Which Arms Dealer Doesn't Sell to Both Sides?

American journalists are known for being "always first on the scene, even before the police"—except when the police are the ones making the scene.

That was exactly the case with this police shooting of a Black pilot in San Francisco. By the time reporters caught wind and rushed over, the white officer Jake Brian had already slipped away. All they saw was the unconscious Black pilot being loaded into an ambulance and taken away.

If Will Fortson had still had his eyes open at that moment, the reporters would have swarmed him for an interview, even bribing the paramedics to buy themselves time.

You say that would delay life-saving treatment?

Who cares?

This is a world of capital, a world of money. As long as it generates economic value, any move is justified.

Besides, the victim is Black.

Remember those two Black men who were "kneeled to death" by white cops? The reporters' vehicles blocked the scene, keeping the ambulance from getting through and costing them precious time—but it did let them spread the phrase "I can't breathe" far and wide.

In the end, the reporters stood on screen with mournful faces, denouncing the evils of racial discrimination, squeezing out a few crocodile tears, then watched their soaring ratings and cashed in on the TV station's bonuses.

The Black guy dies, the white guy gets rich—everyone has a bright future.

Young Will Fortson, though, hadn't yet grasped the viciousness of these "news vultures." The reason he was pretending to be unconscious was that he wanted to stir up a big scene.

The reporters who arrived at the scene hadn't managed to interview the victim, but they pieced together the story from bystanders. The moment they heard a white cop had shot a Black man, and that the Black man was an Air Force pilot, they got fired up!

Racial discrimination, excessive force, conflict between the police and the military... all huge angles!

There was no way this story wouldn't blow up.

"Hey, boss, you need to give me permission to cut in right now!"

"Yeah, big news, huge!"

On-site reporters scrambled to contact their stations, begging their superiors to interrupt regular programming with breaking news to get the jump on the competition.

In an era without prominent superheroes, news this big didn't come around often.

So San Francisco's TV stations—and soon others across the country that caught wind—all interrupted their broadcasts to cover the incident.

It was 2008. "Black Lives Matter" was already a rising tide, and the Democratic Party was even planning to put forward a Black candidate for that year's election.

This story naturally ignited public opinion across America. Ben Colson, a nationally renowned civil rights lawyer based in New York, saw the news and immediately had his assistant look up Will Fortson's family's phone number. He dropped everything else and drove straight to the airport.

He was determined to take this case. No one was going to steal it from him.

He said it himself: even if Jesus showed up, it wouldn't matter.

By the time Ben Colson finally got the family's authorization and rushed to the hospital in San Francisco, he found the atmosphere in the ICU bizarre.

Will Fortson's family and the Air Force representative stood in the room with constipated expressions. The victim himself was sitting up, his upper body exposed, but his wounds were shallow—nowhere near life-threatening.

"What the f*ck?" Ben Colson felt cheated.

How was he supposed to stir up public outrage with injuries like these? How was he supposed to build his own fame?

But his anger lasted only a second before he put on a grave expression and stepped forward.

"Mr. Fortson, I will represent you fully in holding the San Francisco Police Department accountable and seeking compensation. Tell me whatever demands you have."

This golden goose can't die on my watch!

The Air Force representative, however, didn't care about that. He stepped forward and carefully examined Will Fortson's wounds. The torn muscle edges showed clear signs of burning and friction from a high-speed bullet.

People in the military—especially in the American military—knew gunshot wounds well.

"Will, can you explain why your wounds are so shallow?" the Air Force representative asked. He knew the power of domestic police weapons. Their handguns were no worse than the military's, and well-funded departments like the NYPD even had better light arms than the Army.

How else would they practice their "American-style quick draw"?

Six shots hit, yet the wounds were this shallow. The representative's gaze grew sharp.

"I... I..." Young Will Fortson lacked experience. He'd only thought about making a big scene, ignoring the problem of his injuries.

Suddenly, a distant voice echoed in his mind.

"Tell the truth." Lin Hao, watching from afar, imprinted his words into the tool's consciousness.

Lin Hao had originally planned to discard this guy after using him, but he'd unexpectedly noticed that the transformation was highly complete. If you didn't look closely at the hairless skin on his belly, he was practically a perfect Black Panther.

Since that was the case, this tool was worth developing further. And since he was an Air Force pilot, he could naturally worm his way into the American military.

In the world of One Piece, the "SMILE Fruit" was a defective product Caesar had developed by imitating Vegapunk's technology. Compared to Vegapunk's high standards—where even a wrong color after transformation counted as a failure—Caesar's junk was pure garbage.

Lin Hao had acquired Vegapunk's technology. He could even make complete Devil Fruits, let alone these defective versions.

All he had to do was remove a certain component.

And to make it easier to stir up trouble in America, Lin Hao preserved the defective fruit's ability to freely transform—unlike Caesar's creations, which left users permanently deformed and unable to revert to human form.

Though defective, its power wasn't inferior to a complete Zoan Devil Fruit. This was clear from Kaido's "Gifter" army. The only flaw was a clear weakness: the areas that couldn't transform weren't reinforced by the fruit's power.

After all, these were just tools for causing chaos. Did Lin Hao owe them defect-free goods?

Did the Great Demon Lord look like a philanthropist?

In the hospital room, having received the Demon Lord's command, Will Fortson glanced at the others around him.

The Air Force representative understood. He looked around and spoke with a smile. "Please step into the next room for a moment."

His tone was gentle, but his attitude brooked no argument.

A soldier who had followed them personally took the man away.

"Hal, go warn the doctors not to run their mouths, or the Air Force will sue them for endangering national security."

Another soldier also walked out.

Once they were alone, Will Fortson flipped off the bed, moving with agility.

Then, the Air Force Representative stared in disbelief.

A living, breathing man had transformed into a massive black panther right before his eyes!

"Oh... my... God..."

Will Fortson got the chance he wanted to stage a big scene. As preparations unfolded, public opinion and military pressure bore down on the San Francisco Police Department.

"What the F*ck!"

Jake Brian, on "forced leave" at home, got a call from his boss. After hearing just one sentence, he erupted in fury: "Why the hell am I being fired?"

"Didn't this kind of thing always end with a week's suspension and reinstatement before?"

"Because he didn't die. If he had, the military would've just gone through the motions—dead men have no value."

The boss on the other end of the line sounded equally helpless: "The niggers we used to gun down were all bottom-of-the-barrel trash. This one's an Air Force pilot. Ignore his skin color, and he's a social elite worth more than us cops."

"Now the military and the media are putting pressure on the commissioner. I've even heard some congressman up for reelection is backing him. The lawyers they hired are demanding a huge settlement from the department..."

"What the hell? They want money?" In a country built on capital, money hit a nerve. Jake Brian was floored that anyone dared demand compensation from the police: "Since when do we have to pay for killing a nigger in the line of duty?"

"I told you, he's not an ordinary nigger!" The boss was fed up and laid down the final word: "The department has decided to fire you. And if the court rules in favor of their compensation claim, they'll come after you for it."

With that, he hung up.

"F*ck! Bitch! Son of a bitch!" Jake Brian smashed the phone, a fire burning in his chest.

"A bunch of tools dare to threaten a white man?"

Right then, he wanted nothing more than to grab a submachine gun and mow down every nigger on the street, to remind them whose country America really was.

"Niggers should all be dead!"

Suddenly, a shadow enveloped him. A Demon appeared before him.

"Do you want revenge? Do you want the power of a Demon?"

"Hehehe... give me your soul!"

A qualified arms dealer—why wouldn't he sell to both sides?

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