Reporters in America are known for "always arriving at the scene before the police"—with one exception: when it's the police themselves who cause the incident.
That was exactly the case with the police shooting of the Black pilot in San Francisco. By the time the press got wind and rushed to the scene, the white officer Jack Bryant had already slipped away. All they caught was the unconscious Black pilot being loaded into an ambulance.
If Will Fortson had been awake at that moment, the reporters would've pounced instantly, microphones and cameras ready—even bribing the paramedics to delay treatment for an exclusive interview.
Would that risk his life?
Who cares?
This is the world of capital—a world where money rules. As long as it creates profit, any action is justified.
And besides... the injured guy was Black.
Remember the two Black men who were killed by cops kneeling on their necks? Reporters' news vans blocked the streets so badly that ambulances couldn't even get through, costing those victims their lives.
But hey—at least they got to make "I can't breathe" a global slogan.
Later, the same reporters stood in front of the camera with righteous outrage, condemning racism with crocodile tears—before cashing their fat network bonus checks as ratings soared.
The Black man dies, the white man profits.
Everyone wins in the land of opportunity.
Young Will Fortson, however, didn't yet understand the true nature of these "media vultures." The only reason he was playing unconscious was because he wanted to make a scene.
Although they didn't get to interview him, reporters pieced together the story from nearby residents. When they heard a white cop shoot a Black man—and not just any Black man, but an Air Force pilot—they were thrilled.
Racism. Police brutality. Conflict between law enforcement and the military.
Every one of these was a guaranteed headline-grabber.
There was no way this story wouldn't blow up.
"Hey boss! I need emergency broadcast clearance—immediately!"
"Yeah, huge story! This is big, real big!"
Reporters scrambled to call their stations, demanding airtime to break the news first.
In an era without many visible superheroes, opportunities like this were rare.
Soon, not just San Francisco TV stations, but networks across the country began running the story.
This was 2008, and Black Lives Matter was the hottest social trend. The Democrats were even preparing to run a Black presidential candidate that year.
Naturally, this kind of story ignited nationwide outrage almost instantly.
Across the country in New York, the famous civil rights attorney Ben Collinson saw the breaking news. Without hesitation, he ordered his assistant to find Will Fortson's family contacts, dropped everything else, and drove straight to the airport.
This case was his to take. No one else was getting it.
"Even if Jesus shows up, it's still mine."
By the time Ben secured permission from the family and rushed to the hospital in San Francisco, he was greeted by an odd scene in the ICU.
Will's family and Air Force representatives stood around the bed looking constipated—while Will himself lay there shirtless, with wounds so shallow they didn't seem to require any critical care at all.
"What the hell?" Ben Collinson's jaw dropped. He felt cheated.
How was he supposed to stir up public outrage with injuries like these?
How could he boost his own fame if there wasn't enough drama?
But he only allowed himself one second of anger before putting on his professional game face.
"Mr. Fortson, I will represent you fully in seeking accountability and damages from the San Francisco police. Whatever you want—just say the word."
"This rooster of justice can't fall on my watch!"
The Air Force rep, though, wasn't worried about PR. He leaned forward and carefully examined Will's wounds.
The edges of the torn muscle showed signs of high-velocity bullet trauma—burned and abraded by friction.
In the military, especially in the U.S. military, people knew gunshot wounds very well.
"Will… can you explain why your wounds are so shallow?" the Air Force officer asked calmly.
He knew exactly how powerful the standard-issue handguns were. U.S. police departments don't skimp on firearms—some like NYPD even have better gear than the Army.
How else are you supposed to train in 'American Iai' (gun-drawing martial arts)?
Will had been shot six times, but the wounds were shallow. That didn't add up.
The officer's eyes turned thoughtful.
"I… I…" Will stammered. He had been so focused on putting on a dramatic show that he'd forgotten about the injury details.
Suddenly, a distant voice echoed in his mind—
"Confess."
Far away, Robert etched his voice directly into Will's mind like a brand.
Originally, Robert had only intended to use and discard him—but Will's transformation had been unexpectedly complete. If you ignored the hairless patch on his stomach, he looked like a full-on panther.
That changed things.
As an Air Force pilot, Will now had value as a deep-cover asset in the U.S. military.
In the One Piece world, Smile Fruits were defective artificial Devil Fruits created by Caesar, based on Vegapunk's research. Vegapunk's version was so refined, even a slightly wrong color was considered a failure—while Caesar's were literal garbage.
But Robert had Vegapunk's full tech. He could craft genuine Devil Fruits at will—so making a broken knockoff? Easy.
Just snip out a few key elements.
To better stir chaos in America, Robert preserved the "partial transformation" feature of the Smile fruits—unlike Caesar's versions that left users permanently deformed and unable to return to human form.
Even though it was a defective model, its power was on par with full Zoan-type Devil Fruits. You could see that from Kaido's army of "Gifters."
The only real downside? The untransformed area (in Will's case, his belly) wouldn't gain any strength from the fruit.
But come on—this was just a disposable tool.
Why would Robert give them a perfect product?
He's a demon king, not a charity.
Back in the hospital room, Will received his dark lord's command. He looked around and made eye contact with the Air Force rep.
The officer nodded, turned to the others, and said calmly:
"Would everyone please step into the room next door for a moment?"
His voice was polite—but left no room for negotiation.
A soldier accompanying him personally escorted the civilians out.
"Harold," the officer said to another, "go warn the doctors. Tell them if they say anything, the Air Force will charge them with endangering national security."
That soldier also left the room.
Now alone, Will Fortson flipped out of bed with ease—agile and powerful.
Then, the Air Force rep's eyes went wide in shock—
Will transformed before his very eyes into a giant panther!
"Oh… my… God…"
Will had successfully created his big dramatic moment. While he prepared behind the scenes, media pressure and military scrutiny bore down on the San Francisco police.
"What the f*?!"**
Meanwhile, Jack Bryant, now on "mandatory leave," got a call from his boss.
He'd barely heard the first sentence before flying into a rage:
"Why the hell am I being fired?!"
"This kind of thing used to just mean a week off before we were back on duty!"
"Because he's not dead," came the reply. "If he had died, the military would've just made a symbolic statement. Dead people don't demand compensation."
The chief sounded tired.
"All the previous ones were low-income nobodies. But this guy? He's an Air Force pilot. If you ignore the skin color, he's a social elite—above even us."
"The military, the media—they're all pressuring the chief. I even heard some big-shot politicians running for election are publicly supporting him. And the lawyer he hired? Just filed for a massive compensation claim…"
"Wait—they want money?" Jack's head exploded. He was American, after all—you don't mess with people's wallets.
"Since when did shooting a Black thug during an arrest mean we had to pay for it?"
"I told you—he's not a regular Black guy!" the boss snapped. "The department's decided—you're fired. And if the court upholds their compensation claim, you'll be personally liable."
Click. The line went dead.
"F***! Btch! Son of a wh**!" Jack Bryant screamed, smashing his phone.
His chest burned with rage.
"These damn tools DARE threaten a white man?!"
At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to grab a rifle and gun down every Black man on the street—just to show who really ruled America.
"Black bastards should all be wiped out!"
Suddenly, darkness surrounded him. A demon appeared before his eyes.
"Do you want revenge? Do you want the power of a demon?"
"Bwahahahahahaha… Give me your soul!"
After all—
What kind of arms dealer only sells to one side?
End of Chapter