The words – "Take care of this girl" – had barely registered, hanging in the crisp mountain air like a poorly timed joke, when Dadan's world, and indeed the relative tranquility of the entire mountainside, detonated.
"...WAIT, WHAT!!?!?!?"
It wasn't just a shout; it was a physical shockwave. Dadan's roar, fueled by a potent cocktail of disbelief, outrage, and pure, undiluted terror, hit me with the concussive force of a small explosion, making my tiny, newborn chest cavity vibrate like a struck drum. My vision, already a bit blurry from my recent re-entry into the world of the living, swam for a moment. Her face, framed by that wild, untamed mane of fiery orange hair that seemed to crackle with static electricity, contorted into a mask of such profound, apoplectic rage that it bordered on the inhuman. Veins, thick as earthworms, popped and pulsed on her forehead and along her temples, throbbing with a furious, purple life of their own. Her eyes, normally a sharp, assessing amber, were now wide, bloodshot, and bulging, practically leaping from their sockets. She looked less like a human woman and more like a startled, oversized, and exceptionally grumpy badger rudely awakened from hibernation and ready to maul the first thing it saw – which, unfortunately, appeared to be Garp, and by extension, me.
Her hand, a large, calloused appendage more accustomed to gripping a spiked club or the throat of a disrespectful subordinate, shot out with surprising speed, palm splayed, aiming to shove both Garp and the blanket-wrapped bundle he was proffering (me, again) bodily back out the door and, presumably, off the nearest cliff.
"WHAT IN THE SEVEN SEAS AND ALL THE HELLS BENEATH THEM DO YOU MEAN 'TAKE CARE OF HER'?!?! ARE YOU COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY INSANE, GARP?! HAVE YOU FINALLY SNAPPED YOUR DAMN MOORINGS, YOU OLD SEA-BASTARD?!" Her voice, already thunderous, climbed several octaves, cracking under the strain of her fury. "I'M A MOUNTAIN BANDIT! A BANDIT, YOU HEAR ME?! I LIVE UP HERE! I STEAL FROM RICH FOOLS! I FIGHT OFF WILD BEASTS AND RIVAL GANGS! I DON'T BAKE COOKIES! I DON'T KNIT BOOTIES! I DON'T BABYSIT! AND ESPECIALLY NOT... NOT...!" Her eyes, wide with a terror that now visibly warred with her rage, darted from my swaddled form to Garp's impassive face, then back to me. Her voice dropped to a strangled, horrified whisper. "...Not his...!"
She knew. Oh, she absolutely, terrifyingly knew. Or at least, she had a damned good, pants-wettingly scary suspicion whose child I was. The fear, a raw, primal thing, underlying the magnificent edifice of her rage was palpable, a cold miasma rolling off her in waves, clashing with the scent of pine and old woodsmoke.
My tiny, fragile body was jostled, a rather unpleasant sensation for someone whose bones were still knitting from a recent, catastrophic encounter with a motor vehicle, as Garp, with the effortless grace of a man swatting a bothersome fly, sidestepped Dadan's frantic attempts to return me to sender. He just stood there, an immovable object against her irresistible (or so she thought) force, a grin – that usual, infuriatingly oblivious, half-maniacal Garp grin – plastered across his weathered face. He continued to hold me out like I was a particularly interesting loaf of sourdough he needed her to examine for a moment.
Oh, this is rich. Utterly, magnificently rich, my adult brain, still adjusting to its new, miniature control panel, thought with a dark, bubbling chuckle that thankfully didn't translate into audible baby laughter. Dadan! The one and only Curly Dadan, queen of the mountain bandits, reluctant foster mother extraordinaire! Yeah, I remember her from the stories. Roger's kid being unceremoniously dumped on her doorstep… classic Garp! Completely, monumentally irresponsible! Also… utterly terrifying! From this angle, she looks like she could crush my skull with one meaty hand and not even break a sweat. Note to self: maintain maximum cuteness, minimize projectile vomiting in her general direction.
"GAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Garp's signature laugh, that booming, window-rattling sound that could probably curdle milk at fifty paces, erupted through the otherwise quiet mountain air, scattering a flock of nearby birds into startled flight. He seemed entirely unfazed by Dadan's sputtering, crimson-faced fury, treating her outburst as mild pre-dinner entertainment. "Just take her, Dadan! It's not that complicated! She needs a place to stay! A roof over her head, some grub in her belly! It's a long story! A… a complicated one!" He winked, as if sharing a hilarious secret.
Dadan looked like she was about to have an aneurysm. "A 'COMPLICATED ONE'?!?! YOU THINK DUMPING A BABY – A DEFENSELESS, SQUALLING, POOP-PRODUCING BABY, OF ALL THE DAMNED THINGS IN THIS WORLD! – ON MY DOORSTEP IS JUST A 'COMPLICATED STORY'?! WHAT ABOUT THE WORLD GOVERNMENT, YOU SENILE OLD FOOL?! WHAT ABOUT THE MARINES?! YOUR OWN BLOODY MARINES! IF THEY FIND OUT I'M HARBORING… HARBORING… HER—!" Dadan shrieked, her voice cracking with a fresh wave of pure, unadulterated panic. She clawed at her orange hair, pulling strands of it loose from her bandana, her knuckles white.
"Relax, relax! Take a breath before you pop a lung, woman!" Garp waved a dismissive, dinner-plate-sized hand, as if the World Government and its legions of heavily armed Marines were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, like a persistent mosquito. "Nobody knows! Not a soul! Except for a few… ah… trusted few, of course! And me, naturally! She's just… well, she's Ann now! Ann Dadan, maybe? Has a nice ring to it, eh? GAHAHAHA! Daughter of… uh… well, some distant cousin twice removed! The important thing is, she's YOUR responsibility now! Don't you worry your pretty little bandit head about the nitty-gritty details!" He beamed, clearly proud of this flimsy, instantly see-through fabrication.
"DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE DETAILS?!?! GARP, YOU ANCIENT, CRACKER-OBSESSED MORON! YOU'RE NOT HANDING ME A BABY; YOU'RE HANDING ME A DEATH SENTENCE ON A SILVER PLATTER! A WALKING, TALKING (EVENTUALLY) TIME BOMB! THIS IS WORSE THAN ANY BOUNTY I'VE EVER HAD! WORSE THAN ANY RIVAL GANG! WORSE THAN THAT TIME WITH THE GIANT BOAR AND THE BEEHIVE! THIS IS… THIS IS APOCALYPTIC!" Dadan screeched, her face turning a rather alarming shade of puce. She was actually hopping from one foot to the other in her agitation.
From the shadowy depths of the rustic wooden house behind her, two more figures, clearly Dadan's subordinates, poked their heads out cautiously. One was tall and lanky, with a nose so long it looked like it could spear fish, his eyes wide and perpetually worried – Dogra, if my internal database was correct. The other was shorter, stockier, with a square jaw and a glazed, perpetually confused expression that suggested the cogs in his brain turned very, very slowly – Magra. They were both pale, gulping audibly, their eyes as wide as dinner plates as they took in the scene: their ferocious boss being verbally (and almost physically) assaulted by the legendary Marine Hero, who was trying to offload an infant. Just another Tuesday on Mount Colubo, apparently.
"Now, now, Dadan. Don't be so difficult," Garp said, and though the idiotic grin remained plastered on his face, his voice hardened just a fraction, a steel edge creeping into his tone. The air temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. He leaned in, his shadow falling over Dadan, lowering his voice just enough that even the formidable bandit queen seemed to shrink a fraction, her tirade cut off mid-shriek. "You owe me, remember? From… way back. A lot. A whole lot. And I don't think you, or your little band of merry men here, want to see what happens if I decide you haven't quite… paid up that debt in full, do you now?"
He punctuated the veiled threat by patting her cheek, a gesture that would have been friendly from anyone else but from Garp felt more like being slapped with a side of beef. It wasn't gentle. Dadan flinched.
Before she could fully process the shift from blustering to barely concealed menace, Garp, with a speed that belied his age and bulk, pushed me – me! Gol D. Ann! – firmly into her arms. "There! See? Not so hard, is it? She's a baby! How hard can it be, eh? You're tougher than you look, Dadan! Probably!" He added the "probably" with another booming laugh, as if questioning her toughness was the height of comedy.
My tiny body was transferred from Garp's familiar, albeit uncomfortably rough, canvas-and-sea-salt-scented hold to Dadan's surprisingly strong, but definitely trembling, arms. Up close, her face was a rapidly shifting kaleidoscope of sheer terror, blazing indignation, and utter, helpless despair. Her amber eyes, usually so sharp, were glazed over with panic. She held me gingerly, at arm's length, as if I were a particularly venomous snake that might strike at any moment, or perhaps spontaneously combust. Her breath hitched, smelling faintly of stale tobacco and something woodsy.
Okay, new foster mother acquired, I thought, cataloging the data. Current emotional state: Approximately 98% terrified, 2% bewildered. Physical condition: Strong, but currently has the motor control of a startled octopus on roller skates. Scent profile: Pine, sweat, old campfire, and a hint of desperation. Overall prognosis for my immediate survival under her care: Uncertain, leaning towards 'dicey'.
Dadan stared down at me, her lower lip trembling with a mixture of incandescent rage and profound despair. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the rough blanket I was wrapped in. I stared back, trying to project an aura of complete, harmless, gurgling innocence with my large baby eyes. Inside, though, the cogs of my newly enhanced brain, a gift from that cosmic Voice, were whirring at top speed, analyzing, calculating, strategizing.
Okay, Dadan. You're loud. You're rough. You're clearly terrified of Garp, and even more terrified of what I represent. You're probably going to be a logistical and emotional nightmare to live with for the foreseeable future. But… you're also, according to Garp's not-so-subtle blackmail, my only viable option right now. The World Government, as I intimately recall from the source material, hunts Roger's lineage with a fanaticism that makes rabid dogs look placid. Being hidden up here on this remote mountain, under the "care" of a notorious, off-the-grid mountain bandit… it's ironically, perversely, one of the safest places for me to start this new, insane life. For now.
"GAHAHAHA! Alright then, my work here is done! I'm off!" Garp clapped Dadan enthusiastically on the shoulder – a blow that wasn't so much a friendly pat as a minor seismic event, making her stagger a good two steps back and nearly drop me again. He then turned, spun on his heel with surprising agility for a man his size, and began walking away, whistling a jaunty, off-key sea shanty. "Don't do anything stupid, Dadan! And make sure she gets strong! Real strong! Like her… uh… like a real D.! GAHAHAHA!"
He strode off down the winding mountain path without another backward glance, his broad, white-coated back receding into the dense green foliage as if he'd just dropped off a particularly troublesome package of laundry, not the world's most wanted, most politically volatile infant. The sound of his whistling and occasional booming laughter faded into the rustling leaves and birdsong, leaving behind a silence thick with unspoken dread and Dadan's hyperventilating breaths.
Dadan stood frozen in the doorway of her rustic shack, clutching me awkwardly, as if I were still something alien and deeply unpleasant. Her eyes were wide, almost unseeing, staring at the spot where the terrifying Marine Vice-Admiral had vanished. The two bandits, Dogra and Magra, who had wisely retreated further into the shadows of the hut during Garp's final pronouncements, now cautiously crept forward, their expressions a mixture of fear for their boss and morbid curiosity about the small, noisy bundle she was now holding.
"Uh... Boss...?" Magra ventured, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes darting nervously between Dadan's rigid form and me. "Is… is he… gone?"
Dadan didn't respond for a long moment. She slowly lowered her head, her gaze falling back to me. Her face, which had been a mask of rage and terror, seemed to crumple from within, like a building collapsing under its own weight. She looked utterly, comprehensively defeated. And then, she let out a wail. It wasn't the earlier roar of defiance. This was a sound of pure, pathetic, soul-deep misery, a sound that echoed the mournful cry of a lost wolf cub.
"WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?! WHY ME?! WHY ALWAYS ME?!" she howled at the indifferent blue sky, shaking her head so vigorously her orange hair flew around her face like angry flames. "I'M A BANDIT! A RESPECTED (by some, feared by most) MOUNTAIN BANDIT! I COMMAND MEN! I PLAN HEISTS! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT RAISING KIDS! AND THIS ONE... THIS ONE IS…!" She trailed off, her voice choked with a despair so profound it was almost comical. She looked like she might actually cry, or possibly just throw me into the nearest ravine and take her chances with Garp's retribution.
I decided this might be a good time for some strategic baby intervention. I let out a little, soft, inquisitive baby coo, a "goo-goo" sound that I hoped conveyed innocent helplessness rather than "hello, future ruler of this bandit den."
Dadan flinched violently, as if I'd just spat acid at her. "Gah!"
"Boss, what… what are we gonna do…?" Dogra asked, his long nose twitching nervously as he peered at me from a safe distance, as if I might suddenly sprout fangs and attack. "With… it? Her?"
Dadan let out a long, ragged sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of all the bad decisions she'd ever made, culminating in this one, Garp-inflicted catastrophe. She shuffled heavily back inside the hut, the worn wooden floorboards creaking under her weight. The interior of the house, now that I was actually inside it, smelled strongly of old wood smoke, damp earth, unwashed bodies, and the unmistakable, pungent aroma of stale booze and what might have been poorly cured boar jerky. The light filtering through the single, grimy window was dim, revealing a cluttered, chaotic space. Piles of mismatched furs served as bedding. A rough-hewn table was littered with dirty bowls and chipped mugs. Weapons – clubs, rusty swords, a few primitive-looking bows – leaned haphazardly against the rough log walls. Not exactly the serene, pastel-colored nursery one might envision for a newborn.
Right. Home sweet hovel, I thought, trying to acclimate my senses. At least it's… rustic? Authentic? Definitely a fixer-upper.
Dadan slumped down heavily onto a rickety, three-legged stool that groaned in protest, still holding me at arm's length as if my mere proximity might be contagious. She eyed me suspiciously, her gaze sharp and assessing, the terror slowly being replaced by a grim, resentful practicality. I looked back, focusing all my nascent willpower into my baby eyes, trying to channel an aura of "I am but a harmless, adorable infant who will definitely not bring the wrath of the entire world down upon your head, probably."
Dogra and Magra hovered nervously nearby, wringing their hands. "She looks… uh… kinda quiet, Boss," Magra offered helpfully, clearly trying to find a silver lining in the mushroom cloud of their current situation.
"QUIET?! FOR NOW, YOU IDIOT!" Dadan snapped, though her voice lacked its earlier explosive force, now tinged more with exhaustion than rage. "You never know with these… these… 'D.' initialed… things! They're trouble magnets, every last one of 'em! Bound to be a handful! Especially… especially his get!" She shuddered, a genuine, full-body tremor, as if a ghost had just walked over her grave. The name 'Roger' was clearly a potent curse in this household.
My mind, already processing at an accelerated rate thanks to Wish Number Two, filed that away. No prior experience with "D" kids then. This is a fresh hell for her. Good to know. I should probably try not to be a complete, screaming, projectile-pooping menace… at least for the first week. Conserve energy for essential baby training: head lifting, focused glaring, and advanced drool manipulation.
Training! Right! I had powers! Latent, yes, but incredible, universe-breaking, Frieza-race-style growth-on-demand powers! And super-fast healing from near-death experiences (though I sincerely hoped not to test that particular feature anytime soon). And a brain that could learn anything at lightning speed! But… how does one train as a helpless, uncoordinated infant? Is there a baby-weightlifting regimen I'm unaware of? Can I achieve Zenkai boosts from particularly frustrating diaper rashes? This was going to be… humbling. And probably involve a lot of failed attempts at rolling over.
Dadan groaned again, running a hand through her already disheveled orange hair, making it stand up in even wilder tufts. "Alright, alright! Fine! Blast it all! Garp dumped her here, so she's here! End of story! Complaining won't make him magically reappear and take her back, damn his inconsiderate hide!" She glared at me again, as if it were my fault. "So what in the blazes are we gonna do?! We need… stuff! Baby stuff! What do babies even eat?! Milk, right? Where do you get baby-milk on top of a mountain infested with bandits and things that want to eat you?! And… and diapers! Sweet merciful Sea Kings, diapers! How do you even… change one of those cursed things without getting… stuff… everywhere?!" She looked utterly, completely lost, like a seasoned pirate captain suddenly asked to perform brain surgery with a rusty fish hook.
Dogra and Magra exchanged nervous, wide-eyed glances. They looked as clueless as their boss. "We could… uh… go down to Foosha Village…?" Dogra suggested timidly, twisting the hem of his ragged tunic. "Maybe… maybe Makino-san at the Party's Bar would know? Or have some… supplies?"
"THEN GO, YOU USELESS LUMPS! DON'T JUST STAND THERE GAPING LIKE CODFISH! MOVE!" Dadan roared, some of her usual bandit queen fire returning now that Garp's oppressive presence had fully dissipated and she had underlings to berate. "And if you breathe a single word of this to anyone – anyone – I'll personally skin you both alive and use your hides to patch the holes in the roof! Got it?!"
"Y-YES, BOSS! RIGHT AWAY, BOSS!" Dogra and Magra squeaked in unison, practically tripping over each other in their haste to scramble out of the hut and away from their volatile, newly-maternal leader. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Dadan alone with me in the dim, smoky silence.
She still held me, awkwardly, her earlier terror slowly morphing into a potent brew of annoyance, exasperation, and a deep, bone-weary resignation. She sighed again, a long, drawn-out puff of air that smelled faintly of cheap tobacco and utter defeat.
She looked down at me one more time, her gaze lingering on my face. Her expression was still mostly wary, but for a fleeting instant, her eyes, those fierce bandit queen eyes, softened just a fraction. A tiny, almost imperceptible fraction. "Ann, huh?" she grumbled, the name sounding foreign and strange on her tongue. "Gol D. Ann..." She shook her head slowly, a wry, almost bitter smile twisting her lips. "What a goddamn, world-class mess you are, kid."
Then, with a sigh that seemed to deflate her entire imposing frame, she finally, hesitantly, held me a little closer, one large, calloused hand awkwardly patting my back. The movement was clumsy, unpracticed, and entirely devoid of any maternal tenderness. But… it was, undeniably, a form of care. Rough, grudging, terrified, and deeply resentful care, but care nonetheless.
This is it, then, I thought, nestled somewhat uncomfortably against her surprisingly solid, if not particularly soft, chest. The scent of the forest, of woodsmoke, and something wild and untamed that was uniquely Dadan enveloped me. The actual, no-turning-back-now, this-is-my-life start. Reborn as the Pirate King's secret daughter, dumped on a reluctant mountain bandit with a temper hotter than a volcano, armed with a handful of cosmic wishes and a brain far too old for this tiny, squishy body. It's utterly, fantastically ridiculous. It's pants-wettingly terrifying. And, if I'm being honest with my newly resurrected self, it's the most exhilarating, pulse-pounding, terrifyingly wonderful thing that's ever happened to me.
My wishes. My Frieza-race potential. My accelerated learning. My creation magic. My pocket dimension. All waiting to be explored, to be mastered. My training. My future. It all starts here. High on this remote, dangerous mountain, under the dubious, highly volatile, and probably frequently exasperated protection of the Dadan Family.
Time to survive. Time to adapt. Time to get strong. Time to live a life that isn't boring, isn't mediocre, isn't going to end as an anonymous smear on some forgotten city street.
Dadan let out another long-suffering groan, shifting me slightly in her arms as if trying to find a less awkward way to hold a ticking time bomb. "First thing tomorrow," she muttered, more to herself than to me, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. "We're finding you a damn durable crib. Probably gonna need to chain it to the floor."