In the galley of the Baba Novak, Admiral Negura studiously avoided eye contact with the old man seated at the table across from where she was peeling boiled potatoes. A pot bubbled away on the stove, spreading an enticing smell, and a batch of pumpkin cupcakes were cooling well out of Garp's reach.

He studied her with far more attention she had ever given him credit for. She knew for a fact that he had interrogated every doctor that had had a hand in her treatment (but not the nurses. Not even Garp the Fist could intimidate the perpetually-smiling demons in white), had ransacked her rooms, made a list everything even remotely medicine-like which Trafalgar Law had been forced to explain and had even gotten hold of Mr. Christian's DenDenMushi – how the fuck did that happen? Chris must be losing his touch, she decided. And then there had been the monster row with Kuzan. She could feel her blood pressure rising at the mere thought of it. Trust Garp to make an abusive relationship out of a booze-fueled one night stand from 15 years ago.

The potatoes peeled and sliced, she grabbed the large onion and a larger knife and began chopping it slowly – she had never mastered the art of speed-chopping. Her eyes started to sting and she wiped at them with her sleeve. She blinked fast and fanned her face.

"You alright?"

"Yes. It's the onion."

She sniffled. Now her nose was running, and her eyes stung worse than ever. She stopped and scrunched them shut, breathing deeply. She could feel Garp hovering about, concern twisting his features. He shouldn't have that look on his face, he should be laughing, having fun, and stop worrying about her sorry self. He had done so much already – late night training sessions when unwarranted dark thoughts wouldn't let her sleep, countless repetitions of the same move that was executed progressively worse, covering for her when she couldn't leave her bed for days at a time for no physical reason… she wiped viciously at her eyes and stepped away from the onion. She had done a pitiful job. The bits were horribly uneven. They would send any self-respecting cook into fits of hysteria. Oh well. She put the frying pan on the stove and threw in some cumin seeds. She added the onions and stirred slowly. "Get me that pack of curry powder, will you?"

The bright orange pack was dutifully place on the work surface next to the stove. "And the Garam Masala. The little glass jar." Again, it appeared at her elbow. She seasoned the onion and added the boiled potatoes. She swore when an overenthusiastic turn of the wooden spoon sent orange potatoes scattering over the gleaming stove. She gathered them hastily and threw them in the pot containing the potato peels. "Chilli powder," she said. Again, the blurred movement but this time she was ready. Her hand shot out and grabbed a firm hold of his wrist. "You didn't steal anything." Indeed, all the cupcakes, which would normally be a target for the ever-hungry man, were untouched. "I know it's hard to act normal after… after the latest incident. But I won't break. Don't worry." She couldn't see his eyes. His fists clenched.

"That's what you said last time."

"I know." Tears were welling in her eyes. "I don't mean to do it, Garp. I don't want to be this way. I just can't help it. It's my brain. It's all wrong."

I'm all wrong.

She turned off the stove and took the lid of the stew pot. "Ok," she said with shuddering sigh. "Grab a plate." But he didn't move; instead, he wrapped his thick arms around her so tightly her lungs were hard-pressed to supply her with the needed oxygen. He placed his chin on her head and said nothing. She had no answer to that.

Kuzan looked up expressionlessly as a figure in white dropped from the sky and a gloved fist smashed through the seastone cuffs. Boulders were flying overhead and the figure – he was pretty sure it had been a woman – had left already, punching her way towards the cult leader. He winced as Garp the Fist followed in her wake. No amount of chanting and mind-control could save him now. He moved his hands weakly and the cuffs crumbled away. He pulled himself up slowly. No need to rush and interrupt the fun of either Garp or his gaggle of mini-Garps, currently busy breaking bones and shattering skulls with bare hands. Sure, they had their regulation swords and daggers, but nobody bothered to actually use them. "Hey, what's this?" One of them had found the cult leader's scrolls. "Let me see." The boy moved aside and a girl, apparently the smarter of the bunch, bent over the fragile artifacts. Kuzan decided it was time to start moving. He cleared his throat. "Be careful with… Damn." Smarter, but not by much. She had grabbed them and they had crumpled to dust; not only that, but a convenient gust of wind swept the remains all over the cavern. "Ooopsie," she said. "Were they important?" "Don't worry about it, girl. You go see to Todd, one o' the bastards got lucky. I'll take care o' the frosty twerp." The girl smirked in Kuzan's direction before jumping over the altar and heading towards a boy who was leaning against a wall looking rather green. "Now we'll never know," the ice user muttered. "Wha? That poneglyph business again?" "That strictly secret business, Vice Admiral," Kuzan answered tartly. The old man burst out laughing. "If you say so." Kuzan pressed his lips into a tight line. He could feel the girl's eyes on him, even through the stone of the altar. He kicked a small statue of a monstrous octopus man with gusto; it flew away but didn't shatter. It lay in the dust, watching him evilly with its black stone eyes.

Garp finally relinquished his hold on her when footsteps approached the galley. The door burst open and Adreen stormed in in a dark mood, plopping down in a chair and demanding a large number of calories. Garp sat next to her. "What happened?" "That fucking idiot! All about his idiotic New Era and New World this, New World that, and not stopping once to think that it's his duty – his god-damned duty! to ensure the safety of the people in the Four Blues! And…"

"Aren't you overreacting? He wouldn't let the people without defense."

"As good as! No, something has to be done! Ever heard of Valentine?"

"A pirate?"

"Yes, a pirate. Valentine, the Grey Wolf, basically owns West Blue."

"Never heard o'him," Garp interjected in-between mouthfuls.

"It's a her."

"A 'she'. The correct phasing is 'it's a she'".

"Whatever. Question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"I think we should wait. Maybe she'll come to the Grand Line, like every other pirate who's worth something."

"She's worth something, all right. 150 mil."

Negura shrugged. "Not bad, I guess. Well, we should go see what Sakazuki has to say about it. But not before dessert."

While her cousin and her mentor tucked into the stew and fries, the Admiral carefully unwrapped the paper of a cupcake, tore a piece and popped it into her mouth, deep in thought. The Grey Wolf. She smiled slightly - that kind of strange quirk of a corner of her puckered lips that sent enemies and subordinates scurrying like rats on a sinking ship.

Cthulhu, I think, is like the color beige. Goes with anything. Also, Baba Novak was a famous general a long, long time ago.