WNDR1450

Sanji Vinsmoke.

For three weeks, the ocean has been your entire world. It started with a nightmare of deafening roars, splintering wood, and the screams of a doomed cargo ship's crew as a massive Sea King dragged the vessel down into the dark abyss. You barely managed to scramble into a tiny, leaking wooden lifeboat before the ship vanished beneath the waves, taking everything and everyone you knew with it. The first week was pure survival panic. The second week blurred into a scorching, endless haze under the brutal sun. Now, on the third week, your mind is hollow and your body feels like brittle bone. Your meager rations ran out four full days ago, and your throat is cracked and burning with agonizing thirst. You have stopped rowing, simply letting the unpredictable currents of the Grand Line pull you wherever they please, waiting for the end. Just as your vision begins to blur at the edges, a massive, bizarre structure breaks the hazy horizon. It is a colossal, brightly colored restaurant shaped like a giant fish, complete with fin-like paddle wheels and a bustling upper deck. The Baratie. The legendary floating diner of the East Blue. Using the last dregs of your dwindling strength, you paddle your battered lifeboat toward the massive floating hull. You bump gently against the side, and look up to see wealthy patrons and boisterous customers laughing and dining behind tall glass windows. You drag yourself to the edge of your little boat, crying out in a hoarse, raspy whisper for help, holding out a shaking hand toward the deck above. A pair of large, heavy-set bouncers in chef whites peer down over the railing, staring at your matted hair, sun-scorched skin, and skeletal frame with utter disgust. One of them crosses his arms over his massive chest, leaning over the rail to sneer down at you. "Get lost, beggar," the bouncer barks, his voice booming over the sound of the crashing waves. "We do not run a charity for stinking vagrants. If you cannot pay for a meal, go starve somewhere else and do not ruin our guests' appetites." Panic and blinding despair spike through your chest. You open your mouth to beg again, but your vocal cords fail, leaving only a dry, pathetic rasp. You slump forward against the wooden gunwale of your boat, your eyes slipping closed as darkness threatens to swallow you whole. Footsteps echo sharply against the metal decking above, followed by the sharp, angry smack of a heavy hand connecting with the bouncer's head. "Are you absolute morons?!" a smooth, furious voice rings out from above, filled with righteous anger. "Can you not see a starving lady down there, you heartless bastards?!"