Lyra stood stiffly at the staff entrance of the Baratie, frilly maid uniform clinging to her like a betrayal she couldn't scrub off.
Across from her, Zeff loomed like an old, grumpy drill sergeant.
"Listen up, missy," he barked, arms crossed. "Your job's simple. Greet customers, take their orders, and for the love of the sea, don't cause another hole in my wall."
Lyra nodded solemnly, trying her best to look like a responsible, trustworthy adult.
Unfortunately, the stupid little hat bobbing on her head ruined any hope of dignity she had left.
"And if you break anything," Zeff continued, voice dropping to a dangerous growl, "you're paying it off. In blood, sweat, or tears... I ain't picky."
Lyra swallowed nervously. The man might have had a wooden leg, but the aura he gave off could crush steel.
She raised a shaky hand in salute.
"You can count on me, sir!"
Zeff gave her a flat look that said, No, I absolutely cannot, before jerking his thumb toward the dining hall.
"Get moving. Customers are piling up."
As Lyra turned to leave, a few curious heads poked out from the kitchen window — the other chefs, drawn like moths to the scent of impending disaster.
When they spotted Lyra, tiny and awkward in her frilly maid outfit, there was a collective, stunned silence.
One burly chef dropped his ladle with a clang.
Another nearly swallowed his cigarette.
Someone else made a strangled noise — a desperate mix of laughter and horror.
"Oi, oi..." one muttered, nudging his buddy. "Is Zeff runnin' a cosplay café now?"
"Shut it," Zeff growled, his mustache bristling like an angry cat.
His eyes flicked back to Lyra — the too-big hat, the frilly apron, the deer-in-headlights stare.
For a split second, the grizzled old pirate looked like he might keel over from secondhand embarrassment. Or rage.
"...Tch," he clicked his tongue sharply, wrenching his gaze away like the sight physically pained him. "She breaks one damn plate, and you're all scrubbing the bilge for a week. Get back to work!"
The chefs scattered back into the kitchen, muffled snickers following Lyra like a death sentence.
She stood there, frozen, cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg on.
"I hate everything," she muttered.
(• You brought this on yourself. •) Great Sage sighed, sounding like a tired sitcom narrator.
---
The dining hall buzzed with activity.
Lyra, decked out in her frilly prisoner outf ....I mean uniform plastered on her brightest, fakest smile, tray in one hand, notepad in the other.
"Welcome to the Baratree! Please enjoy your stay!" she chirped, voice so painfully chipper a few hardened pirates visibly winced. Some looked up at the sign that read Baratie and gave her a weird look.
(• Table three ordered the grilled sea king, table five wants extra wasabi, and table seven didn't order soup. •) Great Sage reported wearily.
Lyra nodded sweetly at each customer, her mind retaining exactly zero information.
Fortunately, Great Sage was handling everything. She just had to smile and sparkle. Easy!
Well... if you didn't count the tripping.
Every few steps, she'd catch her foot on the skirt or slip on thin air, arms pinwheeling like a cat tossed into water. Plates went flying, drinks rained down like waterfalls, crab bisque became an avant-garde painting on the walls.
At first, the chefs just watched in paralyzed horror, but slowly, like brave soldiers entering enemy fire, they started coming out.
One swiped a tray from her hands midair.
Another lunged to steady a wine bottle Lyra nearly elbowed into oblivion.
A third tackled her to save a teetering cake.
Tears welled up in Lyra's eyes.
"Wow... these guys are so helpful...!" she whispered, heart swelling with gratitude.
(• They are trying to save the restaurant, Lyra. •) Great Sage croaked, the last embers of hope snuffed from their voice.
Blissfully unaware, Lyra selectively ignored Great Sage and continued her catastrophic march.
Hours blurred together into a waking nightmare of smashed plates, food fights, and traumatized customers.
By the time the sun dipped low, the Baratie looked like a battlefield — half the plates were shattered and mountains of wasted food clogged the kitchen.
Several wealthy patrons had simply run for their lives.
The chefs slumped against the walls and tables, gasping for breath, their souls visibly leaving their bodies.
Lyra stood behind the counter, brushing dust from her sleeves, a radiant, accomplished smile on her face.
"Mission accomplished!" she chirped brightly.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Zeff approaching.
His hands were clasped behind his back. His face was so dark it could summon thunderstorms.
She beamed at him.
"Boss! I had so much fun today! I'm really excited to work tomorrow too!"
Zeff stopped dead in his tracks.
The man who had survived shipwrecks, starvation, pirates, and Sanji's teenage years just stared at her.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
His mustache twitched like it was trying to flee his face.
And then, with the frozen, mechanical smile of a man who has lost all hope, Zeff quickly said:
"No need. Please. Consider your debt... cancelled."
Lyra blinked up at him innocently. "Eh?"
Zeff reached out and patted her head once, very, very gently, like she was a live explosive.
"After thinking about it," he said with alarming tenderness, "it was a mistake on my part."
Without another word, he turned and limped back toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath:
"I'm too old for this crap..."
Lyra watched him go, feeling oddly touched.
"Wow," she thought, smiling warmly. "The boss must really appreciate hard workers like me!"
(• You are the restaurant's final boss, Lyra. •) Great Sage moaned in the background, sounding utterly defeated.
---
Later that evening, Lyra changed back into her usual outfit and collapsed into bed at the staff dormitory.
She smiled, thinking back on the day. A strange feeling stirred in her heart.My brother always used to complain about how hard it was working in a restaurant.She thought
"Hmph. I don't know why he was always complaining — it's easy."she muttered.She slowly drifted off to sleep with a serene smile on her face.
Until an explosion shattered the night.
Lyra's eyes snapped open, her face darkening into a fearsome scowl.
Someone. Was. Gonna. Pay.
No one — NO ONE — interrupted her beauty sleep and lived to tell about it.
The last guy who did had been flattened by a giant teddy bear fist conjured straight out of her fury.
Meanwhile, in Loguetown, far away, Nami sneezed violently.
Back at the Baratie, Lyra kicked off her blanket, Chastifol morphing from a cozy pillow into a gleaming spear floating silently behind her.
She cracked open the door.
Chaos reigned outside — chefs scrambled everywhere, yelling and ducking for cover.
Lyra grabbed the nearest one by the collar, smiling darkly.
"Would you be so kind as to tell me," she said sweetly, "who made that loud explosion?"
The chef visibly trembled, glancing at the raging battle down the hall.
He considered running — but somehow, the girl in front of him was far scarier than anything outside.
"P-Pirates!" he stammered. "They're tryin' to take the Baratie! Zeff's fightin' 'em off right now!"
Lyra's smile sharpened.
"Pirates, huh?" she said, cracking her knuckles.
She thought this isn't just about sleep now Sanji won't cook such delicious food for me if he finds out that old man zeff was hurt plus I haven't even tasted zeffs cooking yet
Lyra's footsteps echoed sharply down the corridor, Chastifol floating behind her like a silent executioner.
The dim hallway lights flickered as she passed, casting long, warped shadows. Her frilly skirt swished with each step, a stark, almost mocking contrast to the deadly aura now radiating off her.
A few exhausted chefs, battered and bruised, peeked around the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of her face.
She was smiling.
No — grinning.
An evil, predatory grin stretched across her face, sharp enough to cut steel.
The air around her shimmered faintly, a barely contained storm of murderous intent.
The chefs stiffened instantly. A cold shudder ran down their spines.
"...O-Oi," one of them croaked, voice cracking like dry wood. "Is it just me... or did it just get colder?"
Another chef, pale as a ghost, whispered hoarsely:
"...Poor bastards. They have no idea what's comin'."
They watched, rooted in place, as Lyra marched toward the battlefield — a tiny, frilly-clad harbinger of doom — and for the first time all night, the chefs pitied the pirates.
One of them even took off his hat and held it to his chest, murmuring a solemn prayer.
"May the sea grant them a quick end..."
Far ahead, the sounds of clashing steel and shouting pirates filled the air.
And at the heart of it all, an oblivious group of invaders continued their assault — unaware that the true storm had just begun walking their way.