The moon hung low over the restless sea, casting a pale gaze on the waves below.
On the deck of a solitary vessel slicing through the dark, a shrill voice pierced the night—raw, unfiltered, a child's cry laced with desperation. Someone young railed against a nearby figure, their small shadow lunging at a grown man's bulk with unyielding fury.
"Come on—get medicine for Gramps! He's been suffering so long!"
"Beat it—don't dump this on me. If it's that bad, bug the captain. Waste of breath, though."
The boy clutched at the man's trousers, refusing to yield despite the obvious annoyance.
His rags screamed neglect: threadbare work overalls, a battered cap perched atop matted hair, skin smeared with grime. Coal dust, likely—gloves caked with it clutched in tiny fists.
Pallor pinched from exhaustion, but hygiene? A distant dream, filth his only veil.
The begrimed kid, Anagma, dogged the sailor with pleas; the man recoiled, irritation etched deep.
On watch, he'd been—till this deck-dweller rare as a comet cornered him. Shoo rough? Backlash bait. Words his weapon, persuasion the play.
But the kid? Ironclad—begged on, medicine mantra, Gramps' salvation sole script.
The sailor knew the stakes, deep down.
The old boiler-tender, "Mole"—hitched since the hijack.
"Fine—everyone's out. Nothing I can do."
"But Gramps kept the boilers humming! Crewmate, right?"
"Bull— he just tagged along. No pirate oath."
"Still crew! No him? No steam—no ship!"
"Quit it. Time's up—that's all."
"No! Cure the sick? He lives! Can't quit now!"
"You little—shut it! Bugging me fixes zip—"
"What's the racket?"
The voice dropped like lead; spines stiffened.
Wheel-back: town-ward tread brought the behemoth—Gasparde, in all his hulking horror.
Chiseled frame armored in muscle alone, white coat draped over bare torso, purple scarf knotted at the throat. Jaw jutted defiant; eyes? Ice that iced his own.
Captain Gasparde: fear's familiar, even to his own.
The sailor shrank, steps stuttering back.
Anagma? Opportunity—broke for the giant's flank.
Face-up to the colossus, plea poured—tiny frame bowed low.
"Please—Gramps' meds! Bedridden sick. No him? Ship stalls—you lose too!"
"Oi—brat! Mouth off to the captain?!"
"Gramps? Whose tale?"
Words landed lost; pure puzzler creased his brow.
Gaze grazed not the kid—but the sailor flank.
Tension taut, he bowed abject, answer spilling.
"Uh—boiler geezer. Squatting since the takeover... We dub him Mole—rare sight."
"Huh. That fossil's fading?"
"Medicine buys it! Nothing else—just that! Doc's dear, but pills suffice! Save Gramps!"
"Ship stalls? My loss too."
"Right?! Then—!"
"But no. Not my mess."
Iced flat; Gasparde ghosted forward—rammed the kid rearward casual, cabin-bound. Mercy? Mirage.
Shock-stunned, Anagma yelped reflex.
"Wh-Why?!"
"Why save some old coot? No ties."
"Gramps fueled this tub! Cherished the boilers—knew 'em best, guarded 'em longest!"
"Replacements? Dime a dozen."
Toneless timbre trembled the tyke.
Terror true—ram's wake, raw. Heartless? Or hollow?
But fold? No—aid alliance essential.
"N-No... irreplaceable. Only Gramps fires those fires! Others? Fumble!"
"Tested? Techs teem—young, hale, no hacks."
"Th-That..."
"No sob for dying relics. Cash or not."
Blunt blade-word buckled Anagma—shoulders shook, gaze ground.
Mole manned the machine, aid unasked—betrayed? Bitter pill.
Fists balled bruise-tight; punch? Pointless—power gulf gaped.
Gasparde's grin ghosted grim, wheel-back full-face.
"Save the old bag?"
"Save him. But broke as broke can be..."
"Beg for bailout? Spoiled. Earn it—solo."
Anagma's eyes edged electric.
Pistol plummeted path—tie-tethered, thud soft.
" Bounty heads? Island infestation. Snag one—Marine it. Meds? Minted."
"Me... pirates?"
"Riding rogue, sorta. Crew-claimed him? Prove it—feat first. Then doc-drag? Breeze."
Fists quaked. Kneel-scoop, chest-clasp double-grip.
"Bag a head? Gramps' grace?"
"Word."
Hope's hook hooked hard.
No knight? Knight self. Fine.
Pistol prized, face fierce—vow voiced, proof-pure.
"I'll do it. Gramps? Mine to mend."
Heel-spin sprint.
Graceful ghost off-ship; tiny frame fled town-ward, night-nibbled.
Gasparde's gaze lingered, lip-lilt low.
Amuse? Mild. No fret, no forecast. Indifference incarnate.
Flank-man? Query-quake.
"F-Fine? Kid cap a head? Doubt it."
"Fails? Fossil folds. No net loss."
"But..."
"Game on. Pirate pushover? Prune-worthy. Kid kills keen? Stalk sleepers, sell skin—whatever. Bullet beats blade. My mercy."
"Huh."
"Pirate path? Primer paid. Weak? Waste."
Lackluster lilt; flank-man blanked.
Cabin-cusp: Gasparde's glare gut-punched.
"Or beef with my brief?"
"N-No—hell no! Spot-on, sir!"
Freeze framed; peel plain.
Flank frozen, soul-scraped.
Breath broke post-bang—door's dirge.
Gasparde's grace? Grim: strong supreme, frail fatal.
Anagma? Oblivious, out—oath oblivious.
Wood-wend near-ship, breath-burst dash—town target, pirate-populated.
No name, no face—head-hunt haze.
Will alone wired him—win certain, somehow.
Pistol prized tight; eyes eclipsed prior—duller gleam denied.
Kill cashes cure. Credo clean.
No niggle, no nausea.
Kill saves.
Belief bloomed buoyant—hope's hearth alone.
Town-touch: tired tint, but triumph-torch grin.
Scan swarm: swarm surged vital. But bounties? Blind.
Intel imperative.
Query quest: corner chum. Dash renewed.
Gasp-rhythm, curve-close: collision crash.
Town-tug yanked Anagma ass-over—tumble turf.
Malnourish mini? Mallet-miss menace. Foe? Flinch-kneel, scoop swift.
"Ow... huh?!"
"Easy—curves kill. Watch the bend."
Palm-press, gruff-guard—foreigner favor flustered.
Pain-pinched peek: piercing youth peered.
Schrayer Baskud.
Stranger-scoop stun-stilled Anagma.
Deja-vu? Dash-daze.
Thought-throttle brief; snap-sense.
Neck-nudge: pistol prone—impact-itch.
Face fluxed; Schrayer synced stare.
"...Yours?"
"!"
Schrayer-shuck scramble; roll-reclaim, chest-clutch—back-blocked.
Kid cannon? Quirk queer. Rags reeked rough—story screamed.
Sigh soft; air astute—no prod.
Rise reticent, rhetoric reined—satchel snagged, tossed.
Pirate preserve: self-select shock.
Sights? Shrug-shielded.
But this? Worse whisper.
No needless nudge—Anagma's alone.
"Hide hate-sights tight. This? Sight unseen."
Lip-bit, pistol prized—quake quelled.
Lone-lurch lurked. Flesh-flash faint—recall ripped.
Pre-Mole: kin-clasp warmth.
Quest queer? Quiet quake.
Self-sworn, yet scare surged—shudder stark.
Schrayer sightless to the shake.
No call-card.
Same street-stroll, him.
Split sans-scars: smart.
Satchel slung, stride start—back-blast.
No wheel: evasion echo.
"Freeze there? Fly. Secrets sting—swift."
"Uh... ngh."
Stagger-stand, sprint spike—flee frenzy, field fast.
Prior perch? Puddle-prick—pry-proof, best blind.
Schrayer sans-snap, step steady.
But brain-burn? Boy's blur—banish failed.
"Rotten age. Pirate plague? All eyes that empty...?"
Kid-kick musing.
But boot brisk: thought-thrash, clean slate.
Schooled stale: scene-skip, sentiment-slash. Adult armor: apathy ace.
No nook for nonsense. Dawn deed dire.
Rest rite—roost roulette, night-nibbled fade.
--+--
T/N: Although I'm an inexperienced Editor, I do have a Patreon account! Although it seems like I don't have many supporters right now, my webnovel will be released in full every day, and the advanced chapters will be uploaded to Patreon.
It may not be worth it now, but who knows, it might be different in the future. Who knows!
patreon.com/Greyhounds
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