Broadcast of Two Devils (One Piece What If)

Chapter 1 - Waking Up Wrong

The younger brother woke up wrong.

Not in the normal “back hurts, neck stiff” way. Wrong in the “gravity is sideways and the air tastes like salt and old wood” way.

His eyes snapped open.

Ceiling. Wooden beams. A hanging lamp swaying gently, metal chain clinking with each swing.

The floor rolled under him.

Okay. Not a bed. A bunk. And not on land.

He pushed himself upright on reflex, hands braced on the mattress—then froze when the texture under his palms didn’t feel like his palms.

Gloves?

He jerked his hands back and stared at them: long fingers in dark gloves, knuckles slim and too precise.

“…Oh, fuck,” he muttered, voice flat but edged with a rising, metallic panic. The sound came out a little too clear, with a faint speaker echo that made his words feel like they’d been piped through a sound system.

Across from him, on the other bunk, someone else stirred.

The older brother groaned low in his chest and rolled onto his back. One gloved hand came up, pressing over his heart like he was checking that it was still beating. He sucked in a steady breath, then pushed himself upright in one smooth motion that looked practiced, not natural.

The silhouette was familiar: tall, lean, annoyingly composed even half-asleep.

Everything else was not.

Red coat. Dark shirt. Tall boots planted on the wooden floor. Gloves. Wild red hair that looked like it had decided on a perfect shape all by itself. And a face with a carved, too-clean grin painted across it in sharp lines.

The younger stared, shoulders stiffening.

The older blinked blearily at him, head tilting with slow curiosity rather than shock.

They locked eyes.

Silence. Then, at exactly the same time:

“…No way,” the younger said, screen-voice dropping to a disbelieving growl as his hands tightened on the edge of the bunk.

“Oh,” the older breathed, amusement already curling around the word as his red eyes lit up, “now this is interesting.”

The younger shook himself, the mattress creaking under his sudden movement, and swung his legs over the side of the bunk.

The floor rolled again. His body caught the motion automatically; his boots found balance with a little shift that felt too easy, like someone else’s muscle memory had been dropped into his bones.

They were in a small cabin. Two bunks. A metal plate bolted to the wall at head height. A door. A small desk. A single envelope resting on it.

The older brother slid down from his bunk and landed softly, knees bending just enough to absorb the impact. His posture straightened at once, shoulders pulling back, chin lifting. It was all too controlled, like he’d been born on stage.

He turned his head toward the wall and then froze mid-breath.

“Ah,” he said quietly, a pleased note slipping into his radio-smooth voice.

The younger followed his gaze.

The metal plate had been polished just enough to throw back a warped reflection.

A tall man in a red coat stared back—razor grin, eyes too bright, posture perfectly straight. A shadow clung to his feet a little too tightly, edges sharper than the dim light in the room justified.