CHAPTER TWO

Town Center of Fisherman 9, the artificial island in the center of All Blue

A few weeks later

For one day every year, the entire world slipped into celebration, and Fisherman 9 was no exception. On that day, the local eateries closed their doors so they could host food stalls in the town center, where an elaborate festival was held.

The festival celebrated the disbanding of the world government. Really, there had been a more momentous date that had probably marked its true end; but those details would likely be lost to history, and the only thing that mattered was that the frayed threads of the government were too weakened to keep it woven together anymore. Thus, with nothing but a few whimpers of defeat from the world leaders, it had fallen.

When it was announced to world, there had been some trepidation at first; but as the years past, the revelries had increased, and now it was a holiday of sorts.

Today marked the nineteenth year.

To Sanji, the festival was utterly loathsome. The annual reminder made his mind wander to dreadful events; a cruel memento that chipped away at him. But no matter how he felt about the celebration, it was futile to resist it. He was not only a chef, but a proprietor, and he had to take responsibility by having his restaurant participate as well. Besides, the festival drew in more visitors in one day than he usually saw in a month. If his restaurant didn't participate, he would only be cutting off his nose to spite his face.

Not to mention that Fisherman 9 was becoming world-renowned for its cuisine. It wasn't only the Trois Bleu—numerous other establishments also boasted having the finest cuisine, including restaurants from the other islands in All Blue that only came into town for the night of the festival. With all the competition, Sanji had to participate and show them all that his restaurant and his chefs were the best.

The pace had been non-stop for more of the night. Mouston and Planchet cooked furiously, as Sanji and Kitty struggled to take in the orders. Even though they were more accustomed to the fine-dining style of service, the four worked like a well-oiled machine as they kept up with customer demand at the food stall. By the time the dinner rush was over and the customers in need of food started to thin out, they were all exhausted.

"I still can't believe we're this close to the main stage," Planchet remarked, tiredly collapsing on a cooler as he beckoned in the direction of the nearby stage, where several young men were currently performing. "Even if we're too busy to pay much attention, the music's a nice change of pace."

Sanji nodded, rolling up his sleeves. "I told you I got us a good spot," he said with a tired smile. He glanced toward the stage, noticing that more and more people were flocking toward it—for the next act, no doubt.

"Yeah, and we got a lot of customers for it, too!" Kitty chimed in.

"Ah, we did indeed," Sanji agreed, as he warily eyed a group of shady-looking men, who stood out even among the mass of people headed toward the stage. Although they weren't doing anything wrong, Sanji intuitively sensed they would be trouble.

"Tch, we would have gotten that many customers no matter where we were. After all, we're serving the best food here," Mouston declared proudly. "But I agree, it's a nice location."

"Well, at this time of night, that should have been the last of the big waves. We should probably prepare to close down soon," Sanji commented, noticing that a few of the stalls along the road were already beginning to pack up. "Mouston, Kitty-san, you two keep handling the customers. Planchet, let's start cleaning up and packing what we can."

"Yes, boss!" the three chimed in unison.

As he cleaned, Sanji couldn't help but steal glances over at the stage. The music, which had temporarily been halted as they cleared the stage for the next act, had just started up again. And this act was his personal favorite each year—energetic music, accompanied by beautiful dancing girls.

Ah, the lovely choreography of the dancing girls. It seemed there were more and more of them each year. In his younger days, he would have swooned over them all night, trying to make contact whenever he could, unable to hold himself back while he was near them.

But, time changed all things, and even his lovesick nature was not immune. Now he simply watched from afar, as they sensually shook hips and swayed curvaceous, elegant bodies, beautifully swinging to the thunderous cadence. It didn't give him the same kind of unbearable delight it used to, but it was still a pleasant sight.

And then, toward the back of the mass around the stage, a cluster of people suddenly began to flee. There was only one thing it could be; Sanji sighed heavily as he caught the telltale tones of the sound of a scuffle breaking out.

"Get your hands off of them!" he heard a young man shout. A moment later, three large men appeared at the edge of the crowd, punching, shoving and kicking, and making their way toward the direction of the grill where Mouston was still cooking.

They were fighting, however shitty of a fight it was; so bad, in fact, Sanji could not quite tell who was fighting whom. At any rate, it didn't really matter... until one of the men shoved the other two toward the grill. Their bodies slammed into it with a loud boom, and the grill started to topple over.

Sanji was already starting to react, but before he could make a move, his crew was already in position. Mouston caught the edge of the grill, quickly shoving it back to its upright position before it had a chance to topple over completely. Simultaneously, Planchet leapt toward the grill edge, clutching two plates, and caught the steaming pieces of fish and meat before they fell to the ground.

"Good work, men," Sanji called out, smirking slightly as he crossed his arms. "I wouldn't expect anything less of my cooks. But Planchet, you better pick up the pace—I saw you almost drop the last piece."

"Ah, you noticed, huh?" Planchet said sheepishly. "Well, don't worry, it won't happen again!"

"Now, to deal with this..." Sanji muttered, turning back toward the fighting men. Now there were more of them who had joined the affray, including some of the young punks that he had observed earlier—he knew he had a bad feeling about them.

Fisherman 9 was normally a relatively peaceful place, but the festival always brought in these kinds of elements. Yet another reason for him to despise it...

The music dropped, and the beat started to thump a bit harder; Sanji sprang into action, kicking a large, bulky man to the side just as he was about to slam into an innocent passerby. Noting the bulky man was unconscious, the chef took another annoyed step toward the direction of the rest of the pandemonium. It was hard to tell just how many people were involved at this point, but anyone who looked like they were contributing to this ridiculous disturbance was fair game to him, as far as he was concerned.

"You shitty young kids, always starting this kind of shit, year after year," Sanji called out with irritation. He shoved his hands into his pockets, heaving a sigh.

And then, he was upon them, showing them the reason he was once known as Black Leg.

One, two, three went down in an instant. "Oi!" he shouted loudly, trying to get their attention, a dark expression in his eyes. "I'm warning you to knock it off, shitty punks. If you don't, I'm prepared to take all of you down."

He paused for a moment, crossing his arms as he quietly scanned the group. Apparently no one had paid any attention to him, nor had they noticed their fallen comrades; the clash raged on, with not a single man backing off.

"Tch, have it your way," he sighed, returning his hands to his pockets. He thought he saw a flash of black in the periphery of his vision, but he didn't have time to confirm what he had actually seen, as two men, arms angrily locked in battle, nearly rammed into the food stall across from his own. Sanji leapt toward them and aimed his kick to shoot them back toward the rest of the melee. With satisfaction, Sanji noted that their flying bodies also knocked down a third man.

"Too easy," he muttered. Then he heard a scuffle behind him, and turned to attack, leg raised. But to his surprise, two tough-looking men were already laying on the ground, and instead of connecting with flesh, the sole of his shoe connected with the cold steel of a blade.

The sensation momentarily stunned him—not because it was particularly physically jarring, but rather due to the assault of nostalgia on his brain. His shoe, being stopped dead in its tracks by a sword so stubbornly held in place. Very few men had been able to successfully block him in that way.

For a moment, the booming music that had been deafeningly loud just moments before suddenly seemed muted to his ears, as he took in the man who had so obstinately and thoroughly stopped him.

The man was enshrouded in shadows, so it was hard to make out his features. In fact, all he could tell was that the man appeared to be clad entirely in black, with some kind of large hat or hood over his head. From his attire to the might behind his presence, nothing about him resembled the rest of the delinquents involved in the scuffle. The man stared in the cook's direction for an excruciatingly long moment, sword still held firmly in place even after Sanji had pulled his leg away.

He couldn't see his eyes—couldn't see anything but his mouth, in fact—but the blatant stare was making him uncomfortable. Sanji started to resume his attack, but suddenly the man re-sheathed his sword. "Oi, I'm not one of these kids," he called out. His voice was low and coarse, and his tone sounded a bit rude.

Then, before Sanji could respond, the man drew his sword again, diving back in toward the commotion. Sanji watched him for a moment, entranced as the man in black used the flat end of the blade to immobilize several of the brawling men in mere moments. As the light hit him better, Sanji realized who he was looking at; this was a very famous man in front of him.

The most telltale sign was a bulky headdress made out of black feathers covering most of his head and the back of his neck—not a hat, like Sanji had first suspected. While the ridiculous ornament would have probably kept the man's eyes sufficiently hidden, he also kept all of his face covered with what looked like some kind of cloth mask, which only had a single opening exposing his mouth and the nostrils of his nose. Other than that, none of his facial features could be discerned.

On his body, he wore a black cloak with long, flowing sleeves that his hands seemed to disappear underneath. But as the man's katana zinged through the air at an incredible speed, Sanji noticed that even the hand clutching a sword was encased in a black glove. Beneath the cloak, Sanji caught a glimpse of the scabbard of a second sword peeking out from underneath; a nitouryuu user.

This man was, undoubtedly, the swordsman Isshin. He was the man who had defeated Hawk-Eyes Mihawk...

The man who had recently been bestowed the title world's strongest swordsman.

But he didn't have time to stare for long; Sanji had to turn his attention back to the fight. He knocked out a few more of the young men, all the while stealing glances at the man in black near him, who was systematically knocking out the rest of the unruly men with the flat end of a single blade. The music pounded in Sanji's ears, and the sound of the bass felt like it was emphasizing each pump of his rapidly beating heart.

Finally, the remainder of the men fighting had either been knocked out or fled. Then the song ended, and the music switched to a slightly slower tune. Sanji adjusted his collar uncomfortably; for some reason, the tune was unpleasantly foreboding.

The swordsman Isshin had already started to walk away. Impulsively, Sanji rushed toward him, grabbing him by his shoulder just as he passed in front of the food stall for the Trois Bleu.

The man in black whirled around, regarding Sanji for a long moment.

"Oi, I know you," Sanji said.

The only part of the other man's face he could see was his jaw, which visibly clenched when Sanji spoke. The man in black yanked his arm away from Sanji's grasp, a bit forcefully. "The hell are you talking about," he murmured with irritation, taking a step back.

Sanji's mouth opened slightly in surprise—although it was barely audible over the music, again, Sanji noticed his voice was unexpectedly low and gruff. Then he realized that he had blurted something strange.

"Ah, I meant I've seen you in the papers," the chef explained.

The clenched jaw relaxed slightly. "Hah, what about it?" he asked, a bit derisively.

What the hell, Sanji thought, as he felt the hair on the back of his neck raise in irritation. It was an unexpected and unpleasant sensation; he seldom let himself feel such a poignant emotion toward anyone these days.

The bass pumped louder; to Sanji, it seemed to resonate almost painfully in his chest.

"I'll be going then," the swordsman Isshin said roughly, turning his back toward him.

"Oi, hold on a second."

"What?" he asked, turning his head just enough so Sanji could see that grim mouth again.

Sanji turned his head toward the food stall. "Oi, Kitty-chan, bring me an order of the gigot de lotte."

"Yes, boss," she called out.

"What are you doing?" Isshin asked, turning slightly more toward Sanji.

Kitty quickly approached them, a bag in her hands. "Here you are, boss, the gigot de lotte." She glanced up at the man in black and squeaked in surprise, a look of recognition and fear in her eyes. "Boss, isn't this..."

Ignoring her, Sanji grabbed the bag from her hands and held it out toward Isshin. "As thanks for helping us deal with those shitty men."

"Tch, I don't want it," he grumbled. "Besides, I wasn't doing it for your sake."

"I don't care what your reason was," Sanji replied peevishly, taking a step closer, practically shoving the bag toward the other man's chest. "But it helped me out, so I'm offering you a meal. Just take the damn thing."

Jaw clenched once again, the man in black reluctantly reached out and grabbed it. "Fine, then," he said, turning on his heel and walking away before Sanji could say another word.

"Wow, was that really him? The swordsman Isshin?" Planchet called out as soon as the man in black had disappeared, running up to Sanji and Kitty.

Sanji nodded affirmatively. "Ah, had to be."

"What's he like? Was he strong?"

"It's hard to say, since he was just taking out a bunch of shitty delinquents," Sanji said thoughtfully. Then he thought about the feeling of the sword beneath his shoe again. Granted, it wasn't his most powerful kick, but the bottom of his foot still tingled a little bit from the impact.

The chef frowned slightly. "I can tell you he has a shitty personality, though."

Sanji's home

A few hours later

After the festival was over, Sanji stood in his kitchen, tiredly pouring himself a glass of bourbon. Normally, he preferred to stick to wine, but he felt like he wanted something a little bit stiffer tonight.

He opened the back door that led to his patio, glass in hand, and took a seat in one of the chairs outside. His house was located just a short walk from his restaurant, at the edge of Fisherman 9, so he had a perfect view of the sea, and it was one of his more favorable places to pass the time. Whether he was feeling content or troubled, it was peaceful.

Not that there were many days he could say he felt content, he realized wryly.

The cook was annoyed that he felt unsettled; the swordsman Isshin was no one to him, and it was just by chance that he happened to be at the festival tonight, but for some inexplicable reason, his very presence deeply disturbed him.

He finished the glass of bourbon, followed by a second and a third, and by the end of it, his mind had definitely shifted down a lane of his memories that he preferred to keep enshrouded in darkness. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the sea, wishing he didn't recall the wretched details of the past quite so vividly.

Thousand Sunny

Two days before Zoro's death—over twenty years ago

A raucous cough seized Sanji's body. He leaned back against the wall, hand over his mouth, trying to mute the obnoxious sound. His still-burning cigarette dangled loosely in his other hand.

Although the cook didn't hear the approaching footsteps, he could feel Zoro's burning stare, laced with irritation and judgment. The swordsman stopped a couple of feet away from him. As Sanji glanced at him, eyes watering, he noticed the other man cross his arms, frowning deeply.

"You should listen to Chopper," Zoro said lowly.

"The hell are you talking about?" Sanji asked when he finished coughing, glaring at Zoro as he put his cigarette back into his mouth.

Zoro looked away, a disgusted scowl on his face. "You're a dumbass if you need to ask that."

"How am I a dumbass for not being able to read your mind, shitty swordsman?"

His brow twitching in irritation, Zoro took a stormy step forward and snatched the cigarette from between his lips. "This, you stupid ero-cook."

"Oi, what's your problem, marimo?" Sanji protested angrily, grabbing Zoro's arm. He irritably grabbed the cigarette back, taking a quick drag, despite the fact that he was barely over his coughing fit.

Zoro's vehement stare was more than unsettling.

"Seriously, what the hell?" Sanji asked again, taking a peevish drag.

Suddenly, the swordsman turned his back to him and stormed away. "I'm talking about when Chopper told you to stop smoking, dumbass," he called back over his shoulder, drawing out the word dumbass in a way that made the vein in Sanji's forehead throb. "What was that, half a year ago? And look at you now, coughing like a damned old man."

Trois Bleu

Two days after the festival

Sanji didn't find himself asking for a lot in his life nowadays, but then, he didn't expect a lot in return either.

Each and every day was bleak and utterly without anything worth mentioning. Each day just like the one before—humdrum and unsatisfying. Why, the only reason he closed the restaurant one day of the week was to break up the monotony.

The easy excuse was to say it was to give the staff a day of rest—but really, he could easily hire one or two more people and rotate their shifts, and then Trois Bleu could be open all the time. There was no grand reason he couldn't be there everyday. He was only in his forties; he probably still had a dishearteningly long lifespan in front of him.

But the truth was that he used to stay open all the time, and the endless days all seemed to roll together. Even on the nights he could fall asleep, the respite was hardly enough of a bookmark to separate the span between days.

The abysmally long rest-of-his-life continued on in an infinite haze, tinged with grey tones and fog, and it was devoid of any colors of joy to paint it into something that wasn't completely insufferable.

Sometimes there were events that seems to puncture through the blanket of monotony that utterly consumed the portrait of his existence, but those events were fleeting, and usually brimming with agony.

Things that made him feel anything—fear, anger, satisfaction—blinked in and out of his existence almost faster than he could notice. And then he had returned to his state of nothingness and detachment—back to the monotony of his flat-lining life.

Recalling what had transpired at the festival a couple of nights ago, Sanji realized he had experienced such a moment, when he had accidentally met a man he never actually expected to see. (Who he probably never wanted to see, deep down, but he wasn't able to be quite that honest with himself about it.) Although it fleetingly tinged his world with a trace of color, however, by the next morning, it was back to that same tedium. Surely, such a moment would not happen again for quite some time. It was best that way, even if it was ineffably dreary.

And then suddenly, the man who had recently been dubbed the new strongest swordsman was inside of his restaurant, one hand casually resting on the hilt of a sword as he waited to be seated.

Sanji swallowed hard as he held out a hand in front of Kitty, who had been hesitantly stepping forward to greet the customer.

"It's alright, I'll handle this one," Sanji said to her.

Confidently, he strolled toward Isshin, putting on his best proprietor's smile. He was already prepared for him to be difficult, if their brief conversation the other night had been any indication. Still, he wondered why his heart seemed to thunder in his chest as he approached him.

"Welcome to Trois Bleu," he greeted, elegantly outstretching his arm toward the back corner of the restaurant. "Please allow me to show you to your seat."

Isshin stared at him for an awkwardly long moment; or at least, Sanji thought he was staring at him, and it sure as hell felt awkward to him. It was hard to tell where the other man's eyes were focused, since Sanji couldn't see anything beyond the black mask and shadows from the ridiculous, feathered headdress.

Finally, Isshin nodded, and allowed himself to be guided to the table.

"I'm surprised to see you here. I take it you enjoyed the food?" Sanji asked.

"I'm here, aren't I?" the man in black replied crossly, taking a seat.

Sanji opened his mouth to say something else, but he realized small talk wouldn't get him far with such an ornery customer.

Still, as much as the swordsman Isshin was grating on his every nerve, he felt an intrigue that made him want to find out more. He took care of all of his needs, and didn't give his waitress the opportunity to visit the table even once.

Isshin ordered sake to drink and chose his meal based on Sanji's recommendation, hardly giving the menu more than a thumb-through. At the end of the meal, when Sanji asked the man in black if he enjoyed the food, he simply nodded in affirmation. Then he paid his check and left, uneventfully and without so much as a word.

For the rest of the night, Sanji felt utterly restless inside. Yet no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't think of a single reason for his inexplicable uneasiness.

A/N: A piece of obscure One Piece trivia that I thought I'd mention... The name of the dojo owned by Koshiro, Kuina's father, is the Isshin dojo.