Work Text:
The gentle scent of cherry blossoms teased the nostrils of the young man lying in the paw-shaped depression that had opened up in the ground, revealing clay-heavy soil in a rich pink. Sanji’s nose twitched, and he sneezed violently, waking up in an instant and sitting up. The last thing he remembered was fighting that Warlord at the Archipelago, a single hand descending on him...and then, dreams of flight. He must have landed here.
Sanji vaulted to his feet and brushed pink blades of grass off of his suit jacket, sharp senses noticing the faint sound of distant singing. He started off at a brisk pace in the direction the music came from, hoping perhaps to find a nice woman who could tell him the way to a ship.
He emerged into a clearing near the beach, where several women with their backs to him hung fine clothes up to dry, singing as they worked. Sanji instinctively ran a finger through his hair, straightened his clothes, and lit a cigarette.
“Hello, ladies of this fair island!” he declared. “It is I, Black Leg Sanji!” He slouched slightly, hoping to look casual and attractive, and as one the women turned to look at him. His easy smile turned into a grimace of horror. “Never mind.”
“Never mind what, honey?” asked one of them, head tilted from the side. Sanji shrugged, spat.
“I was looking for real women, thanks.”
Pain. Sanji could feel bruises from his neck down to his groin, and as he licked his lips upon waking, he found that one of those was split, too, and there was an open cut on his forehead. He was vaguely aware of being indoors, and when he tried to move, chains restricted his movements. As his eyes adjusted to the low candlelight, he discovered he was inside a great dining hall, surrounded by trans women.
At the head of the table sat an absolutely massive man, with puffy purple hair and an outfit better suited for sexually explicit novels. As soon as Sanji began looking around, his awakened state was noticed, and the man at the head of the table let out a low “hee-haw!” before beginning to speak.
“Welcome to Pink Island, Black Leg boy!” he cried out. “I see my lovelies gave you a warm welcome!” At this, many of the women around the table began to laugh. "Did you like their Newkama Karate?"
"Let me go, you shitty bighead bastard," grumbled Sanji, resenting the chains.
“I have a name, Black Leg boy. Emporio Ivankov, Queen of this fair isle!” The women cheered. Sanji, for his part, spat on the ground.
“Queen? You’re even worse than they are: you don’t even pretend to be a woman!” Sanji huffed. “Now let me go, damn it!”
“Oh? But if I did that you would never see this...” Ivankov dangled a newspaper in front of Sanji’s face. Spotting Luffy on the cover page, Sanji tightened his muscles and shattered the iron chains to grab it, but when he made a lunge for the paper, a woman with hairy legs and a masculine face darted forward, and kicked him sharply across the face: another caught him where he flew, and pinned him to the ground. When he made to rise, the first woman pulled a pistol and pointed it into his face.
“Shit! Fine. What do you want?” Ivankov tilted his massive head, seeming to think about it, then seemed to come to a decision and tossed Sanji the paper. Ivankov’s guards reluctantly withdrew, allowing Sanji to read the paper. Halfway through, he began to laugh. “Well, there’s no point to escape anyway.”
“Oh?” asked Ivankov, stretching out the syllables.
“Yeah. Luffy sent us a secret message. We’re to train for two years and reunite with him at a certain place. But...” Sanji looked down at the paper. “I’ve nowhere to train, and he’s been through so much I’d feel like less than a man if I didn’t!” Ivankov began to laugh again.
“Nowhere to train! Did my lovelies not just beat you down? You are on an island where Newkama Karate is mandatory for all citizens! We can train you, at a cost.” Sanji gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to train with these...people, but he also didn’t want to let down his crew, or his beloved ladies.
“What cost? I’ll pay it,” he said, finally. There are times when a man shelves his pride! he thought to himself, rather proudly.
“We will discuss that later,” said Ivankov. “For the moment, eat.” A bowl of hot soup was placed in front of Sanji, who began to eat at first hesitantly, and then with utmost enthusiasm.
“Oi, what the hell’s the recipe for this?” he asked, barely restraining himself from going full Luffy and stuffing his mouth. “It’s delicious, and I feel like I’ve gotten twice as strong just from a bite!” Ivankov sniffed.
“Attack Cuisine is our specialty, and the secret to our strength. It is not given casually to outsiders. You will undergo additional trials to gain its secrets, Black Leg boy.” Sanji sighed, thinking.
“I’m imagining it...that shit moss-head, even more powerful...our sniper feeling stronger...Nami and Robin even more erotic!” At this last suggestion, his otherwise handsome face twisted into a leer of lust. Angry murmuring filled the room, and Ivankov’s countenance looked shocked.
“You would, without consent, modify the bodies of women for your own pleasure rather than their benefit?” he asked, as if warning him.
“You got a problem with that?” asked Sanji, scowling. Ivankov nodded, more to himself than to Sanji.
“This is a greater problem than I thought, my lovelies. Leave me!” At his word, they all left the room, pushing in their chairs neatly. Sanji began picking scraps from their plates, but before he could amass a significant amount Ivankov waved him over, walking over to a door and opening it. It led through a breezeway and then outside. “Walk with me, Black Leg boy. Your training begins now.” Sanji sprang out of his seat, stuffing a handful of scraps into his mouth, and followed him into the breezeway.
“What do you know of Haki?” said Ivankov, after a few seconds of slow walking. Sanji’s hands were shoved in his pockets as he worked to swallow the thick lump of food. Ivankov found himself impressed—even through the sullen demeanor, Sanji’s physical training made itself known through grace.
“Nothing at all,” replied Sanji, hard as it was for him to admit. He considered himself his crew’s intelligence expert, and hated to be caught in a moment of ignorance. “Why?”
“Do not be defensive!” said Ivankov, sharper than usual. “It doesn’t suit a pretty boy like you to backsass his teacher. I will tell you of Haki with a legend from my land. Are you listening?”
“Of course.” They emerged onto the pink grasses of the island as Ivankov began to speak, his usual dramatic voice replaced by solemn tones. Sanji found himself compelled despite himself.
“In ancient times, long before the World Government and the Great Pirate Age, there lived a young man, born a prince to a faraway kingdom. When he was a strapping lad, his kingdom was invaded and stolen by evil wizards, who had pacted with the Sea Devil and gained powers through his curse.”
“Devil Fruit users?” asked Sanji. Ivankov sniffed.
“Obviously. Do not interrupt!”
“Whatever, shithead,” muttered Sanji in reply, but he once again fell silent, lighting a cigarette to give his mouth something to do.
“Now, the young prince did try to fight back. But all the strength of his youthful body could not combat the powers of the Devil, and he was defeated, his father beheaded, and his mother sold for a slave. The young man escaped the kingdom, scarcely preserving his life, and began to travel the world, seeking for ways to fight the Devil’s power.
“He wandered islands and kingdoms, wildernesses and even the islands said to circle the skies. But no one had yet conceived a way to fight against the chosen of the Sea Devil. Finally, he came to a lonely mountain, where rested a young woman, blind and possessing a pair of tiny, useless wings. This woman was a priestess who meditated from sunrise to sunset, and who knew many details of the world’s turning. The prince asked her, “How may I gain the power to fight the Devil’s men?”
“She replied, “Fool, no answers come to those not willing to hear them. Open your spirit. Come; sit with me.” So the young man laid down his packs and sat with her, meditating. For years and years, his burning ambition boiled in his chest, but soon he had tempered his spirit into a thing of cool water and troubling wind, and he rose with three eyes on his face of three colors. The last of these eyes was hidden, and only the wise could see it.
“Now, the boy come a man traveled to the kingdom of his birth, ready to reclaim his throne. He had no curse, only the power of his limbs, his ambition, and his three eyes. In the street, he met the first of the three wizard usurpers. “You will perish,” said the wizard, “because the Devil has granted me speed beyond that of any man’s eyes to see.”
“The wizard began to fly around, off of walls and the ground and the very air, so quickly he was not even a blur or mirage but totally invisible to the eye. But the prince closed all his eyes save his right, which shone with a color unique among men; with this colored eye, the prince could sense the spirit of the wizard, and taking his staff, the prince struck the seemingly invisible wizard down out of the air, killing him instantly.”
Like Mantra, thought Sanji, remembering the deadly sensory powers of the Skypeians. He didn’t comment, though, lest he draw Ivankov’s ire.
“He met the second wizard in the temple,” continued Ivankov.
““You will perish,” said the wizard, “because the Devil has granted me a body that cannot be touched by mortal hands.” So saying, the wizard turned his body to a pillar of roiling flame that was totally invincible to attack. But the prince closed all his eyes save his left, which shone with a color unique among men; with this eye, a different and more violent color than the other, the prince could indwell a powerful strength into his hands or weapons, one that could strike the essential body of a thing. Taking his staff, the prince used his new strength to strike the incorporeal wizard’s body, killing him instantly.”
Sanji’s eyebrows went up. It sounded as though the prince had developed a power capable of striking Logia-type Devil Fruit users, who had humiliated his crew multiple times in the past: people like Crocodile, Aokiji, and Kizaru, who defied his kicks.
“He met the third wizard in the throne room. This one was wily, a politician more than a fighter, and sprung a terrible trap, revealing hidden archers and knights in every corner of the room, more than any one man could hope to fight. But the prince closed his left and right eyes and opened his third, hidden to all but the wise, and this eye radiated a light that would destroy all those who could not even hope to match its radiance. All the soldiers and the final wizard fell down before the light of the third eye, and the prince simply approached the prone wizard and struck him, killing him instantly. And so the prince regained his throne and became king.”
Ivankov paused. The story was a long one, and they had wandered into a forest of pink trees, making their way to a small clearing.
“Now I have told you of Haki, so named for the word for ambition in the country of the prince. You will need a practical demonstration, I am sure. Come, Black Leg boy. Attack me!” Sanji needed little encouragement, and sprang up with the kind of kick that could break a man’s ribs flashing out at where Ivankov was.
“Left kick, spring off the ground, flying kick, somersault, leg sweep!” cried Ivankov, each declaration a moment before Sanji’s action. He dodged each effortlessly.
“I’ve seen that before!” said Sanji. “The power to predict an opponent’s move!”
“Not just that, boy. This is the power to sense any being, friend or foe, and both their intention and their position. It is called the Color of Observation Haki, and while it is not particularly necessary to fight any type of opponent, it is incredibly useful to know. This, I will teach you.” Sanji landed on his feet and nodded. “Come at me again, now.”
This time, when Sanji swung his leg, Ivankov blocked with an arm rather than dodging. Sanji chomped his cigarette in half. Kicking steel was easier than kicking this man’s flesh and blood arm! He continued with a barrage of useless kicks until Ivankov smacked him into a tree, causing more damage than any slap ought to.
“This is the power I’m sure will most interest you! It is the ability to strike at the essential body of an opponent. This will allow you to strike Logia users with impunity. In addition, it will give your other attacks a great power boost, and can also be used defensively as a sort of invisible coat of armor. It is called the Color of Armaments Haki, friend to all who fight.”
“And what of the last one?” asked Sanji, lighting another cigarette.
“It cannot be taught,” replied Ivankov, “and even if it could I would not be able to teach it to you. It is called the Color of the Conquering King Haki, and while the others are possible for all humans, the third color is granted only to one in a million people. It is the power to immediately knock out those much weaker than you, and all who have it are destined to be great, terrible, or both. I do not see the conqueror in you, boy; I have known a few in my day, and you are not of that cloth.” Sanji stood to his feet.
“Like who?”
“The Pirate Empress, Boa Hancock; The Heavenly Demon, Donquixote Doflamingo; and, most recently, your captain, Monkey D Luffy.” Sanji raised his eyebrows, hiding his surprise with a deep drag on his cigarette.
“Luffy is that powerful?” Ivankov shrugged.
“If you did not believe in the greatness of your captain, you should never have joined him.”
“I believe it!” said Sanji. “I’d believe it in a second. He’s done impossible things...” He thought back to that first day, watching Don Krieg’s armor fall into the ocean; seeing Arlong park shattered by one furious kick; Crocodile at the top of a spiral of sand and the earth broken up beneath him. There was his impossible defeat of Rob Lucci, and his destruction of both Oz and Moria at Thriller Bark. And then, against all odds, he had survived the war at Marineford where Whitebeard and his much stronger brother, Portgas D Ace, had not. Sanji could believe anything of his captain.
“Good. Then we will begin your instruction. You must seek out the ninety nine female masters of Newkama Karate and defeat them to gain the ninety-nine recipes of Attack Cuisine.”
“No.”
“I beg pardon?”
“I won’t hit a woman! They’re beautiful, and perfect, and I wasn’t raised to kick women! A man’s strength is too great to be used against the delicate! I love women!” Ivankov pursed his lips and clenched his fists, injecting himself. With unbelievable speed, his chest expanded and his hips widened, while his face took on a more feminine cast.
“Kick me,” said Ivankov. “I change gender and sex as my mind demands it, and you had no problem before. Do it!” Sanji obeyed.
“You aren’t a real woman, shithead! Change back!” Ivankov caught him and opened an eye wide. It was the last thing Sanji saw.
“Hee haw! Some wink that was!” crowed Ivankov as Sanji struggled to consciousness. He was once again chained, only this time into a sitting position on the floor. He struggled, but they didn’t break. “These chains are of Seastone! They are tougher than diamond.” Sanji relaxed.
“What do you want?”
“To teach you, of course,” said Ivankov. “Both of Haki, and of the meaning of womanhood!” So saying, he stabbed Sanji in the shoulder with his fingernails, injecting him with his hormones. Sanji’s body morphed just as his had: his facial and body hair didn’t change, but his breasts expanded into ones that, while nothing compared to the busts of Nami and Robin, noticeably stretched his suit jacket. His hips widened as well, leaving him with a body anyone would have immediately pegged as belonging to a female.
“I’m a man! You can’t do this to me!” Ivankov ignored him. “You’re sapping my strength! These lily-white limbs can’t do anything!” Ivankov paused.
“Shut up, child! I am going to begin your lessons on the Color of Observation Haki. Listen carefully to every word I say.” Sanji exhaled through his nose angrily, but he listened as the lesson began. “Often these powers are found under duress. That is the easy way, the way of the reckless. This is much harder. I will teach you first to meditate. You will do this daily, for as long as is necessary, while my lessons continue.”
And so Sanji learned meditation. He found himself reviewing the Prince’s Tale often, laughing at the irony of “Mr. Prince” learning to use arts legend held that a prince discovered. But, like the prince, he learned to turn his anger and resentment into calm on a dime, and soon, even in a room in which sound would neither come nor escape, he could tell the locations of everyone in the palace. His mind, like water, washed over the island, studying its inhabitants and its shape, finding the ninety-nine masters and eventually even gauging their strengths. Soon, he found his mind wandering beyond the shores: his outer limit seemed to be cruising distance from the island, and he often caught the faint thoughts of passing sailors.
Gross! An island of trannies.
Gonna stop by that island one of these days and just rape the hell out of those disgusting traps.
Don’t they love pussy? I love pussy. I just want to get my dick wet...is that so much to ask? Why don’t girls like me?
And so on. Despite himself, Sanji found these getting to him: they were accompanied by feelings of violent lust and hatred towards people like him; either those whose bodies resembled his new one, or those who had changed their bodies or clothing to those representing a different sex or gender. And he discovered that he could not turn it off. Day and night, images of hatred towards women and trans people bombarded his mind, like slivers of hate drilling into him. When Sanji complained to Ivankov that his bored explorations had caused this torture, the Queen laughed.
“Now you begin to understand,” she said, chuckling. “The time has come. I will test your Color of Observation. Are you ready?” Sanji nodded. His hair had grown long, and he’d taken to twisting and using Diable Jambe to burn off his leg and facial hair, holding his new body to his mind’s standards, and his bangs hung over both his eyes.
“What gender am I, currently?” asked Ivankov.
“Female,” snapped Sanji instantly, without thinking. He had Observed this in an instant, having easily felt the Queen’s female heart. “Wait...” Ivankov raised an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Your body and heart are in conflict. You have a male body and a female spirit. Is that normal?”
“It is uncommon. But, to be more precise, I have both a female body and a female spirit. Though I am currently male in sex, this body belongs to me, and I am currently female in gender; therefore, it is a female body because it is mine.” Sanji tried to wrap his mind around this statement, and Ivankov jumped to a new question.
“What is your gender?”
“Male,” replied Sanji. “That’s easy.”
“Yet your sex is female. The plot, like Hormone Soup, thickens.” Ivankov removed a key from her belt and unlocked Sanji’s chains. “Your powers of Observation will grow no stronger from being bound. Now you must be taught the power of Armaments.” Sanji stretched his limbs. He’d been unchained to walk around his cell and exercise at least once a day, but this seemed more permanent.
“Are you going to change me back?” Ivankov shook her head.
“Hee haw! Of course not!” Sanji, cursing under his breath, followed Iva to a courtyard to begin his Armaments training. While realizing his ability in the Color of Observation had taken several months, it was only a month or two before he reached his teachable limits in the Color of Armaments.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, after a hard training session one day. His suit and the body underneath had been horribly damaged by the powerful winks employed by the presently agender Queen, even with Haki to protect him. “Why won’t it come?”
“Some, such as those with a lesser fighting spirit or lust for battle, find the Color of Armaments more difficult to employ. I would hazard that, while you are quite strong for a boy of your age and era, you simply do not possess the spirit of the warrior. You are not a fighter, Black Leg boy. You are a lover who has learned to fight. I have no more to teach you.”
“Then...?” Ivankov laughed.
“Yes, you may travel out onto the island and seek to defeat the ninety-nine Newkama Karate masters. No, I will not change you back. If you feel your strength is limited by your body, you are too weak to follow Strawhat boy in the first place.” With a mighty wink, Ivankov sprang away. Sanji walked through the halls of Ivankov’s palace to the outside, where countless trans women frolicked, fought, and flirted. As soon as he appeared, though, they all stopped what they were doing.
“Get him!” cried one, and then they were all attacking him, flying from all sides. Sanji had been given Attack Cuisine to eat, and was now able to match their unbelievable physical strength, but their numbers alone began to overwhelm him and, in a fit of desperation, he kicked the ground as hard as he could and was surprised to find himself running into the sky, using his new, superpowered kicks to kick off the very air itself. Using his Observation Haki, he found his way to the first of the masters, and was soundly defeated. He woke up back in his cell, chained up and wearing women’s clothing: still a suit jacket and button-up shirt, but with a skirt rather than slacks and flats rather than his usual dress shoes.
Furious but unable to escape, he once again found himself mentally tortured by the thoughts of passing sailors, sweating in spiritual agony and driven nearly to his breaking point until he was once again released. It became clear that Ivankov had ordered this: Sanji was to be returned to the cell to be subjected to the breadth of his own specialization in Haki whenever he failed, and the residents of the island could dress him as they wished when they did so.
From that point on, the challenge to defeat the ninety-nine masters became more than a way to gain recipes or powers for his crew. The fear of torture joined those two as as a reason he couldn’t stop, why he fought powerful fighter after fighter in order to stay out of the room. His only saving grace was that the recipes couldn’t be taken from him. After he beat a master once, he didn’t have to repeat them. This alone stopped him from collapsing in his cell when he was returned there, to his personal hell, time and again.
For all his ignorances and prejudiced ways, Sanji wasn’t stupid. He knew why gender had been his test to escape chains the first time: because, having the ability to detect it, he could not misgender the inhabitants of the island. No matter how they chose to express their gender through their clothes, shaving habits, or choice to accept or refuse hormone treatments, their female spirits were as clear to him as their faces. He had to admit that they were women, or he could not possibly be a man.
He also knew something else: he was kicking women every day, and it didn’t bother him at all.
He had been taught growing up that it was reprehensible for a man to hit a woman. Zeff had made it clear that he’d kill Sanji himself if he ever heard of him doing such a thing. But Sanji was beginning to think that Zeff was talking about an entirely different kind of hitting, the abusive kind that he heard people desire every night he spent in the cell. The kind of hitting Sanji was doing to the women on Pink Island wasn’t abuse: it was combat between equals, and he began to realize that by treating women as unkickable, he had been saying all along that they weren’t equal to him. He could not reconcile love of women with this; and so he kicked women without qualms.
The final fly in his mental ointment was his new body. His breasts, hips, and genitals were unfamiliar, but they’d had no effect on his strength at all. He could do no fewer squats, calf raises, or hip abductions than he had before the hormones; in fact, due to training, he could do even more. The sole determinant of strength, he decided, was dedication, not sex. It was with this in mind that he prevailed over the final Newkama Karate master, gained the final recipe, and promptly fell unconscious.
He woke chained in the cell.
Sanji groaned. He cried. He screamed. Though he knew no sound would escape the cell, he begged anyone who might hear him through Haki to free him. He was sure there had been some mistake. He’d been looking forward to spending his five months on the island doing relatively easy training with the women he had come to respect and admire during his trials. Instead, he was in hell.
Days passed. Weeks. His pain and sadness turned to fury. He imagined his leg, alight with flame, melting the skin of the lecherous men who passed him. He imagined destroying their ships with furious kicks, smashing their bones to dust and their genitals to jelly. He grew angrier and angrier with the fire of true chivalry: defense of the downtrodden. His female and trans friends deserved his respect not just in words, but in actions.
The just anger in his hot blood set his limbs ablaze, and then the air, and before Sanji knew anything, he was lying in a massive scorched crater with seastone cuffs, immune to mere flame, cool against his skin. The rest of the chamber had been blown apart by his pressurized flames, the manifestation of his hell-forged memories of bigotry. Ivankov stood over him, with a fire brigade putting out small fires all around. He was male at the time, and he reached out a hand to Sanji, who thought he was helping him up and reached out.
Ivankov’s hand passed his entirely and injected him in the same spot on his shoulder. Sanji felt his shoulders widening, breasts shrinking, hips shriveling, and genitals morphing into more familiar shapes. He’d completely disregarded gender normative appearance toward the end, and had both stubble and body hair, even more than he’d arrived with.
“Congratulations, Black Leg boy. You have earned my respect and our friendship, and we have no more to offer.” Ivankov snapped a finger, and Inazuma ran up with a few trunks borne by women in her entourage. The trunks were propped open, and inside rested the sort of things only Sanji would call treasures: racks of spices from the simple, like rosemary and cayenne pepper, to the costly and foreign, like cinnamon and saffron, along with bottles of pure olive oil; suits tailored perfectly to his dimensions, in materials from Alabastan cotton to Wano silk and with jackets in blue, black, grey, white, and pinstripes and shirts of even more various color; an entire trunk devoted to wines; and even, perhaps most precious, a guidebook for Attack Cuisine recipe development.
These were bustled off to Sanji’s new rooms in the palace, and in his last few months he came to regard the Kamabakka Queendom as a paradise on the level of Amazon Lily, a place where those pure of heart and mind, maidens inside and out, could live honestly to their hearts’ content.
The two year anniversary of the Strawhat’s separation almost came too soon, and even though Sanji was excited to get back to his crew, he embraced Ivankov like a comrade and exchanged tearful farewells with his trans sisters on the dock at Sabaody. Inazuma cut a cart to carry his trunks from the earth, Sanji was preparing to light a cigarette, and all was going smoothly until a passing pirate, bandana tied around his arm, murmured in a voice too quiet to hear but easily Observed,
“What kind of man arrives in the company of a ship full of traps?”
The air rippled, both with heat and the speed of movement. Sanji was wearing a storm grey jacket off of his shoulders, with an ice blue shirt, grey vest, white tie, and sleeve garters, worn now to protect his new shirt sleeves from cooking stains; the jacket flapped sharply, and then Sanji appeared in front of the man, cigarette tip glowing with unsourced heat, and slammed a Haki-reinforced leg into his chest, feeling ribs snap underneath his assault.
“What’s your problem?” choked the man, blood spilling front between his lips. Sanji grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up in the air.
“I’ll kill anyone who insults women in front of me,” said Sanji, and lit the man ablaze with the incandescent fury of his righteous anger. Quite indifferent to the screams, Sanji used the flames to light his cigarette and hopped back into the wagon. “Drive, Inazuma.”
Sanji’s Haki confirmed the presence of most of his comrades on the island, and so rather than continue at leisure, he left his trunks to Inazuma and used Sky Walk to move towards the nearest unaccompanied aura: Zoro’s, just his luck. There was something odd about the sensation Zoro gave off that Sanji couldn’t quite place.
He landed on the ground just in time to watch a ship disappear beneath the waves, Zoro’s aura going with it. But Sanji knew he’d taken a wrong turn: the other Strawhats were still on the island, and Zoro would rather have cut off his own head than betray his crew. It was not until the water began to ripple that Sanji registered what had made him feel Zoro was unusual: the peculiar gravity of his aura was the product of a slumbering killing intent so massive Sanji felt weak just sensing it. The others didn’t have Observation Haki as strong as his, but they felt it all the same with knocking knees, nervous swallows, and cold sweat.
Sanji was almost relieved when a bisected galley burst out of the ocean, the screams of the injured issuing from the detritus.
“What the hell, man? Why would you do that?” came one voice.
“Our ship! Our dream ship! Our New World aspirations!” came another.
“What could make you do this?” asked the first, desperately voicing everyone’s question. Zoro stood on the hull, sheathing a single sword.
“It’s not my fault the stars frowned on you, insects. It was simply a roll of the dice that doomed your dreams...I got on the wrong ship!” He made a leap to the shore and landed firmly. Sanji walked over, noting his increased musculature, samurai-like outfit, and missing eye, but said nothing about any of that.
“You inattentive shithead, what was that?” yelled Sanji. People began to back away.
“That sounds like a perverted cook’s voice nagging me,” said Zoro. His voice sounded cocky, self-assured. “But I might be wrong. Tell me if you see a spiral-browed idiot in the area, would you?” Sanji closed his eyes and found his place of calm, learned from meditation. Then he threw a furious kick at Zoro, who blocked with such agility that Sanji couldn’t track the movement with his eyes, and with Armament Haki so strong it would probably have broken Sanji’s had Zoro been serious.
So this is the gap between us, thought Sanji. I thought I might have closed it, but he’s even further away. It was strange, being able to think logically about Zoro even as he continued to dislike him. But Sanji was beginning to realize that he’d changed more than he’d noticed in the last two years. He backflipped away from Zoro, gave him a passing line about his slightly improved competence, and joined him to hunt down the captain.
Collecting Luffy was about as much trouble as Sanji expected it would be, but it was apparent that Luffy had grown stronger than either of them, and Sanji was oddly comforted by that. Zoro was too dangerous to allow to leave the crew, and swordsman’s pride alone meant he would have had to leave if Luffy hadn’t continued becoming stronger than him.
At long last, they drew near to the Thousand Sunny. Sanji saw Nami and Robin chatting amiably with the others: Usopp, who Sanji considered a best friend, had become much more the man, and Franky’s body once more demonstrated the mans total inability to transcend a ten year old’s idea of cool, but he found a way to love him for it. There was Chopper, adorable as always, and Brook, covered in glam rock swag. Sanji decided that if Brook tried to pull his rock-star sex appeal on the ladies, he was in for a kicking.
And then there were the ladies.
Sanji had worried, frequently, that his newfound enlightenment would vanish when he was presented with cis women again. That catharsis would be lost to perversion, and progress would be lost. But the longer he looked, the less that seemed to be the case.
It wasn’t as if they were any less attractive, or more shy about showing it. Robin had swapped her long hair and bangs for a bob and newsboy cap, and her eclectic style had made a surprising evolution: she seemed to favor collared leather jackets now, with frilly blouses, slacks, and killer heels, but she showed as much cleavage as ever, and Sanji felt no compulsion to disrespect her by leering or flirting when she obviously was uninterested.
Similarly, Nami’s choice of longer hair and bikini tops with her jeans was one that was even more enticing than her previous style, but all Sanji did was wave and greet her warmly. She gave him a strange look.
“Are you sure you’re Sanji?” she asked, after a moment’s silence. He shrugged, blowing out some smoke.
“Two years is a long time,” he said finally. “I’m not the person you saw last here. None of us are the same, but we’re still a crew, aren’t we? So I’m still Sanji.”
“It seems our boy cook has become a man,” said Robin, sounding pleased. “An honor to set sail with you, Sanji. Welcome back.” Sanji grinned at her, and most of the others seemed equally impressed with his progress. Only Luffy seemed indifferent to it, and as they all set sail for Fishman Island, together at last, Sanji had nothing but joy in his heart for the new worlds he was approaching, both as a person and as a pirate.
After all, if even he could change, how hard could All Blue be to find?