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One Piece Re-Read Volume 6 Writing
Title: Disaster Days
Rating: G
Pairing: None/Gen
Word Count: 3085
The preceding ten days had been the worst of Gin’s life. It had all started so well, too, but as the saying went, ‘ignorance is bliss.’ If they’d known what awaited them, if there had been an inkling of the true terror…they would have gone anyways because Don Krieg was determined but at least they might have been more careful and wary. East Blue had been so easy, so kind. It wasn’t the richest of the Blues but there was plunder to be had, limited competition, and the Navy was weak and mostly kept to themselves as long as one didn’t bother the key hotspots like Logue Town. With an armada of fifty ships and under the harsh discipline that Krieg commanded, his fleet had dominated the local seas until there wasn’t a challenge left nor a treasure large enough to satisfy. The logical next step was the Grand Line and, ultimately, the biggest prize of them all in the form of the One Piece.
It had been quite the view, watching as the armada shot in single file up Reverse Mountain. Gin had been near the end, commander of one of Krieg’s smaller, swifter ships that could dart out from the behind the shadows of the larger vessels to chase down, harass, and capture targets with the kind of maneuverability the flagship and the other galleons lacked. The crisp air above the clouds had burned in his lungs but gave him a sense of vigor and he’d nearly climbed to the crow’s nest himself to get the earliest possible glimpse of the Grand Line and their future. It had been with supreme confidence that the fleet, once all the ships were across, had set out in the most obvious direction, heading straight away from the rocky cliffs of the Red Line.
It had taken, Gin guessed, about an hour before their journey transformed from a triumphant jaunt into pandemonium. The obscene weather had wrecked havoc, gale-force winds splitting the fleet before blizzards, extreme heat, and immense hailstones scattered the ships even further. Gin had watched with his own eyes, as he shouted to the men to wrestle down the sails or pull harder at the oars, as two of the larger boats in the armada had collided, a smaller ship smashed between them while piercing gaping holes in the hulls. It felt like all three had gone down in the space between two heartbeats and, in the chaos, he’d only managed to rescue three from the churning wreckage.
Somehow about thirty of the vessels had survived this initial hellish baptism, all of them straggling in a ragged line towards an island at the end of that first day. Even Krieg’s flagship had lost some of its luster; the steel plating was pitted from the hail and wrenched out of shape from the wind while the mainsail was ripped and large sections of the rigging needed to be replaced. As for the island, it had seemed innocent enough. There had been no sign of any inhabitants as the remains of the armada had dropped anchor in a natural bay. A forest of pine trees grew as far as Gin could see, stretching along the coastline and into the interior in a dense swath of dark green. The smell was pleasant there, even if the view was boring, and after a brief check for dangers, Krieg had all of his commanders report on damages and made his decisions.
They spent the next three days at anchor, decimating seven of their ships for parts to repair the remainder and parceling out the crew. His own ship had been in relatively good shape, and they’d been sent out to scout the island’s perimeter, finding nothing more than a small river to the east that might serve to resupply fresh water. Indeed, that was important for the somewhat more lumbering auxiliary vessels that held their reserves had all been sunk or lost in the storms. Each ship had its own food and water and munitions, of course, but the auxiliaries were what made it possible for the armada to function at length and without them, everyone had to tighten their belts. It didn’t help matters, Krieg’s temper, or the superstitious mutterings when, just before dawn of the fifth day on the Grand Line, six more ships erupted into massive balls of flame. All had been lost, along with most of the hands, and there wasn’t a cause or a clue to be found in the flurried investigation Krieg demanded.
By nine that morning, the seventeen remaining ships had set sail with nearly every man aboard wary and keeping a close watch on the sea and firm grips on their weapons. They sailed without incident for the better part of the day, even fishing to help replenish diminished stores, until the dense fog rolled in. Somehow the fleet stuck together through the thick banks of white but what awaited them at sunset made the mutterings worse for it was the pine-covered island. The proof was in the scuttled and burned wreckage in the bay, and even Gin had started to think their voyage was cursed. But Don Krieg was stubborn and willful and his trigger finger had grown quite itchy, so his fleet kept sailing under the faint light of the moon without protest. Gin didn’t sleep, staying up at the helm and only going below deck at dawn for a few restless hours of shuteye. The sixth day was calm again, a slight drizzle making the atmosphere damp and gray but mostly harmless. The fish weren’t biting, though, and it was down to half-rations at dinner. They anchored, lashing the fleet together, and Gin finally felt almost normal again. Things looked rough, but Don Krieg was smart and capable and they would find themselves marks soon enough.
Three hours into day seven and the pine trees were back. Don Krieg’s shouting was audible even to Gin on one of the outskirt vessels. The captain had the flagship and the other four remaining galleons open fire on the coastline and no one complained. Three times the volleys went out, screaming through the air and then erupting on the land. It was cathartic, the display of power, and it banished some of the fears that had grown in the face of all the Grand Line’s mysteries. Splinters and pine needles rained down and carpeted the bay in green, the smell of resin so sharp in the air it was almost painful to breathe. As the smoke cleared, there didn’t appear to be anything to see; there were just jagged stumps and more pine trees beyond. And that was when it happened.
One minute the ship had been whole and sturdy beneath his feet and in the next it had been cut in twain. Gin hadn’t heard or felt it happening. He just knew that suddenly the mast was collapsing and his crewmates were shouting and then the boat itself was splitting apart and spilling them all into the sea. By some miracle the lone lifeboat was still intact, and Gin managed to get in and cut the ropes still tying it to the sinking ship before it, too, was dragged under. Then all he could do was gape and fear for his life as the fleet was decimated. Ship after ship was cleaved even as the weather deteriorated so much that he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t even be sure which way was up as he was seasick for the first time in his life. All he could remember was the dim vision of a man, a crazy single figure who stood solid amidst the maelstrom. He had eyes that seemed to pierce Gin’s soul, and everywhere that man turned to look, another ship was sent to the bottom. The waves grew impossibly high and the wind whipped so violently that finally he couldn’t even lift his head. Gin lay in the bottom of the lifeboat and prayed for his life before his consciousness slipped away.
The sun beating down finally brought him back, along with the shouting. Gin’s lifeboat was bobbing in a sea of ruin, shards of ships and bloated bodies and the remnants of a once-mighty armada all around him. The only thing he saw that wasn’t completely destroyed besides his own tiny craft was Krieg’s flagship. It was resting low in the water and had lost almost all its armor and sails, but it was still mostly in one piece. He could see men moving slowly on deck, so Gin fished out a passing piece of board and paddled slowly in to report.
Don Krieg was sitting silently in the shadows, a blank expression on his face, and it was only as Gin finished haltingly explaining what he’d seen, how he’d survived, that another crewman ran up with the sea charts to report. Somehow they were back in East Blue, although how that had happened was an utter mystery as everyone had blacked out during the destruction. From fifty ships and five thousand men, the mighty armada had been reduced to the mess of the flagship and one hundred and two people. The numbers were horrific, and Gin choked back his grief as he thought of all the shipmates he had lost. Worse, there was no food, no water, and with the sails so ruined there was little chance of quickly making it to a port to get supplies. Don Krieg had stood, finally, and looked at what was left. His armor still gleamed but his posture was bowed and his voice, when he gave his command to Gin, was little more than a whisper.
The rowboat had been fitted with a mast and a sail hastily assembled from one of the remains on the flagship. He set out with orders to find help, any help, and return. The knowledge that the entirety of the remaining crew was relying on him spurred Gin on and he rowed whenever the wind slackened, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of life. It was just his misfortune that the first boat he spotted belonged to a marine lieutenant who had zero sympathy for someone like Gin. There was no way to hide what he was; Gin was clearly a pirate and, after a quick flip through a binder of wanted posters, also easily identified as one of Krieg’s men. He could tune out the insults and, while the blows from the iron knuckles weren’t pleasant, Gin was tough. At first he’d considered giving Fullbody what he wanted – the information on Krieg – but it became quickly apparent that the marine wasn’t a total moron. He’d call for back-up before trying to capture Krieg, and Gin wasn’t sure even the Don was up to fighting off a squadron or more at the moment.
He'd kept his silence, his loyalty, even in the face of thirst and hunger as Fullbody opted to let him rot in the brig in the hopes of loosening his lips. It was like torture, but all Gin had to do to strengthen his resolve was remember that Krieg and his remaining crewmates were suffering the same. This, too, he could survive. He hadn’t known where Fullbody was heading, and the firing of a single cannon had been odd. Even stranger was the fact that the boat docked not long after; he tried to count as the footsteps sounded on the deck, but he wasn’t sure how many men made up the crew. Then, about half an hour later, a marine came down to taunt him with boredom written on his face, and Gin saw his chance. He lured the man closer with barbed words and then grappled him, holding him tight against the bars of his cell before pulling the marine’s own pistol. The gun to the head retrieved the keys, and Gin turned the gun butt against the marine and the two others he saw aboard before he ventured towards freedom.
Baratie read the sign above the door, the ship itself unbelievably modeled in the shape of a fish. Incredible smells wafted through the air and Gin’s stomach growled desperately. He felt no regrets as he fired at the marine who’d beaten him to the entrance, heading within to warn his commander. Sheer bravado and his empty gut sent him barreling through the door, had him demanding food despite the posh and semi-hostile atmosphere. It helped that Fullbody was a wreck on the floor. The lieutenant was no longer a threat to him. What Gin hadn’t planned on was the ugly bald waiter or the strength of his arms. Even lying on the floor in front of all those eyes, his stomach would not be silenced. Gin was too proud to beg, even though he was desperate enough to think about it, and the boot to his backside wasn’t nearly as painful as the ache in the empty pit inside. He lay on the deck of the restaurant ship, mustering what remained of his strength, and tried to plot his next move over the noise of his hunger.
The only bright spot in that horrible stretch of days was the blond. Not only had this young man beaten up the marine lieutenant, but he also set a plate of hot and fragrant fried rice in front of Gin with the only expectation that he eat it. Gin was so hungry that he was sure nearly anything would have tasted good, but that fried rice was truly the best he had ever had in his life. It was perfectly seasoned, had a balanced blend of ingredients, and the grains of rice themselves almost melted in his mouth. He devoured the food with tears in his eyes, watching the blond chef sit against the rail almost as if he was protecting him. A guardian angel, or so the young man named Sanji seemed. Gin was a hardened pirate, ruthless when he had to be, but he still understood gratitude. That fried rice not only filled his stomach but somehow he even felt his strength return. Sanji had saved his life and Gin was in his debt.
He'd left before he could cause Sanji any more trouble, taking the same modified rowboat back out onto the sea. Perhaps it was crazy to have left without asking for provisions, but Gin felt fortified and full and unwilling to add more to the ledge he owed the blond cook. It hadn’t taken as long to find Don Krieg as he had feared. Sailing back in the direction Gin remembered, it only took a day to find his captain as the flagship limped through the waters of East Blue. The flagship was still a mess and nearly all the men aboard were weak from starvation. It seemed the fish had not cooperated in his absence, leaving his crewmates in dire need of food. Gin told Krieg of the Baratie, of the benevolent Sanji and the incredible flavor of his fried rice. He had described how grateful he was and how Sanji was sure to succor Krieg’s own hunger out of the kindness of his heart. At the time, Gin had known he was bringing a bit of bother to Sanji’s doorstep. After all, it wasn’t as if the other employees had seemed to like the idea of feeding pirates for free. But the head chef hadn’t intervened to stop the blond, either. Besides, Don Krieg was his captain and he couldn’t let his captain down. Gin was sure Krieg would thankful and gracious, but he extracted a promise just in case because the tab he owed to Sanji had ballooned now that he was taking the crew there. Don Krieg agreed to leave Sanji and the Baratie alone as long as he and his men were fed. Gin was certain that all would go well, and he guided the flagship over the length of another day back to the ocean-going restaurant.
Krieg leaned heavily across Gin’s shoulders, a cloak drawn across his frame. It was almost shocking to see the Don show so much weakness but Gin supposed it just demonstrated how dire the situation really was. Entering the Baratie, he wasn’t entirely surprised at the inhospitable greeting they received, but he was a bit shocked at the groveling from Krieg even though he knew just how much starvation (and the loss of an entire armada in a week) could wear down a man. Sanji, as expected, had come to the rescue, although the look in his eye as he stared at Gin while Krieg inhaled his food made Gin feel a little like a heel for taking advantage of the chef’s kindness. He felt inhuman, lowly like a worm, only moments later when Krieg finished eating.
The promise was broken as Krieg rose to his feet and attacked Sanji. There was no expression of thankfulness written on his face, only an ugly sneer of demand. He claimed the Baratie and one hundred meals, arrogance in his tone. Gin was humiliated and betrayed, truly let down for the first time by his captain. There was trickery and treachery to Krieg’s brand of piracy to be certain, but surely this time had to be different. Did Krieg not understand compassion or how to relate to it, have a single decent bone in his body? When he tried to stop Krieg, he got beaten down, thrown onto the floor like the man who’d saved him. And then the cooks made the mistake of attacking and Krieg’s true power was revealed. Gin’s heart quelled, and he felt the guilt of the future deaths of all the men on board slowly settle over him. Not even the head chef’s arrival and confident taunting could set him at ease.
Left there, abandoned on the floor, Gin did his best to encourage everyone to leave. He couldn’t bear the weight of their fearful future on his conscience. But Sanji only told him to prepare for a fight, leaving him torn between his debt and his loyalty. Finally, before Gin had decided what to do, the worst happened. The Hawk-Eyes appeared, floatingly silent and serene in his tiny boat. Gin watched with dread as the culmination of the most miserable ten days of his life drew his massive blade and cut the flagship, the last remaining boat in Krieg’s armada, in half with a single swing. Whatever was to come next was sure to be the worst.
Rating: G
Pairing: None/Gen
Word Count: 3085
The preceding ten days had been the worst of Gin’s life. It had all started so well, too, but as the saying went, ‘ignorance is bliss.’ If they’d known what awaited them, if there had been an inkling of the true terror…they would have gone anyways because Don Krieg was determined but at least they might have been more careful and wary. East Blue had been so easy, so kind. It wasn’t the richest of the Blues but there was plunder to be had, limited competition, and the Navy was weak and mostly kept to themselves as long as one didn’t bother the key hotspots like Logue Town. With an armada of fifty ships and under the harsh discipline that Krieg commanded, his fleet had dominated the local seas until there wasn’t a challenge left nor a treasure large enough to satisfy. The logical next step was the Grand Line and, ultimately, the biggest prize of them all in the form of the One Piece.
It had been quite the view, watching as the armada shot in single file up Reverse Mountain. Gin had been near the end, commander of one of Krieg’s smaller, swifter ships that could dart out from the behind the shadows of the larger vessels to chase down, harass, and capture targets with the kind of maneuverability the flagship and the other galleons lacked. The crisp air above the clouds had burned in his lungs but gave him a sense of vigor and he’d nearly climbed to the crow’s nest himself to get the earliest possible glimpse of the Grand Line and their future. It had been with supreme confidence that the fleet, once all the ships were across, had set out in the most obvious direction, heading straight away from the rocky cliffs of the Red Line.
It had taken, Gin guessed, about an hour before their journey transformed from a triumphant jaunt into pandemonium. The obscene weather had wrecked havoc, gale-force winds splitting the fleet before blizzards, extreme heat, and immense hailstones scattered the ships even further. Gin had watched with his own eyes, as he shouted to the men to wrestle down the sails or pull harder at the oars, as two of the larger boats in the armada had collided, a smaller ship smashed between them while piercing gaping holes in the hulls. It felt like all three had gone down in the space between two heartbeats and, in the chaos, he’d only managed to rescue three from the churning wreckage.
Somehow about thirty of the vessels had survived this initial hellish baptism, all of them straggling in a ragged line towards an island at the end of that first day. Even Krieg’s flagship had lost some of its luster; the steel plating was pitted from the hail and wrenched out of shape from the wind while the mainsail was ripped and large sections of the rigging needed to be replaced. As for the island, it had seemed innocent enough. There had been no sign of any inhabitants as the remains of the armada had dropped anchor in a natural bay. A forest of pine trees grew as far as Gin could see, stretching along the coastline and into the interior in a dense swath of dark green. The smell was pleasant there, even if the view was boring, and after a brief check for dangers, Krieg had all of his commanders report on damages and made his decisions.
They spent the next three days at anchor, decimating seven of their ships for parts to repair the remainder and parceling out the crew. His own ship had been in relatively good shape, and they’d been sent out to scout the island’s perimeter, finding nothing more than a small river to the east that might serve to resupply fresh water. Indeed, that was important for the somewhat more lumbering auxiliary vessels that held their reserves had all been sunk or lost in the storms. Each ship had its own food and water and munitions, of course, but the auxiliaries were what made it possible for the armada to function at length and without them, everyone had to tighten their belts. It didn’t help matters, Krieg’s temper, or the superstitious mutterings when, just before dawn of the fifth day on the Grand Line, six more ships erupted into massive balls of flame. All had been lost, along with most of the hands, and there wasn’t a cause or a clue to be found in the flurried investigation Krieg demanded.
By nine that morning, the seventeen remaining ships had set sail with nearly every man aboard wary and keeping a close watch on the sea and firm grips on their weapons. They sailed without incident for the better part of the day, even fishing to help replenish diminished stores, until the dense fog rolled in. Somehow the fleet stuck together through the thick banks of white but what awaited them at sunset made the mutterings worse for it was the pine-covered island. The proof was in the scuttled and burned wreckage in the bay, and even Gin had started to think their voyage was cursed. But Don Krieg was stubborn and willful and his trigger finger had grown quite itchy, so his fleet kept sailing under the faint light of the moon without protest. Gin didn’t sleep, staying up at the helm and only going below deck at dawn for a few restless hours of shuteye. The sixth day was calm again, a slight drizzle making the atmosphere damp and gray but mostly harmless. The fish weren’t biting, though, and it was down to half-rations at dinner. They anchored, lashing the fleet together, and Gin finally felt almost normal again. Things looked rough, but Don Krieg was smart and capable and they would find themselves marks soon enough.
Three hours into day seven and the pine trees were back. Don Krieg’s shouting was audible even to Gin on one of the outskirt vessels. The captain had the flagship and the other four remaining galleons open fire on the coastline and no one complained. Three times the volleys went out, screaming through the air and then erupting on the land. It was cathartic, the display of power, and it banished some of the fears that had grown in the face of all the Grand Line’s mysteries. Splinters and pine needles rained down and carpeted the bay in green, the smell of resin so sharp in the air it was almost painful to breathe. As the smoke cleared, there didn’t appear to be anything to see; there were just jagged stumps and more pine trees beyond. And that was when it happened.
One minute the ship had been whole and sturdy beneath his feet and in the next it had been cut in twain. Gin hadn’t heard or felt it happening. He just knew that suddenly the mast was collapsing and his crewmates were shouting and then the boat itself was splitting apart and spilling them all into the sea. By some miracle the lone lifeboat was still intact, and Gin managed to get in and cut the ropes still tying it to the sinking ship before it, too, was dragged under. Then all he could do was gape and fear for his life as the fleet was decimated. Ship after ship was cleaved even as the weather deteriorated so much that he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t even be sure which way was up as he was seasick for the first time in his life. All he could remember was the dim vision of a man, a crazy single figure who stood solid amidst the maelstrom. He had eyes that seemed to pierce Gin’s soul, and everywhere that man turned to look, another ship was sent to the bottom. The waves grew impossibly high and the wind whipped so violently that finally he couldn’t even lift his head. Gin lay in the bottom of the lifeboat and prayed for his life before his consciousness slipped away.
The sun beating down finally brought him back, along with the shouting. Gin’s lifeboat was bobbing in a sea of ruin, shards of ships and bloated bodies and the remnants of a once-mighty armada all around him. The only thing he saw that wasn’t completely destroyed besides his own tiny craft was Krieg’s flagship. It was resting low in the water and had lost almost all its armor and sails, but it was still mostly in one piece. He could see men moving slowly on deck, so Gin fished out a passing piece of board and paddled slowly in to report.
Don Krieg was sitting silently in the shadows, a blank expression on his face, and it was only as Gin finished haltingly explaining what he’d seen, how he’d survived, that another crewman ran up with the sea charts to report. Somehow they were back in East Blue, although how that had happened was an utter mystery as everyone had blacked out during the destruction. From fifty ships and five thousand men, the mighty armada had been reduced to the mess of the flagship and one hundred and two people. The numbers were horrific, and Gin choked back his grief as he thought of all the shipmates he had lost. Worse, there was no food, no water, and with the sails so ruined there was little chance of quickly making it to a port to get supplies. Don Krieg had stood, finally, and looked at what was left. His armor still gleamed but his posture was bowed and his voice, when he gave his command to Gin, was little more than a whisper.
The rowboat had been fitted with a mast and a sail hastily assembled from one of the remains on the flagship. He set out with orders to find help, any help, and return. The knowledge that the entirety of the remaining crew was relying on him spurred Gin on and he rowed whenever the wind slackened, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of life. It was just his misfortune that the first boat he spotted belonged to a marine lieutenant who had zero sympathy for someone like Gin. There was no way to hide what he was; Gin was clearly a pirate and, after a quick flip through a binder of wanted posters, also easily identified as one of Krieg’s men. He could tune out the insults and, while the blows from the iron knuckles weren’t pleasant, Gin was tough. At first he’d considered giving Fullbody what he wanted – the information on Krieg – but it became quickly apparent that the marine wasn’t a total moron. He’d call for back-up before trying to capture Krieg, and Gin wasn’t sure even the Don was up to fighting off a squadron or more at the moment.
He'd kept his silence, his loyalty, even in the face of thirst and hunger as Fullbody opted to let him rot in the brig in the hopes of loosening his lips. It was like torture, but all Gin had to do to strengthen his resolve was remember that Krieg and his remaining crewmates were suffering the same. This, too, he could survive. He hadn’t known where Fullbody was heading, and the firing of a single cannon had been odd. Even stranger was the fact that the boat docked not long after; he tried to count as the footsteps sounded on the deck, but he wasn’t sure how many men made up the crew. Then, about half an hour later, a marine came down to taunt him with boredom written on his face, and Gin saw his chance. He lured the man closer with barbed words and then grappled him, holding him tight against the bars of his cell before pulling the marine’s own pistol. The gun to the head retrieved the keys, and Gin turned the gun butt against the marine and the two others he saw aboard before he ventured towards freedom.
Baratie read the sign above the door, the ship itself unbelievably modeled in the shape of a fish. Incredible smells wafted through the air and Gin’s stomach growled desperately. He felt no regrets as he fired at the marine who’d beaten him to the entrance, heading within to warn his commander. Sheer bravado and his empty gut sent him barreling through the door, had him demanding food despite the posh and semi-hostile atmosphere. It helped that Fullbody was a wreck on the floor. The lieutenant was no longer a threat to him. What Gin hadn’t planned on was the ugly bald waiter or the strength of his arms. Even lying on the floor in front of all those eyes, his stomach would not be silenced. Gin was too proud to beg, even though he was desperate enough to think about it, and the boot to his backside wasn’t nearly as painful as the ache in the empty pit inside. He lay on the deck of the restaurant ship, mustering what remained of his strength, and tried to plot his next move over the noise of his hunger.
The only bright spot in that horrible stretch of days was the blond. Not only had this young man beaten up the marine lieutenant, but he also set a plate of hot and fragrant fried rice in front of Gin with the only expectation that he eat it. Gin was so hungry that he was sure nearly anything would have tasted good, but that fried rice was truly the best he had ever had in his life. It was perfectly seasoned, had a balanced blend of ingredients, and the grains of rice themselves almost melted in his mouth. He devoured the food with tears in his eyes, watching the blond chef sit against the rail almost as if he was protecting him. A guardian angel, or so the young man named Sanji seemed. Gin was a hardened pirate, ruthless when he had to be, but he still understood gratitude. That fried rice not only filled his stomach but somehow he even felt his strength return. Sanji had saved his life and Gin was in his debt.
He'd left before he could cause Sanji any more trouble, taking the same modified rowboat back out onto the sea. Perhaps it was crazy to have left without asking for provisions, but Gin felt fortified and full and unwilling to add more to the ledge he owed the blond cook. It hadn’t taken as long to find Don Krieg as he had feared. Sailing back in the direction Gin remembered, it only took a day to find his captain as the flagship limped through the waters of East Blue. The flagship was still a mess and nearly all the men aboard were weak from starvation. It seemed the fish had not cooperated in his absence, leaving his crewmates in dire need of food. Gin told Krieg of the Baratie, of the benevolent Sanji and the incredible flavor of his fried rice. He had described how grateful he was and how Sanji was sure to succor Krieg’s own hunger out of the kindness of his heart. At the time, Gin had known he was bringing a bit of bother to Sanji’s doorstep. After all, it wasn’t as if the other employees had seemed to like the idea of feeding pirates for free. But the head chef hadn’t intervened to stop the blond, either. Besides, Don Krieg was his captain and he couldn’t let his captain down. Gin was sure Krieg would thankful and gracious, but he extracted a promise just in case because the tab he owed to Sanji had ballooned now that he was taking the crew there. Don Krieg agreed to leave Sanji and the Baratie alone as long as he and his men were fed. Gin was certain that all would go well, and he guided the flagship over the length of another day back to the ocean-going restaurant.
Krieg leaned heavily across Gin’s shoulders, a cloak drawn across his frame. It was almost shocking to see the Don show so much weakness but Gin supposed it just demonstrated how dire the situation really was. Entering the Baratie, he wasn’t entirely surprised at the inhospitable greeting they received, but he was a bit shocked at the groveling from Krieg even though he knew just how much starvation (and the loss of an entire armada in a week) could wear down a man. Sanji, as expected, had come to the rescue, although the look in his eye as he stared at Gin while Krieg inhaled his food made Gin feel a little like a heel for taking advantage of the chef’s kindness. He felt inhuman, lowly like a worm, only moments later when Krieg finished eating.
The promise was broken as Krieg rose to his feet and attacked Sanji. There was no expression of thankfulness written on his face, only an ugly sneer of demand. He claimed the Baratie and one hundred meals, arrogance in his tone. Gin was humiliated and betrayed, truly let down for the first time by his captain. There was trickery and treachery to Krieg’s brand of piracy to be certain, but surely this time had to be different. Did Krieg not understand compassion or how to relate to it, have a single decent bone in his body? When he tried to stop Krieg, he got beaten down, thrown onto the floor like the man who’d saved him. And then the cooks made the mistake of attacking and Krieg’s true power was revealed. Gin’s heart quelled, and he felt the guilt of the future deaths of all the men on board slowly settle over him. Not even the head chef’s arrival and confident taunting could set him at ease.
Left there, abandoned on the floor, Gin did his best to encourage everyone to leave. He couldn’t bear the weight of their fearful future on his conscience. But Sanji only told him to prepare for a fight, leaving him torn between his debt and his loyalty. Finally, before Gin had decided what to do, the worst happened. The Hawk-Eyes appeared, floatingly silent and serene in his tiny boat. Gin watched with dread as the culmination of the most miserable ten days of his life drew his massive blade and cut the flagship, the last remaining boat in Krieg’s armada, in half with a single swing. Whatever was to come next was sure to be the worst.