—Real World—
Egghead Island – Main Laboratory Complex
Although Vegapunk's physical body remained safely ensconced within Egghead Island's fortified research facilities, his enhanced consciousness—that vast computational matrix granted by the Nō Nō no Mi (Brain-Brain Fruit)—sensed danger approaching from multiple vectors simultaneously.
The Anti-Life Equation was too anti-human. Too fundamentally violating. Too catastrophically dangerous.
He didn't understand what circumstances would drive his future self down that path of no return. What desperation could justify creating technology capable of rewriting global consciousness? What nightmare scenario made stealing God's authority seem like the lesser evil?
The questions spiraled through his expanded brain, processing thousands of scenarios per second, and none of the answers brought comfort.
Shaka—Clone Number One, the satellite embodying LOGIC and GOOD—had obligations extending beyond mere research coordination. As the de facto manager of all Vegapunk satellites, maintaining the original body's psychological stability fell within his purview. Too much of Egghead Island's critical work revolved around that singular consciousness. The Brain-Brain Fruit had transformed Vegapunk into a living hard drive, a biological storage repository whose expanded cranium contained more information than the entire Ohara library.
If something happened to the original, centuries of accumulated knowledge would be lost forever.
"York is exactly as the Sky Screen described," Shaka stated, his voice emerging calm and measured despite the glass helmet obscuring his features. "She's had problems from the very beginning. If she doesn't rebel now in our current timeline, she'll stab us in the back eventually. The pattern is consistent. The psychology is established. We cannot ignore this threat."
Even through the reflective surface of his helmet, genuine concern radiated from his posture. Shaka wasn't afraid of death—his programming emphasized logical assessment over self-preservation. But York knew too many secrets. Dangerous secrets. Apocalyptic secrets.
She had access to the books and historical records from Ohara, meticulously preserved in the library of Elbaf, the Kingdom of Giants. Once that information leaked—once the Five Elders learned that Vegapunk had been studying the Void Century, researching the lost history the World Government had spent eight hundred years suppressing—they would never allow him to continue living.
The secrets about the Ancient Kingdom touched the very foundation of Celestial Dragon rule. Some knowledge was considered too dangerous to exist.
York, the satellite embodying DESIRE—all the base wants, needs, and cravings that other clones refused to acknowledge—had been immediately detained. Confined. Stripped of communication capabilities.
The Den Den Mushi she'd been carrying openly? Confiscated. The backup communication devices she'd hidden in her personal quarters? Also confiscated after thorough searches. Every method of contacting external parties had been systematically removed, preventing her from playing informant and condemning everyone on Egghead Island to collective punishment.
"So," Vegapunk murmured, his perpetually extended tongue making the words slightly awkward, "if York's betrayal is genuine in our timeline... then the research path leading to the Anti-Life Equation must also be genuine. A self-fulfilling prophecy."
The old man couldn't suppress a weary sigh, his enlarged head drooping slightly under both physical and psychological weight.
How desperate would his future self become? What horrors would he witness to justify embarking on research into something as heaven-defying as the Anti-Life Equation? Once God's authority was stolen by humans—once that Pandora's Box was actively opened—the intelligent creatures inhabiting this planet would face catastrophe on an epic, perhaps extinction-level, scale.
The pirates had learned about the technology through Absolute—that bizarre dual-consciousness plant creature serving as Lower String Two in Buggy's organization. The Marine and World Government would obtain the same intelligence inevitably, if they hadn't already.
A three-way conflict to control the Anti-Life Equation seemed inevitable. Pirates wanting to prevent Celestial Dragon dominance. The World Government desperate to secure ultimate authority. The New Marine caught between institutional loyalty and moral horror.
When that war erupted, casualties would be astronomical.
The laboratory door burst open without warning, slamming against the wall with enough force to crack plaster. Lilith—Clone Number Two, satellite embodying EVIL (though her actions rarely matched the designation)—rushed inside without bothering to knock.
Under normal circumstances, the female satellite maintained professional boundaries. She focused on monetizing Vegapunk's inventions, managing funding streams, negotiating contracts. Reckless intrusions weren't her style.
Which meant this was genuinely urgent.
"Bad news," Lilith announced, her chest heaving from the sprint through Egghead's corridors. "Saint Jaygarcia Saturn is deploying members of the God's Knights to supervise operations on the island. Permanent oversight, effective immediately."
Vegapunk's expression darkened, but Lilith wasn't finished delivering catastrophic updates.
"He also specifically requested that York be responsible for one-on-one reporting directly to him. Weekly progress assessments. Direct communication line. She's being positioned as his personal informant inside our organization."
The implications crashed through the room like artillery fire.
The Five Elders had recognized York's value through the Sky Screen's revelations. Since the Vegapunk satellites weren't united—since internal fractures clearly existed—Saint Saturn had decided to exploit that weakness aggressively. He would cultivate Clone Number Six as a loyal lackey, someone whose interests aligned with Celestial Dragon priorities rather than Vegapunk's research ethics.
If York remained alive, she could be turned. Manipulated. Weaponized against her creator.
"During this period, we could potentially forge experimental data," Shaka began, his logical mind already calculating tactical options. "Fabricate progress reports to satisfy CP0 and the God's Knights. But we definitely cannot hide York's existence indefinitely. And with a traitor embedded in our organization..."
He didn't need to complete the sentence. Everyone understood.
A traitor would frantically sell out internal information to demonstrate value, win favor with the Five Elders, secure her own position regardless of consequences for her fellow satellites.
York alive was an existential threat to everyone on Egghead Island.
"Let me think..." Vegapunk muttered, his enhanced brain processing ethical frameworks, tactical necessities, and emotional attachments in parallel. "Let me think about this carefully..."
But he was already reaching the conclusion. They all were.
Killing York privately—before the God's Knights arrived, before Saint Saturn could establish direct contact—would solve multiple problems simultaneously. It was absolutely unforgivable for a clone to rebel against her original. Betrayal of this magnitude demanded permanent resolution.
Executing the traitor would maintain team purity. More pragmatically, only the dead could be trusted to keep secrets. For the other satellites to survive, for the research staff to avoid collective punishment, for the Ohara archives to remain hidden...
York had to die.
She had to die soon.
She had to die before the Five Elders' representatives arrived.
Hours Later – Emergency Meeting of All Vegapunk Satellites
The decision reached unanimous consensus with disturbing efficiency.
Atlas (satellite embodying VIOLENCE, paradoxically gentle). Edison (satellite embodying THOUGHT, the inventor). Pythagoras (satellite embodying WISDOM, the analyst). Lilith (satellite embodying EVIL, the pragmatist). Shaka (satellite embodying GOOD, the manager).
Every satellite agreed: eliminating York represented the optimal solution to their current difficulties.
As for the tasks Saint Saturn had assigned—developing the Anti-Life Equation, creating second-generation Seraphim like Homelander—those projects hadn't even progressed to the "create new folder" stage of research. Neither program existed beyond theoretical frameworks sketched in Vegapunk's expanded consciousness.
It would be years before either technology could be implemented, if ever.
For now, they'd employ delaying tactics. Stall. Obfuscate. Fabricate progress reports showing incremental advancement while actually pursuing nothing. Postpone indefinitely through bureaucratic misdirection.
But first, they had to deal with York.
Half a Day Later – York's Holding Cell
Lilith approached the reinforced containment facility accompanied by three Pacifista units—the Bartholomew Kuma-modeled prototypes that served as Egghead's security force. Her expression showed no hesitation, no remorse, no second thoughts.
Clone Number Two would personally execute Clone Number Six.
The moral weight of fratricide—or perhaps more accurately, suicide of a dissociated personality fragment—didn't seem to register on Lilith's features.
York heard the approaching footsteps and mechanical servos. She understood immediately what they signified.
"You can't kill me!" The woman's voice cracked with genuine terror, pressing herself against the far wall of her cell as if a few extra meters would matter. "I have no merits, fine, but I've worked hard! I've been your trash can for negative emotions since the moment I gained consciousness! I won't rebel this time—I promise! I want to live! Please, I just want to live!"
Tears streamed down York's face as she recounted her sad existence, hoping desperately to win Lilith's sympathy. They were both women. Both female-presenting satellites. Surely that shared experience meant something?
Everything York said was factually accurate. She'd served as the repository for desires the other clones refused to acknowledge. Eating and sleeping were the simplest—basic biological maintenance every satellite technically shared responsibility for, but York handled exclusively.
But then came the degrading necessities: toileting functions, the compulsion to lick floors clean (some bizarre manifestation of Vegapunk's obsessive-compulsive tendencies), inexplicable cravings for substances that weren't food, humiliating urges that made no logical sense.
The woman had been forced to fulfill everyone else's weird and unreliable desires. Over time, those borrowed compulsions—things that didn't originate from her own personality matrix—became unbearable burdens on both material and spiritual levels.
Wanting to escape had been natural. Inevitable, even.
York was exhausted from being other clones' vassal, their designated sufferer, their psychological waste disposal. As a satellite with independent consciousness, she also wanted to be high and mighty. Ideally, she'd become a Celestial Dragon herself—live that noble existence with guaranteed food, luxury, and zero responsibilities beyond enjoying privilege.
Unfortunately, her desperate pleas and cheap tears failed to generate any sympathy from Lilith.
"Pacifista Unit Seven," Lilith commanded, her voice cold and professional. "Use maximum power laser output. Make Number Six's death instantaneous. No pain. Execute immediately."
The Pacifista test unit—its broad frame modeled after Bartholomew Kuma's distinctive appearance—raised its palm toward York's trembling form. Golden light began gathering in the mechanical paw, energy building to lethal intensity.
That color represented death. York recognized it immediately.
"Stop!" She screamed, invoking her authority as a Vegapunk satellite. "Pacifista, I order you to cease! As Vegapunk, I command you to stop attacking! Stop! STOP!"
The woman's desperate shrieking before death echoed through the containment facility, mixing with the building hum of charging laser systems.
Then came the flash.
Dazzling golden radiance erupted from the Pacifista's palm, the high-power laser striking York directly in the center of her chest. The beam burned with temperatures rivaling the surface of stars, designed to penetrate Armament Haki and vaporize Devil Fruit users.
Against unprotected human flesh, the effect was instantaneous.
York's body didn't simply die—it melted. Skin, muscle, bone, organs—all organic matter sublimated directly from solid to gas under the laser's intensity. Within three seconds, Clone Number Six had been reduced to a small pile of ash scattered across the cell floor.
So thoroughly dead that even collecting remains for burial was unnecessary.
Lilith stared at the ashes for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turned away, dismissing the Pacifista units with a gesture.
"I was always planning to kill you," she said quietly to the empty air where York had stood moments before. "So of course I removed your administrative access to the Pacifista control network hours ago. Your commands were already rejected by the system before you even spoke."
The satellite paused in the doorway, silhouetted against corridor lighting.
"If you want to blame someone for your death, blame the Sky Screen. It showed us what you'd become. What you'd do. We simply chose not to wait for the betrayal to manifest completely."
Then Lilith departed, leaving only ash and the faint scent of vaporized organics.
As for explaining York's disappearance to Saint Saturn? That problem belonged to Shaka and the original body now.
Two Days Later – God's Knights Arrival
Two members of the God's Knights—Celestial Dragon elites serving as the Five Elders' personal enforcers—arrived on Egghead Island expecting to find Clone Number Six ready for her new role as informant.
Instead, they found... nothing.
York had vanished completely. No body. No trace. No explanation beyond vague statements from the other satellites about "complications during an experiment" and "tragic accidents in cutting-edge research."
Were the Vegapunks seriously treating them like children? Expecting them to accept such transparent lies?
After reporting the disappearance to Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, the God of Scientific Defense became furious—veins bulging, voice raised, threats of punishment echoing through communication devices.
But ultimately, he imposed no substantial consequences.
Because the brutal reality was this: some scientific research simply could not proceed without Vegapunk's singular genius. When a person became irreplaceable, controlling them through threats grew significantly more difficult. This was fundamental human nature, a weakness even the Five Elders couldn't completely overcome.
They needed Vegapunk more than he needed to cooperate.
The old scientist understood this dynamic perfectly. He'd weaponized his own indispensability into a shield against Celestial Dragon retribution.
For now, at least, he remained safe.
However, the Sky Screen's broadcasts weren't finished delivering revelations. The next content release shifted focus toward someone viewers had glimpsed only briefly during previous segments.
The mysterious Celestial Dragon Admiral.
Admiral Wendy—Donquixote Wendy, to use her full name—was about to receive her proper introduction.
And the world was about to learn exactly how complicated the relationship between the New Marine and the World Government had truly become when a fourteen-year-old girl from the Holy Land wore an Admiral's coat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~