Two years.
Enough time for a youth to shed some of his immaturity… though Kyle wasn't sure he had actually matured all that much. And enough time for a rickety little boat, once on the verge of falling apart at any moment, to evolve into… well, at least a medium-sized sailboat that didn't look like it would collapse into the sea the instant someone stepped aboard.
The vessel had been "donated out of friendship" by a short-sighted pirate crew, eager to help their comrades without much thought for practicality. Now, its deck was a chaotic symphony of life, noise, and occasional disaster.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!"
A short, stout man with a Viking-style beard was chugging an entire barrel of rum in one go. He was Miller Pine, and his weapon of choice—a massive, spiked hammer—leaned lazily against the railing, forgotten for the moment in favor of liquid courage.
Opposite him, Jabba sat cross-legged, a pile of empty rum barrels forming a miniature mountain before him. He patted his belly with one hand, his expression calm, almost philosophical.
"Burp… Miller, you're no good. Your face is pale!" Jabba's voice was as steady as his posture.
"Bullshit! This is the flush of excitement!" Miller Pine shouted, though his swaying body betrayed the lie. His legs trembled under the weight of his own bravado.
Nearby, beneath the mast, a man with a perfectly straight X-shaped scar on his forehead was meticulously cleaning a pistol. A cigar hung from his mouth at a permanent angle, smoke curling lazily into the morning air. This was Colonel Mu Gulian, a comrade Kyle had met six months ago on a remote Marine base island—a meeting that had involved no small amount of negotiation, persuasion, and, admittedly, chaos.
He snorted, letting the smoke drift from his nose. "Honestly… two drunkards," he muttered under his breath.
"Colonel Mu Gulian," a smooth, elegant voice called. Spencer, with red hair tied back meticulously and dressed in a noble's suit, held a glass of red wine in one hand. He leaned casually against the railing, every movement precise, deliberate, as if he were performing on a stage. "Isn't it good to enjoy the vitality of youth?"
Spencer had once been a guard on a merchant ship. His recruitment, however, had involved late-night conversations spanning history, politics, poetry, and prose, a negotiation that had lasted hours. Roger's charm, Rayleigh's tact, and a bit of Kyle's mediation had finally persuaded him to join this chaotic crew.
Colonel Mu Gulian didn't respond, still harboring a grudge about Jabba's drunken antics from two days prior. The memory of being forced into embarrassing antics at the tavern made him glare at the deck.
High above, in the crow's nest, a plump man with a love for his long-barreled sniper rifle was yelling down at the deck. "Hey! You bastards! Keep it down! You've scared away the seagulls in my scope!"
This was Pittam, the ship's sniper. He may have been grumpy, but he had a knack for precision and was strangely attached to his sniper rifle, which he treated almost like a family member.
Kyle, meanwhile, perched on the giant figurehead, felt a wave of mental exhaustion wash over him. Two years. He had grown accustomed to this routine, to the strange symphony of chaos that made life aboard the Roger Pirates' ship feel like a constant festival.
He observed the crew milling across the deck: Nozdon, the large man with a pointed head vaguely reminiscent of an old friend; Isaac, quiet and precise with his sword; Punk Rock, endlessly tinkering with strange mechanical devices; and Brumarine, devoted to keeping the ship's logbook meticulously updated.
From a "makeshift crew" of four, the Roger Pirates had grown to a dozen or more, their personalities as diverse and eccentric as the sea itself.
Kyle remembered how each new member had been convinced to join. Inviting Colonel Mu Gulian had involved three days and nights of Roger playing Russian Roulette, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Convincing Spencer had required a night-long discussion that covered everything from poetry to politics, carefully handled by Rayleigh. Miller Pine had been persuaded through a drinking marathon with Jabba, emptying the taverns of an entire town.
Every new companion came with a story that was both infuriating and hilarious. And Kyle? He had become the "binder" of the crew. He remembered small but vital details—adding a slice of lemon to Spencer's wine, chatting mechanically with Punk Rock despite his limited knowledge, or coaxing Colonel Mu Gulian to hear an entire sentence before cursing.
He wasn't commanding fleets, wasn't issuing orders to admirals or kingdoms, but on this ship, his influence carried weight.
"Yo, Kyle, spacing out again?"
Rayleigh had appeared beside him, handing him a cup of warm black tea. Kyle accepted it gratefully, letting the warmth seep through his chest.
"No," he said, taking a sip, "just thinking about what kind of monsters we've gathered on this ship."
"Kuhahaha! Of course, they're the best monsters!" Roger's voice boomed from behind. Like a gust of wind, he dashed to the bow, stepping onto the rail and throwing his arms wide as if embracing the entire sea.
"My lads! That island ahead looks interesting! Let's go have a feast!"
"Oh oh oh oh!"
The tradition of impromptu feasts, clearly, was alive and well.
A thunderous cheer erupted across the deck. Miller and Jabba abandoned their barrels, Colonel Mu Gulian stowed his pistol, and Pittam leaped from the crow's nest, nearly flattening a crate in the process. Excitement painted every face; anticipation crackled through the air like electricity.
"Captain," Spencer interjected, consulting the chart, "it's an unmarked summer island. There may be unknown dangers."
Roger's grin only widened. "Doesn't that make it even more interesting?" The sunlight caught his teeth, making his smile almost blinding. "Adventure! Adventure!"
Nozdon raised his massive arms with a roar that shook the deck. "Exactly! Adventure! Adventure!"
Kyle watched, helpless, feeling warmth swell in his chest. Two years ago, he had thought the strength of the Roger Pirates lay solely in the core trio: Roger, Rayleigh, and Jabba. Now, he understood the truth. Every single person on the ship mattered. Their quirks, their strengths, their madness—they were what made this crew legendary.
There were no rigid hierarchies, no petty disputes. Decisions were made on whimsy, gambles were placed on trivial competitions, and victories were celebrated like monumental triumphs. Drinks were offered silently to those in need, and laughter echoed endlessly.
Kyle turned to look at Roger, who was waving vigorously at him. The sunlight spilled over him, radiating boundless energy, freedom, and spirit. It reminded Kyle of the first night he had boarded this ship two years ago, the same reckless joy that had seemed impossible to contain.
"I'm coming, I'm coming! What's the rush?" Kyle called, his steps light despite the fatigue that lingered in his bones.
"Hey (#`O´)! You guys quiet down!" someone shouted from below.
"Yes! Little Kyle!"
"Damn it! I was the third one to join the ship—you should call me Senior, Senior!"
"Hai yi! Senior Little Kyle!"
"Baka Yaro!"
"Hahahahahahaha!"
Laughter and cheers reverberated across the deck. Kyle finally allowed himself to relax. These people were reckless, unpredictable, sometimes infuriating—but they were his crew. His companions. His family at sea.
And, in that moment, Kyle realized, despite mental exhaustion, danger, and the unpredictable chaos of life on this ship…
It was so, so damn happy.
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