Disclaimed: I do not own One Piece.

Holly - Wow, it's been a while. Gargantuan writer's block combined with a humongous change in lifestyle etc. However I come with vaguely good tidings to you all! Though, there is some good news and some bad news - I'm going to finish this Fic even if it kills me, but you can expect a lot of changes from the original (so you might as well re-read those of you who have read BMAB before.) I basically re-wrote the whole thing, I'm much more confident in my writing skills now than I ever have been, so here's to that tidbit of information -clinks champagne flutes-

Main changes to this fic include: Change in names of OCs as well as going from 3rd person POV to 1st

Chapter 1 - Agoraphobic Tendencies

Disgusting.

Within the confines of my sleeves my palms are sweating with a vengeance; I could blame the non-existent heat, but frankly it's October, and the goosebump-inducing breeze blowing through the foyer's automatic door system shoots down that argument like a stray dove. Poor thing never had a chance to take flight in the first place.

I am the 'no name', awkwardly trapped in an environment that probably shouldn't be as foreign as it is. It's an alien place in which I find myself sticking out like the sorest of thumbs.

The front desk is dead, abandoned to fend for itself as the odd early-bird student and tumbleweed passes by. I feel queasy as hell, the lack of human life makes the entire situation akin to one of those terrible lulls in a horror movie right before something pops out, just so you can shit your pants in retaliation.

The oak monstrosity of a work space has a screen of frosted glass branching off of it from the side, and unfortunately for me it's buffed nicely enough to let me see my own reflection. It's 8:00am, lessons don't start for an hour so I have plenty of time to assess my appearance and worth as a human being.

Today is going to be my first day of many at Alabasta High - my first day at school for over 3 years - and so far my train of thought keeps getting derailed by all the little things that shouldn't even matter. Such as, why is that digital clock on the wall so big? And what is with all of these fake potted plants?

I'm seventeen; that's nearly two whole decades of ageing that I've had on this godforsaken planet. I should have my priorities sorted by now. Like getting to class on time for example. Remedial Class, whoopedy doo.

I'm nervous about going, I should be graduating at the end of this year and picking out the colleges that tickle my fancy like all the other normal kids. Instead fate is an agonizingly sadistic heathen, turning the tables on me once again. For the next two years I'm going to spending my time learning elbow-to-elbow with some of this city's most prominent teenage delinquents.

For the record, I am not a trouble maker. I like to think that I'm as normal as can be.

My name is Dakota Seagrave, and ironically enough I can't swim. Nor can I dance, or play the piano… I don't really have any secret talents stashed away in these sweaty sleeves of mine. Do I have any idea what I want to be when I grow up? Not a clue, and it's a notion that plagues my fears far greater than even the thought of dying does.

Dying is scary of course, but sometimes I feel that living is even worse.

When I leave the house on my own I often have to fight to breathe like any other functioning member of society, I can get lost in my thoughts for hours, and worst of all I struggle with the concept of reality each day that falls past, a tiny speck of sand in the hourglass of my life.

I'm often told that I think too much.

Snapping back to the present from the portal of my mind is extremely disconcerting. In a measly 10 minutes the students making their way through the foyer have doubled in intensity, effectively tripling the Autumn breeze that has taken to absconding to the indoors via irritating automatic doors and of course having a massive chain reaction in my emotions.

To make things just a touch more exciting they have taken to loitering in the main office area, the occasional beady pair of eyes burning into my face.

Future opportunity no. 1: the ability to shape-shift. Be the turtle, hide in that shell.

The dynamics of the natural order are painfully disappointing. I don't have a shell on my back, and if I did I would only attract more attention to myself than I already am standing lonesomely with what I imagine to be a constipated expression induced by a whirlwind of anxiety.

Shut up, Dakota, you are a warrior now. Be brave for your people!

Future opportunity no. 2: aspiring to become a real life version of Mulan.

There's no war in China to speak of, and I'm pretty sure that tiny dragon assistants don't exist. Or lucky bugs.

Wow, spending so much time in the house has made me far too spacey for my own good. I stare to the heavens, which happens to be an incredibly boring alabaster ceiling, and pray to the unknown deities that today will do me the favour of going to plan.

Dear Lord, Gandhi, Marilyn Monroe, whoever is up there, I've been a good egg, I swear it. Please find the time to make this day go according to plan, even if wishing is totally overrated and I'm probably cheating Death somehow by asking for something so absurd… I really hope not, I'm not ready for a series of disastrous events like another crappy Final Destination movie.

The prying eyes of today's youths is dangerous ammo, I'm in a semi-catatonic state where I can only see the whites of their eyes. People need to teach their offspring from an early age that goggling at others like they're the strange concoction favoured as 'Mom's Vegetarian Surprise' is extremely rude. I have to check that I'm not naked.

CRACK!

The noise from the commotion could scare Lucifer himself. The door behind the desk reverberates crazily against the force of the swing. My eyes pop as the old man in the doorway laughs thunderously, probably due to the collective expressions of shock echoing throughout the room.

The students idling the front doors split and meander their way down the corridors (probably to safety) on either side and I've no choice but to step closer to the desk wearily.

The man shuffles with papers at the front of the desk and props himself in one of those generic office chairs that have wheels on the bottom and look tantalizingly comfortable.

I clear my throat.

"Er, hi. I'm hear to collect my timetable? It's my first day…" I trail off unsurely.

I slouch onto one foot and cross my arms, one leg jigging anxiously as he stares at me for a while, probably taking in the insane amount of freckles and terrific bed hair - I didn't sleep well last night, what can you do?

He makes a strange grunting noise, probably affirmation, and fiddles with the sleek computer situated on the desk. The shiny keyboard looks flimsy and pathetic beneath his meaty hands and it's awe-inspiring how he's even capable of typing.

"Dakota Seagrave?" He rumbles, meeting my hazel eyes with his own crystal blue.

I bob my head like one of those little creatures with no real use that you often see decorating the interior of cars. A sad life. I lose his attention to the monitor once again.

It feels like an entire age passes by before the printer just beside the open door starts making groaning feral noises, choking up papers with black inky text. I watch the old man shuffle over to grab them, busying himself with stapling the papers together before disappearing to the room he had originally came from.

I sneak a peek at the digital clock; 8:45am blinks back at me lazily in bold numbers.

Mr Monkey D. Garp (I read his identification tag) lumbers back before I have anymore time to question life's ultimate purpose, presenting me with the freshly printed sheets of paper, a laminated A5 sized piece of card and a little silver key that will be painfully easy to lose in my backpack filled with unnecessary crap.

"This key is to your locker that we've allocated for you, the number on the locker will be the same as it is on here," He says, showing me the tiny 5 digit engraving, "It will be in the corridor outside your classroom, which I've highlighted on the map," That explains the laminated piece of paper, "your textbooks should be inside it, so just check your lessons on your timetable and you should be fine. If you have any questions just ask your Tutor, Mr Flam will be happy to help you."

"T-thank you," I nearly blubber, juggling the new additions in my stubby hands. The giant clock is taunting me with a heart-wrenching 8:57am.

I quickly check the handy-dandy map that I will probably only use once then forget about, and hurriedly toddle my way down the corridor to my right, trying to keep my cool in case I accidentally explode with nerves. I'll make a mess if I do, and the floor looks way too clean to leave Dakota-entrails everywhere. Though on the bright side, the floor is linoleum, so it'll be easy to mop up afterwards, and I'm getting far too distracted.

I steadily flail my way past some migrating students to the ugly spiral staircase leading to the upper floor. It was probably intended to give the building some architectural diversity but only succeeding to make the rest of the corridor look incredibly outdated. I amble up the stairs steadily, on my mission, and I silently thank the Holy god damn Trinity that I don't wear skirts, I can easily spy a girl's panties through the holed steel steps above me. Her underwear's decorated with a fading collage of Minnie Mouse and I'm silently horrified by the perverse display.

I haven't worn colourful underwear since I was 11 and decided after that I decided that men's underwear is much more comfortable. Besides, most women's undies seem to be in a strange style of 'up-the-butt' that vividly reminds me of cheese wires. Highly impractical.

I get to the upper floor and my trainers hit plush blue carpet that is so springy to my step that I feel like Neil Armstrong training to make the Moon Landing seem as real as possible (it's fake, I've seen all the conspiracy theories, god dammit.)

I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that Alabasta High is one of those schools you often see with poor ratings, since they care much more about the school's outward appearance than the grades of graduating students. Far too much effort has been put into keeping this carpet clean, there isn't a single hint of gum or ink staining the cobalt colour.

I reach the lines of light blue lockers down a separate corridor and spend the next five years finding the one that corresponds to my key's number. 44970, and it shouldn't be as difficult as it is, they're in chronological order for Christ's sake!

I find the right one, jiggle my key frantically and it creaks open with a noise straight out of a cliché horror movie from the 70's. I groan internally and check my timetable for the right books I'll need from the pile that has been stacked haphazardly (Do I really need all these?)

I stuff the books in my bag, check my phone for the time, and realize that my entire education will probably be forfeited for my lack of time keeping skills. I'm going to be late. I hurry like Satan himself is prodding me in the backside with his pitchfork (is it a pitchfork?)

Immense gratitude swells my heart when I see the line of students still lined up for Remedial Class. There must be a deity, my prayers have been answered at last! I'll have to bake them a pie or something.

I head to the back of the poorly-formed queue and slip the tiniest key known to man onto the carabiner looped with house and car keys I keep attached to my belt and sigh happily. According to my already dog-eared timetable the first lesson after the fifteen minute Tutorial is Geography, and I'm pretty relieved that I'm still pretty god damn ready for my first day back at school.

Hazar!

Holly- Mother's Vegetarian Surprise is the realest shit ever.