บท 8: Octopus island
Four days had passed.
The sky above Octopus Island stretched endlessly, a flawless expanse of blue untouched by a single cloud. On this island, pirates have set up their rough base, turning a small, once peaceful village into a grim patch of the island. The locals had long been driven from their homes, forced to the opposite end of the island, while the pirates took over the remains. What they built was a parody of civilization—hastily reconstructed shacks and fortifications, all cobbled together from salvaged wood and whatever else could be scavenged. These crude buildings were tasteless, ugly things. Houses were patched with rags where glass had once been, and roofs sagged under the weight of makeshift repairs. A home without a gaping hole in the roof was considered a luxury.
"Hey! The captain's ship is on the horizon!" a lookout's voice rang out from the top of a rickety watchtower, breaking the dull routine of the day. The man, perched lazily on his creaking chair, squinted into the distance, his keen eyes catching the familiar silhouette of the approaching vessel.
Down below, the pirates were scattered in their usual routines. The island's defenders—no more than twenty in number—were in various states of drunken stupor or mindless distraction. Some lay sprawled in the shade, snoring heavily. Others gulped down mugs of alcohol with reckless abandon, while a few passed the time gambling, risking their ill-gotten treasures on the whims of Fortune. But only one of them decided to break away from the vacation
This lone exception was Bastos, a man of medium height—about 174 centimeters/ 5`7 feet —whose appearance was as unremarkable as his demeanor. His appearance was extremely ordinary, save for an unusually long yellow T-shirt that hung down to his knees and a tired face that gave him the appearance of someone constantly on the verge of sleep. His role, however, was somewhat different from that of the more boisterous members of the crew. He acted as a quiet but trustworthy overseer, attending to the most mundane matters that escaped the attention of his companions.
The once clear waters of the harbor rippled as the Red Skull, a pirate ship with black sails fluttering in the wind, approached. The ship came to a slow stop and anchored just off the dock. The gangplank lowered with a clatter and the pirates began to descend from the deck, their steps slow and unhurried.
Bastos stood waiting, his eyes scanning the faces of the crew until, at last, Captain Red Robert appeared. The captain's towering figure emerged from the shadow of the ship's side, his boots clapping against the gangway as he made his way onto solid ground.
"Good to see you, Captain," Bastos said, his voice soft yet formal, like a butler greeting his lord. He bowed his head slightly in deference. "I trust your voyage was successful, and you've come back wealthier than before?"
Red Robert chuckled, his hand landing heavily on Bastos's shoulder. "Yes, yes, Bastos. The voyage was excellent. We've made a killing, both in gold and blood." His voice carried the weight of both triumph and boredom, as though success had long since ceased to thrill him.
"Anything happened while I was gone?"
"Nothing of note," Bastos replied, his tone smooth and respectful. "The island remains as it was when you left."
"Good," Robert said with a satisfied nod. "Now, go rouse those drunkards and get them to work. I want the ship unloaded and preparations made for tonight. We've much to celebrate."
Bastos gave a short nod and turned to carry out his orders, moving with a quiet efficiency that had earned him his place among the crew. He made his way toward the sleeping pirates, prepared to drag them from their stupors and into some semblance of productivity.
Meanwhile, Red Robert headed towards his house, the grandest structure on the island. In stark contrast to the crude hovels his men had erected, Robert's home was a symbol of pillaged wealth and stolen elegance. Built from gleaming white stone, the house stood as a reminder of the massacre that had taken place over a year ago. The pirates had descended upon Octopus Island like vultures, and the locals—who had been both resilient and fiercely protective of their land—had been slaughtered for their defiance. In the end, more than half the population had been wiped out, their homes claimed by the marauding crew. Those who survived were cast out to the farthest corners of the island, left to scrape together a meager existence.
Robert had taken the finest house for himself, appropriating the grand estate once owned by the island's wealthiest family. The interiors, unlike the shabby pirate constructions around it, still bore the mark of a refined, tasteful eye—ornate carvings lined the walls, and fine furnishings adorned every room. But even in this stolen opulence, Robert rarely conducted any real business. The house served more as a private playground for his indulgences. He spent his time there drinking, feasting, and enjoying the company of women.
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