Broadcast of Two Devils (One Piece What If)

Chapter 2 - Three Days to Move

The Broadcast Leviathan greeted them with wind, noise, and way too much sky.

Vox stopped at the top of the stairs, one hand catching the doorframe as the deck rolled under his boots. Sunlight hit his screen full-force, throwing a faint reflection across the glass; the red eyes narrowed against the glare.

The ship stretched out around them: long deck, three masts, rigging humming quietly, reinforced rails. The bow ended in a shark–demon figurehead lunging over the water, jaws open in a permanent “try me.”

Vox stared for a beat, then let out a low whistle, flat and reluctant.

“…I was really off my meds when I designed this,” he said, deadpan, hands dropping to his pockets.

Alastor stepped up beside him, coat tails snapping in the wind, hair ruffled just enough to look intentional. He swept his gaze over the deck with slow appreciation, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

“It’s stylish,” he said in a light, amused tone. “Overdramatic. Completely unnecessary. Very you.”

Vox turned his screen toward him, red eyes half-lidding in a glare.

“Flattered,” he said dryly. “We can roast my taste later. Right now I wanna know when the hell we are.”

He pushed off the frame and strode toward the nearest rail, boots thudding in a quick rhythm. The sea rolled out in every direction: blue, open, featureless.

No islands. No obvious landmarks. Just a handful of white dots circling in the distance—news coos, cruising for customers.

“Perfect,” Vox muttered, leaning on the rail with both hands. “Alright, feathered freeloaders, who wants to tell me the plot?”

He whistled, sharp and short.

One of the coos jolted mid-flight like someone had yanked its tail, then banked hard toward the Leviathan. It flapped in, wings beating against the breeze, and landed on the rail a few feet away, claws scraping wood.

It stared.

It looked at Vox’s screen. At Alastor’s permanent grin. Back at Vox.

The bird visibly reconsidered its life choices.

“Relax,” Vox said, holding up both palms in a peace gesture, voice dipping into lazy reassurance. “We pay better than we bite.”

Alastor’s grin didn’t change, but his eyes crinkled faintly with humor.

“Usually,” he added, tone mild.

The coo made an uncertain noise, then begrudgingly stretched its neck out, the rolled paper at its beak wobbling.

Vox fished a small pouch off his belt—muscle memory finding it like he’d worn it for years—and tossed a few coins in a neat arc. The coo snapped them up with quick pecks, grabbed its pay, and took off again fast, like it didn’t want to be here a second longer than necessary.

“Smart bird,” Vox muttered.

He snapped the newspaper open in one smooth motion. The wind tried to yank it away; he slapped a hand down on the corner, pinning it to the rail.

Alastor stepped closer, leaning his hip against the wood, head tilted so he could read over Vox’s shoulder. His shadow pooled a little heavier at his feet, as if it were listening too.

The masthead was some random Grand Line paper. Didn’t matter.

The headline did.

WHITEBEARD PIRATE 2ND DIVISION COMMANDER PORTGAS D. ACE PUBLIC EXECUTION IN THREE DAYS – TO BE HELD AT MARINEFORD