Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece, nor do I have any sort of affiliation with Shonen Jump, Toei, Oda Eiichiro, FUNimation, or 4kids. This fic will have lots of violence, crime, cursing, and most likely alcohol knowing me. This story is very OC heavy, as a warning.

I know, I know; I've been gone a while, my friends. And just where have I been? I've been busy! I've had one thing followed by another, topped off with the birth of my baby nephew. He's very adorable, and he requires attention. This fic is for The Muse Bunny Forum's Story Convention. I'll try to make this my weekly update for a while.

Sometimes, my right leg will hurt where the wooden peg is. Phantom pains most people call it. I think of it as the pain of nostalgia, because it always seems to hurt whenever I'm thinking about the old days. It's not a bad pain; comparable to the mild sort of heartache and warm sting to the eye most people would get when they see an old photo. I used to get that feeling whenever I looked over the old logbook. Now I get an ache where my right leg was. I don't think about it much.

I crawled up from the very bottom to get where I am today. Some people think my position now is a lesser one than what I could have gotten if I kept my legs. Maybe that's true, maybe it's not. But how many people have held the dream of owning their own restaurant and never achieve it? I know how many, and those people would gladly give up their right legs to stand where I am.

I am an old man, only getting older, from an age that those young brat pirates can hardly understand. I met the Jolly Roger pirates. I've been through the Grand Line. I've done things that people now could only proclaim as experiencing Hell itself. Maybe it was better then because there were less pirates swarming over similar goals; maybe it was worse because there was no easy path stomped-out for me by predecessors. I don't know, and it doesn't matter in the end. The Grand Line didn't mean the same thing to me as it did others.

All Blue.

If that place were anywhere, then it would have to be there.

.-.-.

If you believe I started out immediately on the sea in a pirate ship as a captain, then you should also know that Gold Roger sprung forth fully formed from the womb and Hawkeye Mihawk did his own C-section. I grew up in a port-city in North Blue named Pakerville. It's one of the major cities in North Blue, and it had every glory and problem that any big city will get. A great place if you're rich, if you could afford to go to all of the places that go out of their way to avert your eyes from how distorted the population really is. There were a lot of rich people, about ten or twenty times that in poor people, and just enough in between to hide the gap from the tourists.

Winter was cold there, but you get used to it. If you grow up in this weather, you'll hardly notice any sort of change. The winter of my sixth birthday was particularly harsh, and I was still young enough for it to effect me. I had come home feeling numb with a pair of aching small lungs that had felt the cold air expand a little too much while I exerted myself with the activity of being a child.

The house was warm with grandmother's large, old stove running. A delicious aroma soaked the entire house, trapped inside by the cold air pressing down on it. I smiled so wide my numb face hurt with the effort and I knocked off my heavy clothes dampening with the melt of the snow on it as quickly as I could at the door before running into the kitchen, to my grandmother's side.

My grandmother used to be an immense woman who enjoyed cooking and food more than anyone I ever knew. Times were hitting her hard, however, and she had to sacrifice her love a little bit in order to support me. She was now merely rather plump, and her hands that looked so round and healthy in old pictures were now getting scrawny and arthritis-ridden. As a result, she would have to stop frequently to rub her hands or soak them in warm water, to soothe the ache.

She was warming her hands when I came in, in a pot of water on the stove. The hot water must have been out again. I tugged her skirts. "Grams, you started without me!"

Grams looked down at me and smiled with as much warmth as the house had. She pulled her hands out of the water and dried them. "Sorry, Zeffie. The roast takes several hours and I didn't want to interrupt your play with the other kids."

I huffed indignantly. "The other kids don't matter. I want to cook. You promised!"

She laughed. "I'm sorry I broke my promise, Little Eggplant. But you shouldn't dismiss the other children; you need companionship. You need a childhood like everyone else."

"I don't wanna childhood! I don't need companionship!" I continued in my childish, inconsolable fit and twisted my lips. My hands tucked under my arms when I crossed them.

Grams didn't seem at all perturbed, still smiling and now turning her attention to the counter top. "Friends are very important, Zeffie. Even the people that seem most independent have had nakama through their lives. It's important to be strong and reliable, but your strength isn't only for yourself."

I frowned, feeling like I was ignored. That was erased immediately when she turned back to me and said, "Why don't you cut these vegetables for me?"

I smiled and excitedly pulled my stool out beside her and climbed it. She gently pushed the cutting board and vegetables over to me, and I picked up the knife confidently and began to chop away. Most kids my age would have cut themselves or started playing with the knife, but I knew better. I knew better because Grams was careful to teach me how to use a knife properly, and how to treat it with respect.

I was halfway through cutting the first leek before I noticed it was slim, cylindrical, and over all a very nice quality. Grams had been teaching me how to pick out good ingredients, but I frequently noted that we couldn't afford the best things, so one had to be even more careful choosing. However, this was an expensive leek, and it was in very good quality. Grams was watching my amazement through the corner of her twinkling eye as she tended to the pot. I continued to cut up the vegetables, noticing that each and every one were superb varieties, most of them rarely found or grown in the area, and all perfect in freshness and ripeness.

When I was done, she bid me over to her and asked me to put the vegetables in the pot. As she opened the lid for me to drop the vegetables in, the steam burst into my face, carrying the roast's aroma. The scent of bay leaves, rosemary, and some spices I've never smelled before hit me the hardest. I was so stunned that I almost forgot to drop in the vegetables. Where did she get these ingredients? The place she worked kitchen wasn't that fancy, and even if it was, they'd never let her bring any home!

She read my thoughts. "There was a trader that came into port today that's a good friend of mine. He gave me these ingredients for cheap, you see. Wonderful ingredients. You can't get these sorts of things here; you can only get them close to the Calm Belt."

I was marveling at this aroma for a while before I realized she hadn't replaced the pot lid. I looked to see she was already soaking her hands in water again. So I replaced the lid myself and climbed down the stool, scooting it back to where it belonged.

"Grams," I said, wiping away what I had decided was steam that got in my eyes, "Let me get the roast out and cut it and serve it when it's done. I can get it for you!" That might have been the first thing I ever said that I truly meant down to my core.

She looked down at me and smiled. She looked more jovial than usual, and she was already always the optimistic sort of old bird. I think the expensive ingredients raised her cheeks a bit. No, that's not right. I think being able to use those ingredients with me was what made her happy. "All right, Zeffie. Thank you."

I did as I said, and then I cleaned the dishes and the stove afterwards. At the time, I thought I was just showing her that I could do things on my own, that I was strong and independent. In truth, I know now, I just wanted to help her and comfort her, and let her know that she could count on me.

.-.-.

I heard so many stories about All Blue as I grew up, and more than half of these stories were from my grandmother. Perhaps she simply thought this sort of fairy tale would be able to satisfy a boy like I was, playfully filling my head with childish wonder. Perhaps she didn't believe a word that she herself said of it, and hid her real thoughts about it to further encourage my own imagination. I doubt that, but I'll never be sure.

But her eye twinkled when she told me those stories, when she told me that no one knows where the place is. My head filled with possibilities. The All Blue! Where could it be? I wanted to find out. So early on, the dream was etched into my heart: to find the All Blue. It would be a monumental discovery! Imagine… North Blue Black Cod in a buttery, lemony East Blue Hard Crab sauce topped with some roe from the South Blue Sea Salmon. Just thinking about all the dishes (even when I was a stupid child and didn't yet know proper composition) that would be possible made my mouth water.

Other kids, of course, didn't understand. I mostly didn't get along with other kids, outside of Gauzi, who lived by the pier. He was excitable and hyper and probably the only other child that could keep up with me and my brutishness. He didn't believe there was an All Blue, either, and I don't think he really cared, but he did share with me a love of food—even if his love was more of the eating side than the cooking. He wasn't plump, though; since he was so active, it became all fuel, and he was growing into his fisherman father's broad shoulders. Most of the other kids thought he was older just because he was so big for his age, and a lot of them were terrified of him. I was the only one that wasn't, so I guess our friendship came about because we we're the only kids the other could get along with.

The day following when Grams brought in those fresh, exotic ingredients, I had been daydreaming while I wandered near the pier. I had nothing better to do, and today Grams had to stay late in the restaurant to work, so I couldn't go home yet. I was deep embedded in imagining what West Blue bay scallops might taste like when I felt Gauzi's large, heavy hand slam down on my back.

"Zeff! What'cha doin' just hanging around here? Kids aren't s'posed to hang near the docks at night alone!" He laughed. I started laughing too.

"Your dad's out late to fish again?"

"Yep. Donno when he's comin' in this time. He's been goin' out a lot lately, even though it's so cold. He wears lots of warm, dark clothing, though."

"Yeah, I heard clothing's warmer if its dark. I can't go home for a few hours yet 'cuz Grams is working."

"Really? Maybe we can drop by the restaurant and have her sneak us some scraps!"

Normally I wouldn't listen to Gauzi's suggestions; I was the one to think up something to do since I was the smarter of the two of us. But this seemed like a good enough idea since this was the weekend and they were probably going to have leftovers anyway. We rushed downtown.

The kitchen clattered so much, filled with sizzling and yelling and clanging pots to the point that it was almost too much for my ears, but it made for good cover for sneaking in from the backdoor without anyone noticing. We probably could have gone in and out without problem as long as we weren't directly underfoot, but we always acted like we had to be sneaky and would hush each other as we lurked about the cabinets and stoves and sinks. It's still like looking through a forest of legs when you're that age. We searched for a good fifteen minutes before we saw her one long, gray braid moving stiffly across her back with every movement of her head. We dodged behind the counters and moved up.

Our legs stretched up and we peered over the top of the table my grandmother was mixing up ingredients on, looking across it at her. She started when we did, but she smiled at us and continued mixing. "And what is it that you boys are here for? Leftovers again?"

Our grins went wide and we nodded.

With a laugh and her eyes crinkled up in her smile, she turned away over to a different table, transferred some items from returned plates into a couple of bags, and came back. "New buttery cheese bread sticks with garlic, and I put some chocolate treats in the other bag. Don't eat all of it; give some to your father, Gauzi!"

Gauzi nodded, still smiling. "Yes, ma'am!"

"And what do we say?"

"Thank you!" we both chimed in unison before she waved us away in a playful shooing motion. We scrambled out of the kitchen and ran back to the pier.

We ate the bread and the small chocolate cake-like treats quickly and set aside a portion in Gauzi's house before we went to play. The evening dipped in pretty dark before we realized how late it was, so we ran back to his house first so that his father wouldn't yell at him. We hoped that maybe the treat would have calmed him enough that we wouldn't be too badly scolded.

The food hadn't been touched since we left. It was still so late and his father hadn't even come in yet. Gauzi looked confused and worried.

"I'm sure your dad's just working late again."

"I guess," he mumbled. He didn't appear consoled. I wasn't sure what else I could say, so I said goodnight and ran back home. Grams might have been a bit miffed about me coming home late and walking through the piers at night alone, but any memory of her berating me then doesn't come to mind. I only remember that I was worried for Gauzi.