The bar was loud, the way small venues get when full. Unlike the impersonal noise of a city bar, this was the distinct sound of thirty people who mostly knew each other. Conversations overlapped, laughter carried across the room, and two fishermen near the window argued with the practiced ease of a long-standing debate.
Liam let the door close behind him and stood just inside it for a moment.
It was warm inside, with a low ceiling, good lighting, and the scent of salt, fried food, and something strong from the barrels along the far wall. The layout was straightforward: bar on the left, tables throughout, and a staircase at the back. The floor had been cleaned recently, but needed to be cleaned again by midnight. He noted three exits, two of which were windows.
He was cataloguing and mapping the space, instinctively assessing his surroundings, when he noticed the green hair.
She moved through the room with the efficiency of someone whose routine was second nature. Plates went out, empties returned, she exchanged words and laughter at different tables, and redirected a hand from her arm without pause or drawing attention. The man whose hand it was looked chastened, though nothing had been said.
Liam went still for a moment.
The hair was a distinct shade of green, worn in a manner unlikely to be coincidental. Still, he reminded himself not to jump to conclusions in an unfamiliar world. He needed more information—a name.
He found an empty stool at the bar and sat down.
---
She reached him in about four minutes, which was quick for a bar this busy. Up close, she appeared younger than he had first thought—mid-twenties at most—yet moved with the confidence of someone with much more experience.
"Storm survivor?" A glass of water appeared in front of him without his asking. "Gareth's wife came in a moment ago, mentioned he'd sent someone up."
The village operated as expected. Liam picked up the water.
"That would be me." He set the glass down. "I was going to ask if you needed help, but I should probably introduce myself first. Liam."
She turned to check something down the bar, then returned to him without missing a beat.
"Makino."
The name registered and lingered in his mind, momentarily too significant to process.
Makino.
He maintained a neutral expression and took a breath. Internally, he thought with quiet composure: of course it is. Of course, the woman with the distinctive green hair in this small coastal bar is named Makino. No other name would have fit.
He was in the One Piece world.
He was sitting on a bar stool in Makino's bar, located in Foosha Village on Dawn Island in the East Blue. The East Blue was the least dangerous of the four seas, yet still part of a world ruled by Imu, shaped by the Void Century, threatened by Sea Kings, and governed by a Yonko system that made geopolitics resemble a board game. He was in that world, present and aware.
He was also missing a shoe.
The missing shoe suddenly seemed amusing, the kind of detail the mind fixates on when overwhelmed. Here he was: a man transported to the One Piece universe, granted two wishes that would eventually make him unkillable, now sitting in the bar where a future King of the Pirates would begin his journey.
One shoe.
Makino watched him with the patience of someone experienced enough to recognize when a customer was momentarily distracted.
"The storm?" A small, careful inquiry.
"Sorry." Liam brought himself back. "Long day."
"I imagine." She set down what she was holding and regarded him directly, clearly assessing him. It was not uncomfortable; she read people quickly and accurately. "You said you wanted to ask about work."
"I did. I have nothing with me—no money or belongings. I'm not asking for charity." He kept his tone even. "I've worked in bars and kitchens before, and I can do physical work. If you need help, I'll trade labor for a room and meals. You owe me nothing beyond that."
The assessment continued for another three seconds.
"Can you carry a full tray without dropping it?"
"I can learn fast if the answer matters."
Her expression shifted, almost forming a smile. She reached under the bar and placed an apron in front of him.
"Room is upstairs, second door. Three meals if you earn them. We shake on it, and that's the contract." She extended her hand.
He shook it.
"Start now?"
She was already moving back down the bar.
"The table by the window has been waiting for another round for ten minutes. Don't apologize for the wait; they've been here since before the storm and have lost track of time anyway."
---
The table by the window seated four fishermen, ranging in age from about forty to elderly. The oldest regarded Liam with mild confusion, as if he were out of place, but not with hostility.
"You're new." Not an accusation.
"Started tonight." Liam pulled out his order pad, which Makino had produced from somewhere while he was tying the apron. "What are we drinking?"
"Whatever's cold." The second-oldest one, who had the kind of beard that had stopped being a choice years ago and was now simply a fact. "And something hot, if the kitchen's still on."
"I'll find out."
The kitchen was still open. Betto, the cook, had the build of someone once very large, now slightly diminished with age but still imposing. He communicated mostly in grunts and did not require conversation, which suited Liam. Liam placed the order and returned to the floor.
The next three hours were straightforward work: carrying items, remembering orders, and navigating a crowded room. He had worked in bars before, though that life now felt distant. The fundamentals were the same: keep moving, observe the room, and anticipate needs before customers asked. He adapted quickly, muscle memory bridging the gap between his past experience and this new environment.
The fishermen were long-time regulars, each with strong opinions about their drinks and a habit of conversing with both each other and the furniture. The oldest, Old Fels, shared a story about a sea king encounter from thirty-five years ago, delivering it in installments with each visit. The tale grew with every retelling, the sea king's eye enlarging and the ship's near-capsize becoming more dramatic. Liam suspected the story was less about the sea king and more about having a returning audience.
"And the eye," Old Fels said, on Liam's fourth pass, "was the size of this table."
Liam set down the drinks without slowing. "Was that before or after the part where it circled the boat twice?"
Old Fels pointed at him, satisfied that his audience was attentive. The man beside him, Pent, who had clearly heard the story many times, showed an expression that mixed exasperation and genuine affection.
Near the center of the room, three young mothers gathered, likely enjoying a rare evening out. They were efficient customers, knowing what they wanted and ordering promptly. When asked about dessert, she answered with the directness of someone accustomed to resolving uncertainty. Liam told her there was rice pudding made that morning, and all three ordered it.
At the back, four younger men had grown increasingly loud as the evening progressed. They were not violent; they were just unaware of how much their voices carried. Liam reached their table before Makino needed to intervene, which he suspected was intentional.
"Another round and something to eat," the biggest one announced, which was technically a request.
"What do you want to eat?" Liam kept his voice easy and unhurried.
"What's good?"
"Everything Betto makes is hot and edible. The fish stew is the best choice."
The group paused, deliberating slowly as those who had been drinking for hours often do.
"Four stews."
"Good choice." He collected the empty glasses and left before further discussion could begin.
On his way back to the kitchen, he caught Makino's eye. She quickly looked elsewhere, signaling that the table was no longer her concern. He noted this and continued working.
---
As the room began to empty, he had mapped out the regulars: who they were, who was approachable, and who had tabs. Old Fels and his group left when the rain stopped, departing warmly and still sharing sea king stories. The rowdy table had quieted, focused on their stew. The young mothers had left earlier, as efficiently as they had arrived, leaving a clean table behind.
The bar quieted gradually, as is typical in small venues. Conversations wound down, people left in small groups, and the noise faded to a hum, then a murmur, and finally just the creak of the building and the gentle sound of rain.
Makino worked through the closing routine: accounting for the evening, checking inventory, and demonstrating competence in managing the business alone. Liam had already begun helping without being asked, stacking empties, wiping surfaces, and putting chairs on cleared tables. He worked from the far end of the room inward, allowing her the most secure space behind him.
When he reached the end of the bar, she watched him differently than before. Earlier, her attention had been evaluative; now, it suggested her questions had been answered.
"You've done this before." Not a question.
"A few times. Different places."
She handed him a cloth without comment, and he cleaned the bar while she tallied figures behind it. She completed the accounting with practiced ease, multitasking without losing track of the numbers.
The last two patrons, an elderly couple who had shared a quiet drink near the door, rose together with practiced coordination. The woman said goodnight to Makino with familiar ease, and the man set his glass on the bar before following her out. The door closed behind them.
Silence.
It was a comfortable silence, the kind that follows a well-used room. Liam put up the last stool and saw Makino emerge from behind the bar with a mop.
"I'll do the floor." He held out his hand for it.
She handed it over without hesitation. The ease of this exchange made him feel they had established a foundation that would last beyond the first night.
---
Upstairs. Second door.
The room was small, containing a bed, a window, and a wall hook serving as a wardrobe. The window overlooked the village, the docks, and the now-calm sea, the storm having passed.
Liam sat on the edge of the bed and let himself think.
The One Piece world.
He had repeated it to himself several times, but it still felt unreal—not from doubt, but because he had not fully absorbed it. The hair, the name, the warmth of this bar in a village perfectly placed on an island he had not yet confirmed by name. The evidence was clear.
The world he had landed in was not a gentle one.
He allowed himself to reflect in the small room with the window open to the sea air. One Piece could seem like a grand adventure—warm, full of found family and impossible dreams. Yet, beneath that, it was a world shaped by hidden history, an absolute ruler, and violence that erased entire peoples. The East Blue was the weakest sea, but even here, danger was real.
He already is unkillable, but that was not the same as being untouchable. While his abilities would make him difficult to defeat, pain was still possible, and those he might care about would remain vulnerable.
This was a valuable time. More than that, it was a gift, and he resolved to treat it as such rather than simply waiting for events to begin.
His first task in the morning would be to determine his exact location. Garp was associated with this island and visited often enough that locals would mention his name. Luffy was here now, hopefully young and still at home. If either name came up during the next day's work, he would have a clear reference point.
He did not need to ask directly; listening would suffice, and he was already doing that.
Liam lay back and looked at the ceiling. The window framed a square of night sky, dark with retreating clouds and a single star visible in the corner.
He thought, briefly and pragmatically: I'm going to be okay. This was not reassurance, but an honest assessment. He was unkillable in principle, adaptable in practice, currently housed and employed, and had useful knowledge. He had faced worse situations.
He closed his eyes.
---
The dream, when it came, did not announce itself.
First, there was orange—a flash of warm hair catching the light. Sharp eyes weighed everything, trusting only after a decision had been made, with a brightness beneath their wariness. She laughed at something—perhaps at him or at an idea—the laugh bright and edged, as if she found it amusing but hesitated to admit it.
Then, dark hair—still in the way the ocean is between swells, with movement yet to come. Her dark eyes held a depth that invited contemplation. She was close, closer than strangers usually are, yet it felt natural. Her stillness was warm and present.
Neither did anything remarkable; they were simply present and close, in the way that only becomes meaningful in retrospect.
Liam briefly surfaced into half-wakefulness, just long enough to register the warmth left by the dream—a feeling that could be called longing, though he decided honesty could wait until morning.
Sleep pulled him back down.