Blue Wolf

This page, Blue Wolf, is property of KidVegeta.

This article, Blue Wolf, contains the following: Adult Content, Graphic Language, Drug Use. Reader discretion is advised.

Note: it is recommended that you read Chasing Oblivion before reading this story.

They waited until after the police boat pulled up to the sailboat to make their move. With its mast bare, the ship was adrift at sea some thirty-five miles southwest of Amenbo Island. From here, it wasn’t even a dot on the horizon. Wolfe and his Wings had pursued the sailboat for the better part of a day in an inconspicuous gillnetter. The police’s arrival had been unexpected, but they could handle it.

Minutes later, they sprung upon their prey. The seven bandits climbed onto the police’s unattended speedboat, hardly making a sound. In the distance, agitated voices were rising over the water. Thoras and Kershew joined Wolfe in pressing forward. The others remained behind, their pistols drawn.

Delicately, they snuck onto the sailboat, crouching low, hugging close to the fiberglass wall. Everyone had gathered at the back of the boat. As the bandits approached them, their voices became clearer, and Wolfe realized there were only two policemen. He pointed for Thoras to go around the other side of the boat, and he did. We’ll hit ‘em from both sides. That man was the only other bandit from the old days, from before Wolfe had taken over the gang. The two of them had great synergy.

“It’s nothin’ officer, nothin’. I’m fine.”

“We can smell alcohol, sir.”

“Just beers, nothin’ serious. I swear.”

“A boat’s just like a hovercar, sir. You can’t dri–”

“Beers ain’t do nothin’ for me no more! I can drink twenny o’ them and feel fine.”

“Can your wife bring you guys in tonight?” the other officer asked.

“Oh her? Her? She’s a miserable old bat. Ain’t worth nothin’ outside the sheets.”

“Shut it, Umberto! That’s not nice. If you don’t have anything nice to say–”

“She’s a c*nt. I apologize, boys,” the man said, his voice slurring.

“Sir, you can’t bring this ship back into the harbor after drinking that many beers.” He kicked a pile of cans on the ground.

At the same time, Umberto’s wife began to scream. “What?! What?! What?! Call me a c*nt?! You call me a c*nt?! What? You pig fucker! Call me a c*nt? Asshole!”

Wolfe whistled and they rounded the corner, coming face-to-face with their prey. The police were standing next to Umberto, who was swaying against the back rim of the ship, his face sweaty and sunburnt. His wife was bundled up in a quilt in the corner nearest the old bandit, shouting obscenities, her marble-white fist raised in the air. She’s shaped like a barrel.

Thoras took out the officers before anyone else could get a shot off. In the commotion, Umberto stumbled off the back of the boat and fell into the ocean. Casting aside her quilt, his wife jumped to her feet and sort of stampeded over to the railing. Wolfe came up behind her, pressed his pistol to her skull, and pulled the trigger.

There wasn’t much loot, aside from some food and booze (which Wolfe appreciated). Umberto’s screams were barely audible. Thoras and Sarmon took the officers’ bulletproof vests, not to mention their pistols and ammo. Olivia found a map of the Red Sea (to the south) hidden in a false panel in a wall. Someone had circled Umihebiza, the island located furthest south of the six in that sea. Next to it, in sharpie, was written: S.C.’s treasure. Detailed instructions had been left below on where to precisely locate the treasure on Umihebiza.

Her green eyes met his, and she raised an eyebrow. He drank a gulp of Red-Eye whiskey (this was his last bottle, and it was nearly empty), buying time. He shrugged; they whooped. They set out for Umihebiza in their fierce little gillnetter, sinking the other boats on their way out. Umberto’s screams had long-since ceased. As nightfall approached, Phillippo turned on the headlights, and he felt invigorated. It had been a while since Wolfe had been on a mission of such promise.

Since leaving Diablo Desert some three months prior, his crew had pilfered their way through the southern continent. They had always been on the run from the police. Amenbo Island was the furthest southern location before those islands in the Red Sea, and even there the Wings had been on the run. Perhaps in those remote, far-off places, there wouldn’t be any such attention to the law. A bandit could dream.

---

The Red Sea was a barren place. For three days, they sailed south. It grew colder and the waters grew choppier; they never came in sight of another boat. Sarmon and Thoras used the gillnets to snag a swordfish on the second day. Olivia and Doc played cards (Sarmon and Thoras joined them sometimes) out on deck, while Kershew and Phillippo spent most of their time by the wheel. As that was the only area of the ship with walls and a roof, Wolfe found himself in there more often than not.

Thoras had been in the gang longer than Wolfe. Doc had been around for maybe thirty-five years. Olivia had been in the gang since she had been sixteen–twelve or so years. Kershew and Phillippo had been with him for eighteen months. Sarmon, too. He didn’t want to get to know them. There would be plenty of new recruits in the Red Sea islands. Soon the Wings’ ranks would swell again, and he would only need to know his lieutenants, like in the good old days.

Umberto’s tequila wasn’t half-bad. Wolfe went through a bottle a day. The others were given a bottle of rum and a half-empty box of wine to hold them over until they arrived in port. No one else drank like he did, so they had enough rum for every day of travel. He liked feeling drunk. It made looking at the map more fun. It could be bullshit, but in the end, if the map led nowhere, they could still prey on the few vessels in the area before returning to Amenbo Island. One way or another, he would get his plunder.

It was evening when they pulled into the port of Hosomaki. The island’s lighthouse had not yet come on. It was a cool night, clear, the sky streaked purple and orange. The last of the fishing ships were pulling into shore. There was no one to greet them (or charge them) at the dock, so they found some rope, tied the boat to the planky bridge, and came ashore. The nearest building was the two-story Ohano’s pub (大波野•居酒屋). Nobody needed convincing. Zeni from South City lined their pockets. They would be drinking well that night.

Maybe twelve people were inside. Dated music blasted from a jukebox. Most patrons were playing pool, or darts, or watching sports on the television. They reeked like fishermen do, and they were getting absolutely hammered.

Wolfe was not one to police his crew. They dispersed and ordered whatever they could afford. He bought a plate of bluefin tuna sashimi and some whiskey and began to eye the natives. One or two might join the crew. Thoras and Doc played pool with three of them, while Kershew ordered a bottle of rum. Olivia, sitting innocently at the bar, had already attracted some guy over to her. No doubt, she was going to scam him out of more than just drinks.

It took three drinks before he grew bold enough. Unfurling the map, he called over the bartender, Mr. Yasahiro Ohano, saying loudly, “And I have this map here tellin’ me there’s treasure on Umihebiza Island…”

“Ah, the island of the Skinchangers. The treasure of a thousand pirate hordes is said to be buried deep in the jungles of that place, guarded by demonic skinchangers. That is an ancient legend in these parts, traveler.”

“S.C. for skinchanger, eh?”

Ohano peered down his hooked nose and nodded. Wolfe ordered another drink. Nobody would join them now. The locals were fishermen and farmers, not pirates. They wouldn’t have much worth raiding. Olivia and her victim had retreated to a booth and sunk low in their seats. Wolfe joined Doc and Thoras at the pool table. He ordered more whiskey, and won some games, and Thoras didn’t seem too pleased to have been beaten so many times in a row.

They got drunker, and rowdier, and soon, Sarmon and Phillippo were throwing darts at strangers. Mr. Ohano kicked them out, so they spent the night at the island’s only inn, the Sea of Clouds Onsen (雲海•温泉), splitting the cost for three rooms. Thoras shared his. Though Olivia hadn’t come back with them, Wolfe wouldn’t punish her. However, he expected her to return to their boat in the morning.

A full moon had risen over the water; a salty breeze blew into the cove from the deep ocean, bringing with it a blistering chill. He finished his chicken karaage while sipping on whiskey (he had bought a bottle from Ohano). Tomorrow, he would try a different strategy. Maybe there was treasure to be found on Umihebiza. It was unlikely they would be the ones to find it. He needed to know, on average, how much the local boats had on them, and if raiding would be profitable.

Wolfe returned to his hotel room to find Thoras huddled over the table where he had laid his things. At the sight of his boss, he scampered back to his side of the room, pretending nothing had happened. The television came on, and he tried, in vain, to focus on it. He had been too clumsy in his drunkenness. The liquid in the Red-Eye whiskey was still sloshing about. Heat flashed in his cheeks as he grabbed the neck of the bottle and pointed it at his first mate. “Poison? Of all people, Thoras? From you… Why?!”

His upper lip quivered as he scowled. “I didn’t do anything, Wolfe. You’re drunk. You’re seein’ things.”

“What did you put in my whiskey, you rat fuck?”

“Hey! I’m no rat!”

“Answer me, Thoras.”

“Nothing!”

“Then take a drink.” He tossed him the whiskey.

“Nah, I’m done for the night. Come on, Wolfe, go to bed. We’ll find the treasure in the morning.”

Thoras handed the whiskey back to him. Wolfe took a deep breath. He wanted to squeeze the man’s neck so hard his eyes popped out. He had never thought Thoras would be capable of this treachery. He had known the man for decades, had trusted him with his life…

“Drink the whiskey.”

The old cook pretended to reach for the bottle, let it slip through his fingers and shatter on the floor, and when he looked up, he realized Wolfe had seen through his act.

---

The morning was bright and cold. He had a headache.

“Where’s Thoras?” Doc asked. The others were walking to the dock.

“Fucker tried to poison me,” Wolfe growled. “Don’t tell them about it.”

“Sure thing, boss. What about Olivia?”

“What about her? If she’s not on the boat, she doesn’t get any loot.”

“More for us, heh,” the bearded man said.

“She’ll come crawling back eventually. Or maybe she’s found her one true love.”

Doc snorted, and they joined the others at the gillnetter. It was close to eight in the morning. The fishing ships had long-since left the harbor. Some would be dozens of miles out in the open ocean by now. He preferred to catch his prey before it wandered off too far. They left at a brisk pace.

He sucked on a bottle of rum and wondered if they should go to Umihebiza. After some banditing. The gang’s spirits needed lifting, and there was no better way to do that than by reaving. As they came out of the cove into the deeper water, Sarmon spotted a cargo freighter making its way towards them.

“Won’t find an easier hit around these parts,” said Doc.

Kershew agreed. “Think of how much shit is on there… we’ll be rich. Whaddya say, boss?”

Wolfe was indifferent. A part of him had died the day he had been forced out of Diablo Desert, his gang in shambles, nearly broke. Alcohol had been his most reasonable companion since then. He’d spent most of that time in a harrowing blur, his emotions tempered by being constantly drunk. If they were to die today, so be it. If they were to gain a magnificent haul, so be it. Until he was back home, any victories were bittersweet.

“Still have those grappling hooks?”

“Aye, boss.”

“Good. That’s our way in.”

The gillnetter sped towards a ship fifty times its size. Wolfe cracked his knuckles, downed the last of the rum, and found his rifle. “No prisoners,” he said to them. “No mercy. Take whatever you find.”

They clambered overboard, leaving Kershew behind to man their escape craft. It was raining lightly on deck, and there were no signs of life. Wolfe whistled for them to storm the second-story bridge. Doc and Phillippo went up the left staircase, while he and Sarmon went up the right. When they drew near, the metal doors sprung open and a pair of soldiers clad in urban camouflage rolled out.

They unloaded their rifles upon the bandits. He dodged the shots and ran up the stairs, closing the gap faster than the soldier could react to. A single kick to the throat was all it took to kill him. Doc and Phillippo didn’t fare as well. He heard shouting and gunfire, and ran into the bridge. Sarmon subdued the pilot with his weapon, while Wolfe ran to the other side of the room. Doc and Phillippo lay in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs. Their killer loomed over them. Before he could turn to face Wolfe, he joined the bandits on the blood-splattered ground. More food for the fish.

As he returned to the bridge, Sarmon looked at him, and not a moment later, half his brains sprayed out his ear. From the shadows emerged another man clad in military attire. His hair was dirty blond, though his sideburns had gone grey. He was clean-shaven, riddled with scars, and his eyes were icy blue. He wore a red ribbon on his left shoulder inscribed with the initials ‘N.R.R.A.’.

“Damn pirates.”

The soldier fired at him. He dove to the side, drawing his pistol, glass shattering around him, and unloaded on the man. Of course, he was wearing a bulletproof vest. A shot took him in the shoulder, and another nicked him in the belly, and soon Wolfe’s vision began to blur. The alcohol wasn’t giving him so much of an edge anymore. He fell to his knees. A smile crept onto his foe’s face. He could feel a speech coming on. Narcissistic fool.

“You lived how long just to die like this? Mmm? Don’t usually come across pirates so old.”

He raised the rifle, but Wolfe had already leapt at him, roaring, ‘Wolf Fang Fist!’, and when his hand connected with the man’s lower jaw, he felt it give way with little protest. Blood gushed out, hot and sticky, running down his knuckles. The soldier staggered back, howling, his jaw hanging in tatters around his face, blood dripping out from the ribbons of split flesh on either side.

“Sorry about your face.”

The man threw something that looked like a grenade at Wolfe. In an instant, he was coated in flames; he could smell his flesh and hair burning. The man watched, holding his shattered jaw, looking almost gleeful. Then came the pain. He ran screaming to the nearest railing and flung himself overboard.

Although the fire had been a decent distraction, after it quenched and he sank beneath the churning waves some three-and-a-half miles from Hosomaki’s shore, the cold of the deep beckoned him. He saw a flash of light and fire erupt ahead and knew that Kershew, and the ship, and the map, had been burnt to ash. Now everyone was gone. His Wings were finished. He didn’t have to rise to the surface. He could stay down there forever with the last of his crew.

When his throat began to burn, Wolfe couldn’t help but surface. I’m not dead, and neither is Olivia. This isn’t over.

---

It was a crisp morning in the late summer of Age 747. Wolfe was sunbathing on the Crimson Beach in Hosomaki. It was colder than the day before. The hospital had given him enough pain meds to kill a baby elephant, so he didn't mind, and his stitches weren’t hurting so bad, either. He had remained in the hospital for more than a week. Olivia never came to visit. Furthermore, Mr. Ohano swore he never saw her at his bar ever again.

At around five o’clock, he set off for Ohano’s. Soon, the fishermen would be coming home. He wanted to eat and be gone before they crowded into the bar. Wolfe ordered an appetizer of Ahi tuna sashimi and a bowl of shōyu yellowtail hamachi ramen. Another bottle of whiskey brought him to the limit of his monetary abilities.

As he slurped up his noodles, he came to the uncomfortable realization that he would be better off back in South City. It wouldn’t be difficult to steal a fishing boat. What had happened to Olivia? Maybe her date had been a cannibal serial killer. In the end, it didn’t matter. He would not disgrace himself by looking for a mutineer. He had his whiskey. He didn’t need anyone else.

Thoras’ betrayal had hurt more, more so than even losing Diablo Desert. Wolfe had known the man all his life–well, he thought he had. I became the boss once before. I’ll do it again. I’ll raise a new crew in South City, and it won’t be long before we retake Diablo Desert. And after this, no more boats, and no more fish. He longed for the days of sand in his boots and a bike capsule between his fingers.

Ordering another tuna appetizer to go with the last of his zeni, the old bandit slunk off into the night. Some forty-five minutes later, a dirty, rotten, no-good thief stole a poor fisherman’s boat, snuck out of the harbor and onto the open ocean, and was never seen in those waters again.