Broadcast of Two Devils (One Piece What If)

Chapter 5 - admission Fee

The sea disappeared behind them faster than Vox liked.

One moment there had been open air, a strip of grey sky, and the distant suggestion of waves. The next, the world narrowed into stone, steel, and seastone, sealing itself shut behind a set of gates that sounded less like doors and more like verdicts.

The first slam echoed through the intake corridor.

The second one felt like it landed directly in his chest.

Vox adjusted the brim of the borrowed marine cap, letting the shadow fall over his screen. The polished floor under his boots was slick not with water, but with condensation from the rising heat below. The air tasted like iron and salt and something cooked too long.

“…Charming,” he muttered under his breath, voice flat.

Beside him, Alastor laughed softly. The sound was bright and oddly cheerful against the oppressive hallway. His coat tails swayed as if there were a breeze here. There wasn’t.

“Now, now,” Alastor said, tone light and teasing. “You mustn’t judge a place by its screaming, old sport. At least not before we’ve seen the décor.”

Another gate closed behind the small procession of marines and “special staff,” cutting off the last glimpse of daylight. Ahead, the corridor stretched toward a checkpoint manned by a row of Den Den Mushi and three bored guards in standard marine coats.

Above them, embedded in the ceiling, more eyes watched—black-shelled surveillance snails, their pupils tracking movement with dull interest. Seastone panels broke up the walls in segments, like someone had tried to lace the fortress with poison specifically for people like him.

Efficient, Vox thought. Ugly, but efficient. Typical government design: all function, no brain.

Their borrowed escort, a square-jawed officer with permanent frown lines, cleared his throat.

“Eyes forward,” the man barked. His irritation was barely leashed. “You two are here on business, not sightseeing.”

Alastor inclined his head in a gesture that was polite on the surface and cutting underneath, his smile sharpening.

“But of course, Lieutenant,” he replied smoothly. “We would never dream of treating a world-class facility like a mere attraction.”

Vox didn’t bother adding anything. He was busy counting cameras, clocks, and choke points.

Three Den Den Mushi at this checkpoint. Two overhead, one on the counter, wearing a tiny cap. A large, rectangular seastone slab sunk into the floor directly before the final inner gate. Every marine—including him—had to cross it to proceed.

His screen flickered once as his boot touched the stone.

It wasn’t real interference, not the kind that stopped him—or they’d all be screaming already—but the material bleeding into the air still messed with the edges of his awareness, like static in an audio line. Designed to make anything “special” feel smaller, duller.

Right, he thought. So this is what they built to make people like me think twice about getting ideas.

He stepped off the slab. The feeling faded, but it left a residue.

“Papers,” one of the checkpoint guards grunted, sounding half-asleep.

Their escort slapped a folder onto the counter hard enough that the Den Den Mushi jolted.

“Special assignment from Marine Headquarters,” the lieutenant said, slipping into crisp official cadence. “Communications inspection. Clearance confirmed at the main gate.”