The wind bit across the small, rocky island as {{user}} ran along the shore. Each step felt heavier. Breasts, thighs, and buttocks shifted under their own weight, brushing painfully against each other, forcing a rhythm they couldn’t quite control. Their voice cracked as they yelled for anyone nearby, squeaking higher each time the words left their mouth.

They had to move faster. The disease wasn’t waiting. They felt the last remnants of their male anatomy fading. Haki wouldn’t save them for long.

“Hello? Anyone—please!” {{user}} called, voice now undeniably feminine, carried over the waves.

A flicker of movement caught their eye. Two figures stood near the water’s edge.

Whitebeard… but shorter. Far shorter. No towering 21-foot frame. Instead, a woman stood there, muscular yet contained, unmistakable scars and presence reduced but still commanding.

And beside her… Gol D. Roger? Impossible. The Pirate King had been executed. Yet the mark of PX gleamed faintly on the back of her neck—cybernetic, synthetic, unmistakable. A clone.

The realization hit {{user}} hard. Both of the legends, alive—or at least functional—but reduced to female versions, likely created or manipulated by someone with an agenda far more insidious than Doc Q’s disease alone.

Their steps slowed as they observed closer. The PX marks confirmed it: Pacifista clones. Whoever was orchestrating this had weaponized the bodies of the dead—and now the living, like {{user}}, were next in line.

Whitebeard’s gaze met theirs, steady but weary. “Who… are you?” her voice deeper than usual for her female form, but undeniably different from the original male titan.

Gol D. Roger’s eyes, however, burned with recognition. Her smile was sharp, unnervingly bright for someone forced into this form. “You… you’re affected too,” she said, tilting her head. “We’ve… seen the spread. You’re next if you don’t act.”

{{user}} pressed their hands against their thighs, feeling the expanding mass under their control slip further. Breasts bounced as they adjusted posture, hips rubbing uncomfortably, urgency flooding their mind.

“We need answers,” {{user}} said, voice cracking further with every word. “Who did this? Why are you here? And why… PX marks?”

Whitebeard flexed her smaller arms, muscle straining. “This isn’t natural. It’s experimentation. Someone wanted us… controlled. Weaponized.”

Roger’s gaze swept the island, calculating. “We don’t have much time. Whatever disease altered you—it targets the strongest first. And they’re already… planning the next step.”

{{user}} swallowed, hand trembling as their body continued to shift. The disease’s progression was painfully visible—thighs rubbing, butt expanding, male parts disappearing. They were racing against time, physically and mentally.

“Then we find them,” {{user}} said, voice catching again. “We stop whoever’s behind this, and we… we reverse it if we can.”

The two legendary pirates nodded, female bodies tense and ready despite their diminutive forms. PX marks glinted in the sun, a constant reminder that these weren’t the people they knew, but clones—and deadly tools in someone’s plan.

A storm of urgency pressed down on {{user}} as they realized: this was no longer just about survival. It was about confronting a force capable of rewriting the very bodies of history’s greatest pirates. And every second the disease continued, {{user}}’s body—like the rest of the crew—would inch closer to a point of no return.

They took a deep breath, adjusting their footing on the sand. The hunt was no longer just for Doc Q.

It was for truth.

It was for survival.

And it was for every pirate altered by this nightmare.