pain, the regret he had seen in the cook that morning, the look on his face as he’d watched him speak with Nami. Now, as Sanji smoked silently, eyes fixed on him, it seemed that all of that had been transfigured into a kind of acceptance, almost resignation, which would surely pour into the impending fight.
Bullshit, Zoro told himself, without much conviction. We just fight, that’s all.
The cook was finishing his cigarette without saying a word, still watching him with a restrained fervor, a drive that wasn’t angry but simply determined, restless and at peace at once, directed wholly at the clash ahead.
By now it was clear to the swordsman that whatever was about to happen meant a lot to the cook. And maybe it would matter to him, too.
At last, Sanji drew the final drag of his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray.
“Whenever you’re ready, Marimo.”
“Not waiting for your pupil?”
Sanji shrugged.
“It’s not a problem if she shows up once things have started. You’re the one leading the dance.”
Zoro stepped out into the garden, Sanji following. Once in front of the willow tree, Zoro turned to his opponent and gripped his hilt. He expected the cook to attack first, because he always attacked first, but this time he didn’t. The fact both amused him and put him on alert.
Sanji was merely watching him intently, as though he had prepared a speech but then decided against it, inspired by something more fitting to what he wanted to say.
He’s sizing me up, Zoro thought, curling his lip. Damn, that bastard’s got some shit in his head.
Perfect.
Sanji wasn’t in the guard stance he usually adopted. In fact, he wasn’t in any guard stance at all. He was simply attentive and alert—and that intrigued Zoro.
I’m not stupid enough to let my guard down, idiot. Let’s see what you’ve got.
Zoro knew that, from a strictly technical point of view, the cook relied more on precision and speed of execution than on raw power. So he braced for a series of fast, targeted attacks, prepared to take a few kicks in harmless spots, like the sides or the legs, while protecting his head and stomach. Sure, it was only a sparring session, but it was all too easy to get carried away.
But the cook didn't attack.
The two of them stared at each other, motionless, for what felt like a long time to Zoro, until, to break the deadlock and keep the tension alive, the swordsman decided to sidestep. Sanji mirrored him, and they began to circle each other. Zoro noticed that the cook was leaving himself even more exposed. Obviously, the swordsman didn’t trust that opening one bit. It was a crystal-clear invitation to attack, and he wasn’t about to fall for it. He kept moving. And when his foot brushed against a small mound of loose soil, Zoro knew exactly what to do.
With a kick, the swordsman flung dirt at the cook, calculating that to shield his eyes he’d have to give away real openings instead of fake ones. So it happened, and Zoro seized the chance. Still, although Sanji had exposed himself, he had done so much more carefully than Zoro had expected, so the swordsman’s strike only half succeeded.
The duelists ended up nearly cheek to cheek, locked in a close stalemate: on one side, Zoro was pinned by the cook’s leg and elbow, but on the other, Sanji couldn’t disengage without leaving openings that, given the closeness and the active involvement of one leg, would have played to his opponent’s advantage.
Zoro pressed harder against Sanji, thinking he’d spring back to gain room to maneuver and attack, but instead the cook responded by tightening his hold even more. The swordsman could feel the cook’s breath at his ear.
“And that’s it? Throw a little dirt at me and hope I’ll back off? I don’t run, Marimo. I don’t move a fucking inch.”
Zoro smiled.
“As if that’s a problem, Curly. Don’t worry, I’ll make you move.”
And Zoro rammed his shoulder into him. The cook, for a second, lost his balance, but was quick enough to scissor his legs and land a kick to his opponent’s chest, clumsy but effective. They regained their distance. They stared at each other again.
The cook’s lips curved into a smile that to Zoro seemed exhilarated, almost unhinged.
The swordsman licked his lips.
Well, well, well, he thought. Not bad, cook. You’ve finally decided to give me some real fun.
And he went back on the attack.

When Nami reached the hall on her way to the kitchen for a snack, her attention was caught by Cosette. The girl was staring intently at something in the garden, mimicking kicks and blocks, saying something to Zeff, who stood beside her watching with a skeptical expression and muttering back at her. Nami approached the two, and saw that in the garden Sanji and Zoro were sparring.
“Please, Chef Zeff! Tell him too! If you say it, he’ll agree!” the girl begged.
The old man grunted.
“Do you know how long the brat had to work before he could spar? Two months. Two months of falls, combos, and blocks. You haven’t even practiced blocks yet.”
“Today Sanji started having me do them.”
Zeff raised his eyebrows, incredulous.
“You really messed things up against me, with this idea you planted in him, that women should never ever be hit, Chef Zeff, do you realize that?” Cosette pressed, frowning. “Today we did blocks with a bamboo stick wrapped in foam. Sure, Sanji struck, but foam isn’t the same as a real kick.”
Zeff put his hands on his hips.
“First of all, watch your tone, kid. And second, just look at yourself. You don’t even know how fuck to breathe. Is the brat teaching you how to breathe?”
“Yes, but…”
Zeff turned to Nami.
“This kid doesn’t know how to breathe, she’s been training for just three days, and she wants to spar,” he explained. Then he turned back to Cosette: “Give me at least fifty five-kick combinations, perfectly executed, with flawless breathing, and then maybe, maybe, maybe we might eventually consider the idea of possibly thinking about sparring. Maybe.”
Cosette huffed.
“But I don’t have all that damn time, Chef Zeff.”
“Then behave yourself and focus on falling, blocking, dodging, and breathing properly. Those are the most useful things anyway.”
Cosette huffed again, and Nami couldn’t help but laugh. They turned back to watch the fight.
“The swordsman has improved, no doubt about it,” Zeff commented.
“He trained with Mihawk for two years,” Nami told him.
“He worked well,” the old man confirmed. “He handles spacing much better than when he was at the Baratie.”
“And Sanji?” asked Nami.
Zeff grunted.
“He looks good to me,” Cosette offered.
“I taught him, so of course he’s good, dammit. But I don’t get what he’s doing. Damn brat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s like he has no strategy, no direction. He doesn’t push into attack, but he doesn’t fall back into defense either. But he’s focused—his whole damn head is right there, present and sharp. Who the hell knows what he’s thinking.”
Nami looked back at the two rivals. She was used to seeing them clash on a more or less daily basis, and maybe that was why the strangeness of this particular fight stood out to her. Zeff was right: Sanji wasn’t attacking, nor was he defending. It was as if he had traced a territory that was his, and his alone, and was somehow communicating it to Zoro. Nami wondered if the conversation that morning had influenced the way Sanji fought now, his neutral, almost accepting stance, and yet unyielding, almost commanding.
“Oh, good. I was hoping to see the Regent show off his combat skills.”
Zeff turned around.
“Good evening, General. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“To news to be discussed, Chef Zeff.”
The old man grunted.
“Don’t worry,” the general reassured him lightly. “It’s nothing bad, and I have no intention of interrupting the Regent. Especially since the fight looks very interesting.”
Cosette, who had absentmindedly gone back to mimicking Sanji, accidentally landed a small kick on the general’s shin. Scarlet with embarrassment, she turned and bowed in apology. The man merely shrugged and said:
“Compliments on your spirit, young lady. Should you wish to enlist, I’ll see that you get an application form.”
Cosette blushed even more, and Nami let out a little laugh. Even Zeff smiled beneath his mustache. Meanwhile, the fight continued with its unusual dynamic, with neither Sanji nor Zoro showing any signs of yielding.
Suddenly, Nami heard a hiss.
“Watch out!” she shouted.
But there was nothing she could do.

Zoro didn’t understand what was happening, but it was definitely exhilarating. It was all advancing, retreating, recalculating, a fight more mental than physical, but not an aimless one. It was tied to dynamics that ran beneath the surface, to those deep vibrations that not even with the full activation of his haki would he have been able to sense. The only thing he could grasp was that Sanji was stating something.
You're with the strong, I never will be.
You go from triumph to triumph, I merely spit blood just to stay standing.
There it was. That damn cook was declaring that this was how things stood, that he was what he was, that the situation was what it was. But he was doing it without anger, without shutting down, without attacking. Maybe even he didn’t fully know what he was doing, or where he was going, but Zoro noticed that every move he made was an act of visceral affirmation and resistance—defiant, proud, assertive.
The cook gave up control and then took it back, and Zoro did the same. They had never fought in a way so personal, so intimate, and for a moment the swordsman’s mind drifted to the last match he had fought with Kuina. The one where everything had changed forever. The one where she had stopped being a rival and become an ally. The one after which he had known everything, yet could do nothing.
And Zoro decided that this time, things would be different. The cook had offered an opening in the only language they both understood, and Zoro would never be so much of a coward as to hide, even if he didn’t know what opening up would mean.
Damn cook.
They had returned to studying each other from a distance. Sanji was watching him, in his new posture both alert and relaxed, taking his measure once again, weighing what to give and what to hold back.
Zoro felt euphoric.
“Oi, cook, when are you going to get serious?”
“When it’s worth it, Marimo.”
A fresh wave of exhilaration surged through the swordsman, who hurled himself decisively at the cook.
A new flurry of blows, kicks, blocks, shoulder strikes.
The adrenaline soared to intoxicating levels, and Zoro unleashed a series of quick, precise attacks that Sanji received and deflected with absolute focus.
Then, a hiss.
Nami shouted something, and the cook, for an instant, seemed to lose his rhythm.
Zoro, only dimly aware that something was happening outside of them, couldn’t call back his assault, and accidentally struck the other’s nose with the hilt of his sword. He then stepped back, regaining his clarity with reluctance, and saw the cook with one hand pressed to his nose and an arrow jutting out of his shoulder.

Chapter Text

The first to rush to Sanji was Zeff, followed closely by Nami and Cosette who, once they’d made sure the cook was fine, handed him a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his nose.
The general, who had stayed in the hall, had summoned a couple of clones and, looking around, began issuing orders.
Zoro clearly heard him order that all exits be sealed.
He’s trying to trace the arrow’s trajectory, he thought, and maybe figure out where it was shot from. Good luck with that, General.
“I guess I need to work a bit more on my Observation Haki, fuck,” said the cook, in an absent, vaguely dazed tone.
The swordsman just grunted. He could still feel the adrenaline from the fight pulsing through him. He figured the cook was probably still running on his own rush, given that he didn’t seem to feel any pain. Sanji kept twisting around to look at his injured shoulder with a puzzled, almost disbelieving expression. Then he raised a hand and touched his eyebrow, as if to check whether the curl was still in place.
Shock? Zoro thought. Then he told him,
“Stay still, idiot, or you’ll make the wound worse.”
But the other didn’t listen, and, still wearing that pensive look, kept twisting toward the arrow as if he wanted to touch it. Finally, while Zeff tried to hold him down, the cook let out a small groan and finally calmed himself, a strange smile forming on his lips.
Shit, he looks relieved. Is he a masochist or just an idiot?
The old man tried to make the cook sit on the floor, with Nami’s help.
“No,” Zoro stopped them, then turned to Cosette. “Go get a chair. The less he moves, the better.”
Goodwin, meanwhile, was going in and out of the hall, speaking with an increasing number of guards. Zoro thought he even saw Pryx. The words attack, ambush, and assassination attempt floated in the air. A few seconds later, investigation and search joined the chorus.
Reiju reached them at a run. Cosette brought the chair.
Sanji sat down, and the others made room for him.
“I’m calling a doctor,” Reiju said.
“The hell you are,” Sanji replied curtly. “There's no way a doctor from here will put his hands on me. Only mine does.”
“I’ll go find Chopper,” said Nami, and left immediately.
“Thank you, Nami-swan!” Sanji shouted after her. Then he turned to Zoro. “At this point, I’d say we should take the arrow out. It’s starting to get annoying.”
“That’s because you were prancing around and touching your face,” said the swordsman.
“Go fuck yourself, Moss-head.”
Zeff silenced them both.
“We need to cut the shirt. And stay still, brat!”
Sanji groaned, covering his eyes with one hand.
“Does it hurt that much?” asked Cosette anxiously.
“Oh, hell yeah. The shirt hurts like hell. It’s my favorite one.”
Zoro raised an eyebrow.
“They’re all your favorite, Curly.”
“That doesn’t make this one any less favorite, unfortunately.”
Sanji turned toward his sister.
“Reiju—”
“BRAT! PUT THOSE DAMN HANDS ON YOUR KNEES AND DON’T MOVE THEM! STAY STILL! AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Sanji obeyed.
“Worse than when he was ten, for fuck’s sake,” the old man muttered.
A few seconds of silence followed.
“I’ll go get the scissors,” said Cosette at last.
“Could you bring a few cloths and some clean napkins too?” asked Sanji.
Cosette nodded and left.
Silence again.
Then Zeff, calmer now, turned to Reiju and Zoro.
“I’ll get the first aid kit. You two make sure this idiot doesn’t do anything else stupid.”
“So now it’s my fault?” Sanji shot back, but Zeff was already walking away.
“I think the old man means you should stay still, dumbass,” explained Zoro.
The swordsman could still feel the adrenaline rushing through him. His heart was pounding in his throat, and the frustration from the interrupted fight made his hand twitch toward his swords.
If I catch that fucking archer, I swear I’ll cut his hands off.
His gaze fell back on Sanji.
“Damn, right when it was getting good,” said the cook, smiling.
Zoro smirked.
“I was kicking your ass.”
“Sure, Marimo, in the magical world of your imagination.”
Reiju interrupted them with a soft cough. She looked puzzled.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
Sanji kept smiling.
“It happens, when you’re shot by an arrow.”
“But you shouldn’t be. Your genes…”
Reiju cast a questioning look at Zoro.
“Don’t worry, you can talk in front of him,” said the cook. “We already have an agreement: if my genes go full monster, he kills me. Apparently, we’re still halfway there, thank God.”
The princess stared at the swordsman in disbelief.
“Really?”
Sanji was silent for a few seconds, his gaze flicking between her and Zoro.
“Yes, really. And anyway, this stays between the three of us.”
“What this?” asked the swordsman.
Sanji gave a short laugh.
The princess turned back toward the swordsman and looked him over from head to toe, assessing him.
He didn’t flinch.
“You really think he could do it?” she asked her brother.
Sanji locked eyes with the other man.
Zoro felt as if they were still fighting.
“No, I don’t think so, Reiju,” the cook said seriously. “I know so.”
Zoro said nothing.

Zeff was the one to cut the shirt. Cosette stood at his side, holding the clean cloths and the two napkins Sanji had asked for.
General Goodwin, having finished giving orders, held the medical kit in his hands.
At the first cut the cook let out a sound somewhere between a whine and a sigh, and took on an anguished, suffering expression, verging on despair.
Reiju looked at him with raised eyebrows, perplexed.
“Like they’re cutting off an arm, little brother.”
“No, but almost,” Sanji groaned.
“Do we need to hold a funeral for the shirt, Curly? How about an honorary pyre?”
“Go fuck yourself, Marimo.”
Zeff scoffed.
“I’ll never understand why you make such a fuss over a bit of cloth, brat. Even at the Baratie…”
They were interrupted by Chopper, who arrived running with his little case accompanied by Nami.
As soon as the little reindeer saw the arrow protruding from the cook’s shoulder, his eyes widened.
“We need to call a doctor!”
“You’re the doctor!” Sanji shot back with a snort.
At that exchange, Goodwin cast an interrogative glance at the cook.
Sanji smiled.
“He’s not as dumb as he looks,” he explained. “Actually, he’s simply the best.”
“Cut it out!” the reindeer replied. “Now we’ll remove the arrow, then I’ll take a look. Zoro, you do it?”
“If I absolutely must…”
The cook sat up straight in the chair.
“Cosette, please, pass me the napkins.”
The girl obeyed, then the young man placed the napkins between his teeth and nodded to the swordsman, who, after taking a deep breath, pulled the arrow decisively from the shoulder. Sanji’s eyes bulged for a moment and he grunted, while Zeff pressed a couple of cloths soaked in disinfectant onto the open wound. Sanji gave another, more restrained grunt.
For a few minutes everyone stayed silent, then the cook removed the napkins from his mouth.
“And that’s done,” he said in an almost cheerful tone.
Then he looked around and, seeing so many people nearby, blushed.
“I’m fine. Nothing serious happened.”
Zeff gave him a light cuff on the head, and Goodwin seemed to offer the old man a nod of approval.
“Someone tried to kill you, Regent,” he said in a dry tone. “I’d say something serious did happen.”
Sanji’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“With a fucking arrow? What is this, did Germa run out of sniper rifles?”
Then he turned to Zoro, who still held the arrow.
“Marimo, don’t throw it away. Hold it by the tail, get a plastic bag and put it in. Then we’ll have it analyzed.”
“I’ll have it taken straight to the labs,” Goodwin said.
“No way, General,” Sanji answered. “Germa’s scientists won’t even see this arrow through binoculars. Here’s the deal: Franky, Chopper and I will go to Germa’s labs alone and run the analyses ourselves.”
“Brat, you can do whatever you want tomorrow, but for now STRAIGHTEN UP AND STAY STILL, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”
Sanji fell silent and obeyed.
Meanwhile Cosette had gone to the kitchen and returned with a plastic bag. Before Zoro’s astonished eyes, the girl, with the utmost nonchalance, took the arrow by the tail and put it in the bag.
“Can I come to do the analyses too, Sanji?”
Sanji seemed to consider the question carefully.
“Only if you promise not to bother me anymore about the sparring.”
Cosette pressed her lips together for a few seconds.
“All right.”
“Not just me. Not Zeff either. Or anyone else here or absent.”
A look of total, complete, absolute indignation spread across the young woman’s face.
“That’s unfair, Sanji.”
Sanji was unyielding.
“Nothing terrifies me like a woman’s anger, but that’s how it is.”
Cosette sighed.
“Fine. But only because you're hurt.”
Goodwin cleared his throat.
“So you don’t think this was an assassination attempt?”
“I don’t know. I mean, for fuck's sake, if I wanted someone dead I’d shoot—bam-bam—Regent’s done, quick and clean. If the first shot fails, shoot a second, or a third, without even bothering to re-aim. If you’re at least decent you’ll get the head—and fast. But an arrow?” Sanji shifted his gaze from Goodwin to Reiju. “Honestly, what the hell. We all know that after clones and weapons, Germa’s finest export is assassins. Have the standards dropped?”
Nami sighed.
“I wonder if you listen to yourself when you talk. Are you upset that they were inefficient?”
“No, Nami-san, it’s that if they had wanted me dead I’d be dead. But I’m not dead. So they didn’t want me dead. And I don’t know how worried I should be that they didn’t want me dead.”
Reiju crossed her arms over her chest.
“If things are like that, I’ll put guards on your room, Sanji.”
“Sure, as if the archer couldn’t be one of your people. As if I trust anyone in this damn kingdom.”
No one breathed.
Chopper’s eyes were glassy.
Goodwin and Reiju exchanged a tense, sad look, and the general ran a hand over his face.
Zoro sighed.
“Then it means we’ll go back to sharing the room, Curly. And I’ll raise my guard.”
Sanji looked him dead in the eyes.
“No.”
“Brat.”
Sanji scoffed.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“And you’re stupid,” Zoro shot back.
“I’ll have my old apartments prepared immediately,” Reiju decided. “They’re up high, no windows near the beds. The entrance is internal only. Literally attacker-proof.”
Zoro grunted and gave a curt nod.
“I don’t need your damn protection, Mosshead,” the cook snarled.
“The wound is dry,” Zeff said, addressing Chopper. “You can start treating it.”

A couple of hours later, Zoro and Sanji were in their new room, which wasn’t really a room, but a house. The arrow had been placed in their personal refrigerator, waiting to be analyzed the next day.
The bedroom had been furnished with two single beds, each much larger than normal. They were separated by a single nightstand, while on the outer sides stood two small shelves, each with its own lamp and a tiny decorative vase.
Besides the bedroom, the apartment included a small living room and a bathroom even bigger than the previous one, which, in addition to a shower and double sink, also featured a hot tub the size of a swimming pool.
As soon as they walked in, Zoro couldn’t help but let out an admiring whistle.
“You had something like this too?”
Sanji laughed.
“No, Marimo. My private quarters were much more modest. And a bit damper.”
In theory, the cook was supposed to stay still to let the wound close up. In practice, the first thing Sanji did upon entering the room was drag a chair in front of the window and light a cigarette. Then he went to the bathroom to take a shower. Sanji had fallen into complete silence, broken only by a few curses echoing through the huge bathroom.
While Sanji was washing up, someone knocked at the door. Zoro opened it and found himself facing a young servant holding something in his hands, staring in terror at the swordsman’s katanas.
“Good evening. For the Regent, from General Goodwin. Goodbye,” he stammered. Then he shoved what he was holding into Zoro’s arms and bolted.
It was two volumes, not very large but surprisingly heavy. They were the two tomes of a single work titled Architectures of Survival, by Dr. Mariselle Lys.
What the hell. What’s this got to do with the cook? Zoro thought.
Distractedly, the swordsman opened the first volume. On the first page was a note, written in an elegant, precise hand:
“This morning, when you asked if you could borrow a few of my wife’s books in order, as you said, to ‘get to know her in person,’ you gave me great pleasure. These volumes are the last thing Mari worked on — a collection of her articles and transcriptions of her lectures. They speak of freedom, truth, pain, and, as the title suggests, survival. I would be truly happy and grateful if you accepted them as a gift. Perhaps we’ll discuss them at our next dinner.
I wish you a pleasant read — Caspar Goodwin.”
The first piece was a transcription of a lecture. The title was absurdly pompous — Traumatic Roots of Compulsive Devotion — and it began like this:
“There are human beings who learn very early, from early childhood, that to be loved they must be useful. Once grown, these individuals live their existence not as a right, but as a reward for services rendered, measuring their own worth by the good they can provide. With such people, the therapeutic challenge lies in helping them distinguish between ‘care as atonement’ and ‘care as choice.’”
Zoro closed the book and set the volumes down on the nightstand between the beds.
He felt strangely uneasy.

When Sanji came out of the bathroom he was wearing clean trousers and no longer had bandages. Zoro was sitting in the armchair by the window watching him fasten them with one hand. Once he reached the nightstand, the cook noticed the two books stacked there. As Zoro had done before him, Sanji opened the first one and read the note. He smiled.
“What is it?” Zoro asked indifferently.
The cook clumsily pulled a T-shirt on, took the pack of cigarettes from his jacket and sat down opposite the swordsman.
“Books, Marimo. You know, those weird things with pages. Mariselle Lys was the general’s wife. She was a psychiatrist, and she died in childbirth. Here, in Germa. He sent the newborn children away so Judge wouldn’t get his hands on them for his experiments. He never even saw them.”
Zoro said nothing.
Sanji lit a cigarette.
“Can you believe it? That man doesn’t even know what his children look like.”
Zoro remained silent.
Sanji took a deep drag and let out a thin ribbon of smoke.
“Is it a truce, Marimo?” the cook asked suddenly, without looking at him.
Zoro stayed motionless.
Sanji turned toward him.
“Is it a truce? I need to know.”
Zoro swallowed.
“Yes. It’s a truce, Curly. Like when we fight side by side.”
The cook nodded, sitting rigid in the armchair facing the swordsman. He looked at him appraisingly, as if deciding whether to speak. Then he burst out:
“My sister was right, Marimo. I didn’t talk about it before because I didn’t know how she would react. But that arrow shouldn’t have been able to hurt me.”
“Because the genes made the jump.”
“Exactly. Tonight my wound should already be closed. Tomorrow morning it’ll be like nothing happened. And if it isn’t, the tests we do tomorrow will be even more necessary. Because the jump happened.”
Zoro rested his elbow on the armrest and sighed.
“And now you’ll start again with that story that if you lost yourself then I would have to…”
Sanji hit the armrests of the armchair with his hands.
“IT’S NOT A STORY, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! IT’S MY FUCKING LIFE!”
At that outburst Zoro stiffened, watching Sanji fold over in the armchair and hide his face in his hands. The cook stayed like that for a few seconds. Then he straightened in the chair with a jerk, staring at him furiously, saying nothing.
To Zoro it looked like he was struggling to breathe.
“You think I’m overreacting,” he hissed. “That I’m melodramatic. Fine. Forget it. Let’s say I never told you anything and—”
“Sorry.”
The cook was taken aback. Zoro’s gaze did not waver.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Zoro swallowed.
“I mean it. I don’t—”
Sanji cut him off.
"Okay.” 
Zoro watched him as he cautiously leaned back against the chair’s back and studied him as if assessing him.
“At the Baratie, the first time we met, I thought Judge sent you,” he said suddenly.
Zoro raised an eyebrow.
Sanji smiled, folding his fingers on his chest. “I was trying it on with Nami, and you looked at me like I was the grossest insect you’d ever seen. I thought: There—he recognized me. Now he’ll try to take me back to Germa. I was ready to make it hard for you. But you didn’t attack me right away, so I thought you were some colonist who’d found the son of his executioner. Maybe you were waiting for the right moment to take revenge. To kill me with Wado Ichimonji.”
Sanji chuckled to himself. “I came up with a lot of theories about Wado Ichimonji.”
Zoro felt himself grow warm.
“What does Wado Ichimonji have to do with it?”
“It means it’s clear that sword is special to you. I thought it was some relic from your village destroyed by the Vinsmokes, or the sword of your family exterminated by the Vinsmokes, or the weapon of your master killed by the Vinsmokes. Got close?”
Zoro smiled faintly.
“Not really. And anyway, the Vinsmokes aren’t involved.”
Sanji gave a little snort.
“I guessed as much. Still, better that way.”
They didn’t speak for a few minutes and kept watching each other with a sort of caution.
We’re still fighting, Zoro thought, and felt both embarrassed and amused by the mental movies the cook had run. In a way, he even felt flattered. He himself didn’t have much imagination, nor much interest in others. The cook was simply someone who annoyed him because he was a mess, but now the swordsman realized things had changed. Maybe irreversibly. The cook was still a mess, but Zoro felt the desire, the need, to learn how to navigate that mess. Maybe he even wanted to stay in it. Because that mess was rich and warm.
The cook had been watching him intently. A strange smile hovered on his lips.
“Anyway, I don’t need your protection, Marimo.”
Zoro didn't move.
“So you’re okay with me killing you but not with me protecting you?”
Sanji smirked.
“You don’t get it, Mosshead. I'm not the one to protect. I am the one from whom the crew must be protected. I'm the threat, Marimo..”
“Curly…”
“That arrow could have hit you. Or Nami. Or Zeff. Or anyone else. And next time it might not be an arrow. It could be something else. And it could hit—”
The cook bent forward, his face hidden by his hair. “I could never forgive myself if—”
He sighed, then straightened, lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling.
“The ways you can inflict suffering on someone are endless, Marimo. Endless. And Judge Vinsmoke is a very creative asshole in that regard. Meticulous. He doesn’t leave his fucking experiments half done. Especially when they give unexpected results.”
Zoro’s expression hardened.
“I don’t like your tone, cook. It sounds defeated.”
Sanji let out a tight little laugh.
"I have it in me, Marimo. In my blood.”
“I don’t give a damn. I already promised I’d kill you if you lost yourself. But you’re here now. You haven’t lost yourself. So fuck off.”
Sanji sighed. Regret filled his look.
For a second Zoro’s mind went to Kuina.
This time things will be different.
“Fuck off,” Zoro repeated stubbornly. “You made sure the crew was together. And if the crew is together there’ll be no problems.”
Sanji shook his head. “I put you all in shit.”
“You didn’t put us in shit,” Zoro replied. “Not at all. And I was an asshole to say that the other night.”
“Don’t—”
“The other night I acted like a total asshole.”
Sanji closed his eyes, rested his elbow on the armrest and covered his mouth with his hand, turning toward the window.
Zoro leaned toward him. “We’re together, Curly. We’re all here. And we’re fine.”
Sanji didn’t answer.
Gently, Zoro stretched further and touched the cook’s knee. The other spun around, looking at the hand on his knee. Then he raised his eyes to the swordsman.
“We’ll kick their asses. For real.”
Sanji snorted through his nose and made a tired little smile.
Zoro’s gaze burned with determination.
“We’ll kick their asses,” he repeated. “You’ll do it.”