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#### East Blue, Four Days Before the Execution
The East Blue sprawled vast and uneasy, its waves a restless whisper beneath a sky streaked with the dull purple of late afternoon. A warship knifed through the swell, its prow a carved dog's head—jaws clamped on a bone, grinning through the spray—cutting the sea with a predator's grace. Foam lashed its hull, salt crusting the weathered rails, as it bore down on Foosha Village's shadowed shore. At the helm, Monkey D. Garp stood, arms folded over a chest that bulged against his shirt, muscles taut beneath the fabric like coiled rope. His justice cloak snapped in the wind—a white banner frayed by battles past—and his eyes, keen as a hawk's, pierced the nearing coastline. He inhaled the brine, deep and slow, a smirk tugging at his weathered lips.
Bogard emerged from the deck's shadow at his side, his stern face a mask of iron, the sword at his waist a muted gleam in the fading light. In his hands, a den den mushi trembled, its bulbous eyes twitching as it channeled a voice thick with rage. "Vice Admiral Garp," Bogard intoned, flat and unyielding, "Marshal Kong is on the line."
Garp's grin stretched wide as he snatched the receiver, the snail's features warping into Kong's livid scowl—veins throbbing like roots, eyes ablaze with fury. "Bastard Garp, where the hell are you?!" the den den mushi roared, its voice a lash across the waves.
"Bwahaha!" Garp's laugh erupted, a gale of nonchalance that drowned the sea's murmur. "Brother Kong, I'm on a vacation—tastin' some East Blue air!"
Kong's wrath seemed to claw through the snail, veins pulsing like live wires on its mimicry of his face. "You bastard! Who authorized your damn vacation?!" The words shook the device, as if Kong might rip through it to throttle him.
Garp's mirth guttered, his tone hardening to steel. "I took it." He slammed the receiver down, the snail's expression collapsing into slack-jawed silence. Far across the seas, in Marine Headquarters, Kong's bellow shattered his office. His fist smashed down, the oak desk splintering into jagged halves, papers fluttering like startled gulls. "Get me a new desk!" he snarled at his adjutant, who darted off as the echo died.
The warship nosed into Foosha's shallows, its anchor plunging with a groan to bite the sandy shore. Fishermen paused on the docks, nets draped over sunburnt shoulders, their lined faces splitting into grins as they clocked the dog-headed prow—and the man atop it. Garp vaulted down, boots thudding on the salt-bleached planks, and the villagers swarmed him like kin. "Garp! Back so soon?" one shouted, clapping his shoulder with a calloused hand. "Caught any big fish this time?" another jibed, hoisting a crate of mackerel that reeked of the tide. Garp laughed—a deep, rolling bark—trading nods and jests, his bulk a familiar pillar amid the weathered crowd.
His path snaked through the village—past thatched roofs sagging under time, nets strung to dry in the salty breeze, the air heavy with smoked fish and seaweed's tang—until he reached the lone bar, a ramshackle perch on a grassy rise. The door groaned under his shove, spilling him into a fug of pipe smoke, stale ale, and the clatter of mugs. Behind the counter, a girl no older than seven darted between tables, her green ponytail bobbing as she swiped a rag over spills. Makino's eyes gleamed, bright against the bar's murky glow, her small hands deft as she poured ale for her father—a wiry man with a crooked grin, slinging drinks to a ragtag throng.
At the counter's edge, a clutch of bandits sprawled—tattered figures with notched blades and sour glares. Their leader, Dadan, hulked atop a stool, orange hair a wild snarl, her fair skin flushed from rum. Forty-odd years had hardened her frame, sturdy as the oak she propped against. "That bastard Garp," she growled, slamming her mug down with a thud, "keeps us from robbin' these fools blind. How's a bandit supposed to survive without a proper haul?" She shot a scowl at the villagers nearby—unfazed, chuckling with her crew like old mates. "Next time I see him, I'll punch that smug face in!"
The bar's din rolled on, heedless, until the door swung wide. A silhouette loomed—broad, immovable. Dadan's tirade surged unchecked, her voice a jagged edge slicing the haze. "That damn Garp—" Her crew glanced up, and their frames stiffened, eyes ballooning with dread. The room stilled, a chill prickling her neck. She turned, slow as a doomed soul, and locked eyes with Garp.
"Who's talkin' behind my back?" His voice rumbled, low and perilous, a grin lurking beneath it like a shark in shallows.
Dadan's bravado crumbled—her spirit seemed to flee, sweat blooming on her brow as Garp strode forward, boots pounding like war drums. The bandits shrank back, faces blanching. He towered at the counter, gaze raking the crew before pinning her. "I heard someone wants to punch me in the face."
Her hands quaked, words spilling in a frantic tumble. "No, no, Garp-san! You misheard—I said thanks to you, the villagers welcome us so openly!" Sweat traced a line down her cheek, her grin a fragile shell.
Makino's voice piped up, sweet as a bell through the strain. "Uncle Garp, she said she wants to punch you in the face." Her innocence sparkled, blind to the tempest she'd unleashed.
The bandits froze, breath snagged. Dadan's eyes bulged. Garp's grin sharpened, fists rubbing together with a knuckle-crack that snapped the air. "Looks like you need a fist of love!" His punch landed—a Haki-charged thud square on her crown, ringing through the bar. Dadan yelped, staggering, as her crew flinched in chorus.
Minutes later, Garp lounged at the counter, a plate of grilled fish and a brimming mug before him, trading words with Makino's father. "Roger's execution's comin'," he said between bites, voice easy yet edged. "Big day." The bandits sulked by the wall, nursing swollen lumps, their fire doused to sullen embers. Garp's eyes slid to Makino, her small hands polishing a glass with care. "Workin' hard for your folks already, huh?" He flicked a glance at her father, pride glinting in his stare. "You've got a sensible kid here."
The man puffed up, beaming. "She's a good one, alright." Garp nodded, but a shadow crept into his thoughts—his own brat, that damned fool. Veins throbbed at his temple, a flare of ire he washed down with a gulp.
He tossed coins onto the counter, rising as Makino waved, her voice a chirp of daylight. "Goodbye, Uncle Garp! Come back soon!" He flashed a grin, waving back, and stepped into the dusk. The bar's clamor faded, the village settling into a gentle hum—waves lapping, gulls keening. Garp paused at the shore, alone, his bulk a dark cutout against the dimming horizon. The sea stretched before him, a restless mirror, Roger's gallows a silent weight pressing his chest. Four days. His fist clenched, then slackened, the tide swallowing his gaze.
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