Chapter Text
His designation was Z-0-R-0, a high-end, one-of-a-kind, combat-class android, property of Dracule Mihawk, founder of Hawkeye Dynamics. The humans, however, just called him ‘Zoro’ for convenience. He tolerated it well enough. It was certainly the least irritating among the other names they used for him (The Rogue Hunter, King of Hell, Demon of Kuraigana, or simply, the Monster), so he allowed it.
Not that he could do much when humans annoyed him, which happened with predictable frequency. ‘Annoyance’ was one of the few sensations his behavioral matrix allowed him to experience, though no matter how much he simulated the impulse to put an en end to those irritating humans with the swing of his swords, the will and the intent were not there, so they were safe around him. Mostly.
Hopefully, Zoro had enough free processing power to keep that thought to himself as Mihawk slid a datapad across his obsidian glass desk toward him. Zoro’s scanners swept the digital file, uploading the parameters for his new contract in a microsecond.
Client: Zeff (Alias: Redleg)
Designated Unit: Z-0-R-0
Primary Objective: Protection of Target Asset ‘Sanji’ against hostile pursuit units
Engagement Zone: Baratie Restaurant, East Sector
A bodyguard contract. Curious. Unusual, too, as it was all the way in the East Sector. Normally, he was Mihawk’s primary retrieval unit for rogue androids and illegal cyborgs operating across the Mainframe, hence the ‘Rogue Hunter’ label. He had been active for exactly seven years and nine months, and not once had a directive involved protecting a civilian.
Not that he couldn’t do it; there was barely anything a unit of his class couldn’t handle. But he was told from multiple sources that his physical attributes and design, namely the neon green hair, the heavy-grade armor plating and the experimental prosthetic replacing his left eye (tech that granted him optical insight far beyond standard specs), gave him an intimidating look; one that clients rarely saw fit to protect their loved ones.
“Your objective this time is simple, if different.” Mihawk said, interrupting the data-stream of Zoro’s processor. “Protection. The client fears his son is becoming overwhelmed and requires you to eliminate the threats efficiently.”
Zoro processed the target asset profile and the background data attached to the file as Mihawk elaborated (quite unnecessarily) on the details of the contract he already knew line by line.
Name: Sanji (Alias: Blackleg)
Age: 21
Role: Sous-Chef / Civilian
Relation to Client: Adopted Son
The file was abnormally bereft of any useful information regarding the target or the hostiles or even the client. Zoro accessed the Underworld Brokerage Network for rumors and black market chatter, and what he found intrigued him.
Sanji, a name that translated to Number 3 in the Old Language, was rumored to have been a test subject (the numerical name tracked; though perhaps the rumor arose because of it?). Apparently he had escaped, defected or been abducted from his homeland at a very young age (multiple sources said 8, but there was no evidence to support the claim).
Encrypted traces confirmed the presence of Vinsmoke genetic identifiers: the rare S (RH-) blood type, the distinctive curled eyebrows, and the abnormally golden hair. Yet official Germa logs listed him as deceased. His current location had remained unknown until the client’s disclosure.
The name ‘Germa’, however, was the most interesting thing to Zoro.
“Ask your questions.” Mihawk sighed as he swirled the crimson liquid in his glass in an impatient manner. Zoro knew he regretted the day he decided to upgrade Zoro’s model with a more enhanced ‘human affinity’ module. Apparently, the upgrade had given Zoro a sense of curiosity, and to quote Mihawk himself, had made him ‘almost as bothersome as a human’.
“Is he related in any way to Vinsmoke Judge, the CEO and founder of Vinsmoke Cybernetics?”
“As a matter of fact, he is. Though the records list the boy as dead, my sources confirm he escaped Germa and later resurfaced in the East Sector.”
“And the hostiles in pursuit are Germa units?”
“Correct.”
“I hate those bastards.”
Mihawk’s lips curled faintly. “Good. You and Sanji already have something in common then. A sound basis for cooperation.”
Vinsmoke Cybernetics was Hawkeye Dynamics’ main rival, but with more superior robots; less market share but a higher net worth, largely because their models were far too expensive for most people to afford. But more concerning was the rumor Zoro had confirmed with his access to highly confidential information; that Vinsmoke Cybernetics followed a grotesque approach in building robots; one whispered about in elite inner circles as Organic Conversion.
While Mihawk built synthetic beings from alloys and gave them enough processing powers to convincingly imitate humans, Judge had taken the opposite approach, turning living tissue into machinery. The North Core had earned its infamy for a reason. Even the World Government had severed ties with the whole nation, branding Germa’s research ‘unethical’ and ‘illegal’. Some reports went further, claiming Judge had stripped his own children of humanity to turn them into weapons, devoid of emotion and agency.
Zoro had never actually encountered a Vinsmoke in person to confirm that rumor. The North Core’s isolation and remoteness made that all but impossible. He wondered if this Sanji shared his siblings’ augmentations and if that explained why Germa was so desperate to take him back.
“One more directive before you leave,” Mihawk added suddenly. “Exercise discretion when neutralizing hostiles to preserve the target’s cooperation. According to his father, Sanji refuses to kill them, believing them to be victims rather than enemies.”
“That is a tactical flaw,” Zoro noted flatly, already thinking of this Sanji as a naive, sentimental idiot; just like most humans, really. “Leaving enemies functional increases resource expenditure and the chances of his capture.”
“Which is precisely why you are going to protect him.” Mihawk stood up, “Try not to get lost on the way to the shuttle bay.”
“I don’t get lost,” Zoro said, hoping his synthetic voice hid his irritation. “The map interface is faulty.”
Mihawk didn’t bother to respond. He simply turned his back on Zoro and looked out of the window, a clear sign of dismissal.
Zoro ground his teeth in annoyance. He often wondered why, out of the vast spectrum of human sensations he could have been saddled with, he had to end up with the absolute worst.
He wouldn’t put it past Mihawk to have a part in it somehow to punish him. The man was, in human terms, a sadist after all.
***
Zoro sat alone in the cargo hold of the transport shuttle, his three swords strapped securely to his waist. Through the viewport, the East Sector sprawled out below him; an endless expanse of rusted sign holders and flickering yellow halogen lights drowning in thick smog.
Technically, it was the weakest sector. Most people just called it the Wasteland. Here, technological progress seemed to have stopped dead decades ago. The infrastructure was ancient, tangled, and brutally inefficient. Residents still clung to outdated gear: clunky manual processors, fossil-fuel generators, analog comms systems that made their lives harder, instead of easier. The World Government barely bothered scanning this grid anymore. Apparently, it wasn’t worth the resources.
It was, however, a fine place to disappear; a labyrinth where rogue princes could conceal themselves from the most powerful and technologically advanced nations in the world. But apparently, this particular prince’s luck had finally run out.
Zoro pulled up the target's holographic file again as the shuttle prepared to land. He didn’t need to re-read it; his optical memory banks were infallible, but something about that face piqued his interest. Golden hair covering one eye; the other, a clear and startling blue that was rare among humans. Distinct, curly eyebrows that looked endearing somehow. A deceptively lean, but most likely deadly build. A perfectly symmetrical face, even down to the curious curl to his eyebrows. Beautiful, one could say, by humans’ standards.
Though Zoro couldn’t quite determine why the aesthetic designation mattered. Humans didn’t appeal to him, even if his own appearance had been heavily modeled after them.
He arrived at the location without fanfare. A floating structure of rusted steel in the shape of a giant fish greeted him as he looked up. Massive, glitching letters flickered against the smog: “THE BARATIE - FL_ATING FISH RE_TA_RAN_”, with several letters burned out. Colorful, holographic fish swam along the exterior, stuttering occasionally, while smaller lines of text scrolled below with menu specials and discounts. And a curious slogan: “At Baratie, no one goes hungry.”
And no, he did not get lost. The shuttle deposited him right on the doorstep. Zoro ignored the pilot’s snide comment about being instructed by Mr. Mihawk himself to deliver the unit directly to the entrance due to Zoro's "abysmal navigational skills." He had more important things to attend to than educating an ignorant pilot about how his model’s internal GPS maps were all faulty and no patch had been able to fix the issue yet.
It seemed Zoro had arrived during lunch rush. The air was thick with the scent of searing spices and buttery oil. Waiters shouted orders over the roar of open-flame stoves, and a hundred different conversations clashed in a cacophony of languages; human, fishman, and the ocasional cyborg. The place was packed, warm, and aggressively alive.
Then, the heavy steel door hissed shut behind Zoro and suddenly, everything went quiet. Hundreds of eyes turned toward him. Forks paused halfway to mouths and drinks were lowered.
Zoro stood in the center of the sudden quiet, the sleek, matte-green plating of his chassis and the cold glow of his optical sensor standing in stark contrast to the grime and warmth of the room. He was a high-end, military-grade unit worth more than this entire sector, standing in a floating wreck that was barely held together by the desperate hopefulness of its owners.
Zoro’s eyes moved past the unimportant customers to zero in on an old man with a prosthetic leg at least ten models obsolete, an impressive beard braided into a neat rope that hung to his chest, and a severe scowl on his weathered face. He marched toward Zoro, the heavy hydraulic piston of his leg thudding against the floorboards. Zoro’s database pinged him as his client, Redleg Zeff.
And right behind him was the young man named Sanji. The one Zoro had been contracted to protect. The runaway prince with ties to the Germa Kingdom and the damned Visnmoke Cybernetics.
Sanji. With perfect facial symmetry. Smooth, unscarred skin, luminous under flickering, dirty neon lights of the kitchen pass. Golden hair, styled with deliberate asymmetry that still looked as flawless as the rest of him. A wayward thought pinged across Zoro’s processor: this man should be considered as the face model for pleasure bots.
Sanji looked as perfect and deliberately engineered as a machine. In fact, the probability of a human naturally achieving that level of aesthetic flawlessness without cyber-enhancement was statistically negligible.
Conclusion: Subject Sanji was 98% percent likely to be an android.
“You’re a whole day late, you damn overpriced tin can!” the client snapped, glaring down at Zoro from his impressive height. “Do you know how many pesky bots have tried to drag my son away since yesterday?”
Before Zoro could point out that he wasn’t a full day late, but just eight hours behind Mainframe Time, the blond stepped forward. He flicked ash from his cigarette, gave Zoro’s chassis a long, unimpressed once-over, and then turned to Zeff.
“I told you I don’t need a damn bodyguard,” The blond said, voice sharp with agitation. “Especially not a fucking combat android you had to sell your soul to afford. We’re barely keeping this wreck afloat, old man and you know exactly how I feel about these bastards!”
“It’s my money and my soul and I’ll protect you how I damn well please,” Zeff bit out, slamming a hand on the nearby table, spooking its occupants. “And I wouldn’t have had to resort to this if you weren’t so damn stubborn and dealt with those robots the way I taught you!”
“They’re not robots, you shitty old man! They’re fucking human!” Sanji yelled back, his voice cracking with intensity. “You know they can’t help following Judge’s commands!”
Zoro was a top-tier combat model, not one of those flimsy data-gathering scanners that could analyze a social dynamic in milliseconds. Because of that, his read on the current situation was painfully limited.
Still, one thing was becoming increasingly clear; the probability that Sanji wasn’t fully human kept climbing. His fierce empathy for what should have been nothing more than programmed machines was highly suspicious.
Zoro stepped closer, interrupting the heated argument. “I have a question.”
Sanji turned to him, annoyed. “What?”
“Are you an android?”
Sanji’s expression darkened like a sky before an ion storm. The next entry in Zoro’s sensory log was [IMPACT WARNING].
A heel, Sanji’s right leg, slammed into Zoro’s abdomen with enough force to make his internal gyroscope rattle. Zoro’s heavy chassis launched backward, smashing into a wall with a resonant clang that cracked the plaster and shook the dust from the ceiling.
“Are you a fucking moron, you stupid marimo?” Sanji snarled, leg still raised, as if ready for another attack. “Why the hell would you even think that?”
Processing term: Marimo.
Zoro’s system flagged the unknown word and ran a swift linguistic search.
Result: Old Language. Aegagropila linnaei. Moss ball. Spherical. Green.
Correlation: Subject is referencing hair color pigments.
The man he’d been hired to protect had just given him a nickname. And for reasons Zoro couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t hate it.
Zoro straightened up from the dented wall, subsystems recalibrating.
Damage Assessment: Minimal.
Force and Speed Analysis: Exceeds standard human parameters.
“Don’t you ever compare me to Germa’s experiments,” Sanji said, voice low and dangerous as he lowered his leg. “I’m human. Every fucking inch of me. If you ever think of me as anything else, I’ll remodel your stupid metal body with my feet.”
Sanji was an anomaly. The speed and force with which he attacked Zoro was without a doubt inhuman. Yet, the breadth and volatility of Sanji’s emotional output was astronomically high. No android could reproduce that intensity so chaotically without overheating its logic core. Either Sanji was a special android, at least half a century ahead of his time, or Zoro’s initial conclusion had been flawed because of insufficient data.
“Apologies,” Zoro said, dusting plaster off his shoulder plating. “My initial assumption was illogical. You are the most volatile being I have ever observed. No robot could replicate this pattern of expression with so much intensity.”
Sanji’s shoulders visibly relaxed as he exhaled a long plume of smoke, though he still eyed Zoro with distrust. “Then why the hell did you assume I was an android?”
“Your physical appearance is statistically improbable for a biological human,” Zoro stated flatly. “Perfect symmetry. Flawless skin. No moles or scars or freckles. High-level aesthetic optimization suggests engineered design rather than organic evolution.”
Sanji blinked, thrown off-balance for a fraction of a second. A flush of red rose high on his cheekbones.
“Wh–what’s that supposed to mean, stupid marimo?” he sputtered.
“It means you look perfect,” Zoro said simply for the simple-minded human to understand. “Humans typically possess imperfections. You do not. Or at least, none that my sensors can detect.”
Sanji’s blush deepened, spreading to his ears. He looked away, scratching his cheek awkwardly.
“Damn it, marimo,” he muttered. “If that’s your best attempt at flirting, you’re truly hopeless.”
“Flirting was not my intent.”
“They all say that when their flirting doesn’t go anywhere with me,” Sanji replied dryly. His gaze softened, though, just a little. “Anyway…guess we have to tolerate each other for a while until either I can convince Zeff to call off the contract or the contract is done.”
“He’s gonna stick to you as long as it needs to keep you safe,” Zeff grunted with finality, stomping his way back to the kitchens.
Sanji heaved a deep sigh and looked back at Zoro, who was running a silent diagnostic on his chest plate. “Come on, Marimo. Let's get you something to eat.”
That was odd. In all the years Zoro had been operational, no human had ever offered him food. He didn’t need food, so why would they? Then he thought about how in Germa, the cloned soldiers were based on human genetics and as such, needed human food to survive. Maybe Sanji was mistaking an android for one.
“I don’t require food as an android. I have a self-charging nuclear core.”
Sanji snorted, as if Zoro had told a joke. Zoro, as a combat-class unit, did not have a humor module installed.
“Yeah, I know that, marimo. But you’re still gonna eat food at Baratie. We don’t let anyone go hungry; not even funny-looking androids with stupid mossy hair and terrible observational skills.”
Zoro opened his mouth to protest; his hair wasn't stupid and his observational skills were cutting-edge; also giving food to an android was a waste of resources; but Sanji was already walking toward the kitchen. As his bodyguard, Zoro’s programming compelled him to follow rather than argue.
Twenty minutes later, Zoro sat before a plate of steaming seafood risotto. He scanned the chemical composition, finding it non-hazardous for androids.
However, when he finally processed the first bite, Zoro’s internal logic stalled.
The flavor profile was complex, perfectly balanced, and vivid in a way that defied his taste receptors' standard calibration. It was warm. It was…comforting, for lack of a better word. And it triggered something in Zoro’s logs; like an overwritten memory Zoro had once deigned as insignificant and now wanted to recover it no matter what.
Zoro looked up at the blond, who was watching him with the warmest blue eyes Zoro had ever seen on a human’s face. “It’s good, huh?”
Zoro updated his conclusion instead of answering. There was no way Blackleg Sanji was 100% human. The food was otherworldly. No mere human should be able to create something this technically flawless.
Something even an android would love.
Love? Now where did that word come from?