Broadcast of Two Devils (One Piece What If)

Chapter 3 - Crash Course in Being Dangerous

The Calm Belt looked… calm.

Which, in Vox’s opinion, was exactly what made it disgusting.

From the deck of the Broadcast Leviathan, the sea stretched out like polished glass under a pale sky. No waves. No wind. Just an endless mirror and, under it, slow, swollen shadows the size of buildings drifting far below.

A Sea King rolled just beneath the surface. Its outline warped the light into a faint, moving bruise.

Vox leaned on the starboard rail, elbows dug in, screen tilted down. His red eyes narrowed.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “This is fine. Totally normal. Love being a walking TV over the planet’s biggest shark tank.”

Bootsteps rang out behind him: crisp, unhurried.

Alastor’s shadow slid into view first, stretching over the planks like spilled ink, and then he stepped into place at Vox’s side. Hands folded neatly behind his back, coat tails hanging calm despite the dead air, grin carved into his face. Only his eyes gave him away—bright, sharp, entertained.

“Relax,” he said. “They’re only mildly titanic and permanently hungry. We hardly qualify as a meal.”

Vox turned his screen just enough to look at him, eyes slitting.

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “My nerves are soothed.”

He pushed off the rail, straightening up. His new body made it too easy—long legs, springy balance, like someone had set the difficulty to “parkour mode” without asking him.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got less than a day before we’re parked over Hell. We can’t walk into Impel Down with nothing but vibes and a love of tragic side characters.”

He rolled his shoulders like someone about to start a warm-up he already regretted.

“We need actual moves.”

Alastor inclined his head, the amused glint in his eyes sharp enough to cut.

“A practical mood,” he said. “How terrifyingly responsible of you.”

“Eat glass,” Vox said, but the bite wasn’t there. “Come on. Before I talk myself into turning this thing around and pretending we never saw that newspaper.”

He jerked his chin toward the open stretch of deck.

“Training arc time. Free trial edition.”

Alastor’s eyes lit up; his shadow twitched at his feet like a dog hearing the word “walk.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” he said.

Vox jabbed a finger down at the shadow.

“Ground rules,” he said. “One: your little murder puddle does not eat the mast, the keel, or anything else that keeps this ship above Sea King mouth level.”

Alastor glanced down at the inky shape, then back up with an expression of mock innocence.

“Of course,” he said. “I would never waste such a fine vessel.”

The shadow’s edges rippled, as if laughing at the lie.

Vox sighed and clapped his hands once, like he was cueing a rehearsal.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got demon magic and a horror-movie pet. I’ve got electricity and hardware. Let’s figure out what that actually means before we start picking fights with prison wardens.”

He tapped the side of his monitor with two fingers.

“First test: range.”

He turned toward the central mast. A small, rectangular panel sat flush with the wood near eye level: dark glass, no buttons, just waiting.