Somewhere along the highly inaccurate charted waters of the Sea of Silence lies a rust-coated and rat-infested abomination that is the Gomorrah's Devil. A really small ship or rather a slightly bigger boat, that is now being hammered by strong winds coming from different directions howling like wild hyenas while big waves crashing on the ship’s hull, making it roll from one side to another and then back again, making a sound that something has been broken.

But that is not the problem.

In fact, today was a lucky day for the Gomorrah’s Devil, a small freight engaged in independent trades between islands, such as carrying spices, logs, fruits, fishes, oil, and even people. Not to mention, some illegal trades such as smuggling of weeds, weapons and artilleries, and even fugitives. You name it, they will carry it.

They got the goods if ye get ems shillings.

Visibility severely restricted that they can barely see what is in front of the ship’s bow.
Just this morning the weather is good, perfect actually, but tonight it suddenly evolves into a full-blown hurricane.

After all, at sea, especially at the Sea Of Silence, nobody really knows what lies ahead; all you have is a really good guess.
Even a sailor that has spent a lifetime running away from the Davey Jones locker has no match to the unpredictability of the weather.

--- Captains Office ---

At the captain’s office at the sternmost section of the ship, while the waves are hitting the hull, there inside with only a lamp illuminating the cabin with its flickering light as it swings on the hook that is used to secure it onto the ceiling above the table, Captain Gunnar is looking at the letter he receives days ago via a blue pigeon courier, a courier system that utilizes a special breed of pigeons that is excellent at tracking, navigating and homing system.

Usually, the pigeons are trained in a way as to remember two locations and deliver messages back and forth, but in the cases of ships that are involved in trades in different islands; the system involves training multiple pigeons that are specialized in each area.

Users must be aware of the approximate location and course of the recipient. The pigeons then were trained to identify the ships and their unique characteristics. Usually, the flag is the common marker as this is the most unique part of the ship for each ship bears a different flag, a jolly roger in case of pirates ships.

It is a letter from Benjamin.

***

My friend Nicholas,

I wrote this letter to you in the hopes that we would be able to convene at the Anchor-shrine isle during the black hearts festival on the 13th of May. It is with regards to a matter of utmost importance for the trade of spices between the islands around the triangle and the kingdom of All-White. I am hoping for you, for Maxus’, and the rest of our brother’s presence.

Your friend,

Ben Hart

***

He looks at the brown piece of paper with discriminating eyes, looking for possible tampering of the letter. It is composed of plain handwritten text and language, but in reality, it is a crypt text or a secret message hidden behind text and lines, something that could only be deciphered by a trained individual that has knowledge of codes and ciphers and especially those who knows the specific code words for each letter.

Without code words, it could take weeks, months, or perhaps never to decipher these messages. Aside from code words, each letter has its unique signature that only the sender and recipient know to protect it from tampering.

Cap. Gunnar examines it carefully for those.

Maxus is an alias.

Festival of the Black Hearts is a real event held at Anchor-shrine during the thirteenth of May; however, it is also a code for a certain location somewhere between the devil’s triangles.

As well as Ben Hart is a pseudonym for someone else’s name.

Trade would also mean another thing.

He massages his forehead. This is quite a simple message, for something that possesses extreme importance.

But the tricky part is not just to identify if the message is legit, but to carry out the task itself, to perform such acts and to put oneself in the open is such a vulnerable moment not just for him, but for the rest of the crew.

He puts the letter on the table and looks at the royal emblem of the All-White Kingdom that is hanging on the top of the cabin’s door. He looks at it while giving the letter an immense amount of consideration as if weighing which of them has more importance.

To which does his allegiance really lies.

His thought was interrupted when the ship violently rolls to starboard; it has probably caught a big swell and caught the ship on a bad angle. The letter slid off the table and the chairs fell off the wooden floor.

Apparently, somebody has been really bad at doing his job.

--- On the Wheelhouse of the Gomorrah’s Devil ---

“What’s your heading?” asked Maynard, the Gomorrah’s second officer.

“Heading north, sir!” answered Aden, the helmsman on duty.

“Steady on it,” Maynard commanded.

Maynard then returns to the chart table, where the navigational charts are located, to plot their dead reckoning position. He took the compass with his left hand and the divider with his right. But before he proceeded to what he is planning to do, his stare shifted to the forward of the ship…but he is not looking at the sea, in fact, his mind is somewhere else. And in his mind, he knows that something is about to happen.

Sitting deep inside his head is a gut feeling that somewhere, somebody has done something spectacularly stupid. He could only hope that it is not here and it is not him.

He is partially correct.

It might be important to note that Maynard here is not what you would normally call an average guy.

With his golden locks and slim yet well-defined physique, he is already a man to be reckoned with.

But his wonders do not end with his built alone, in fact, back in the kingdom of All-white he was regarded as the man with a particular set of skills, or as the ladies fond of saying ‘the Man’.
When you need a particular job to be done, you call for Maynard, when you need something to be done the way you want it exactly, you call for Maynard. If it is trouble that could only be dealt with by an expert, you call for Maynard.

Unfortunately, none of those skills was of any particular importance to his current occupation as the second officer of the Gomorrah’s devil. For if he was something back in All-white, here he is a dud, a deadweight, a chain shackle, so much that he himself had become his very own occupational hazard.

And that is partially the problem.

He picks up the compass divider and is about to plot on the chart when suddenly,

“Captain on the wheelhouse!” shouted the lookout inside the wheelhouse.

“Good evening captain!” Maynard greeted as he gulped.

He wasn’t very fond of the captain’s presence on the wheelhouse, because it usually signifies discontent to the navigator’s action.

“What are you cretins up to?” The captain shouted. “I told you to take us to the twin coconuts, not on the afterlife you buffoons.”

“I’m a sorry cap, I have no choice. We need to arrive on the rendezvous point the day after tomorrow.” He replied.

“Silence!” Cap. Gunnar exploded, “Alter course and bring the wind on the starboard quarter.”

“Wind direction northeast by east, sir,” Maynard informed.

“Steer two seven zero degrees and steady” commanded the captain.

“Steering two seven zero degrees, sir” The helmsman replied.

The ship now started to turn to port, leaving the wind on their starboard quarter.

Captain Gunnar took a few steps around the wheelhouse while the terrified crew evades his death glare.

“Our voyage plan is to reach the rendezvous point, but what is more important than that is to make it there alive. Do you understand, you blockheads?”

“Yes sir!” shouted the crews in unison.

***On the lookout post of the Gomorrah***

He stands on top of the monkey island. No, it's not an island full of monkeys, But an elevated post on top of the ship, the barrel overlooking the vastness of the ocean.

He looked far across the horizon.
His shaggy hair beginning to turn gray and a medium frame that is being covered by the thick leather jacket that makes him looks like the kind of man of wisdom and strong principle, but that is only until he opens his mouth and you realized that he has nothing good to say.

But sometimes, not too often, when the weather is not too bad and the trade is not too good, in an island not too far away, where the women are not too gorgeous and the alcohol is not too good but still potent enough to get you drunk…sometimes, there in the old taverns of Beer-bonny and Pail-bottom, places that had seen many men and women, drunk and sober, lewd and lonesome, and had its fair share of misfortunes, sometimes they also talk about the true meaning of life, in which they almost always come into conclusion that their existence alone is a perfect reminder that it is not fair.

Life is just an overly romanticized series of random consequences that started and ended the same way for everyone else. No hot sauce, no golden ticket, no soap…but if you are smart enough, you’ll get a bottle of rum. – Old man Ric, fables of the filthy pirates.

He took post facing forward of the ship, the storm is still raging and the whole sea being curtained with black clouds.

Smoke… That's what they call him, and that has always been his name for as long as he can remember. Not that he remembered anything beyond that night when he woke up head splitting with what would seem like a terrible hang-over, except he wasn’t drinking the night before.

He tugs his coat closer to him to conserve the heat of his body and to prevent what was barely left of his sanity from leaving his mind.

The salty air of the sea of silence is harassing his untidy hairs and spraying salt in his face as the waves break upon hitting the ship’s hull.

Being on the topmost portion of the ship gave them a spectacular view, as well as the impression of being on top of a tree while a giant shakes it off from left to right.

He took a piece of damp cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket, lighted it and inhales the mineral enriched substance in his chest.

"One day you're going to have to pay for all your debts, Smoke" Pete breaks the silence.

Smoke chokes by the remarks of his companion, causing him to cough.

Pete is his partner on the monkey island. The two of them could sometimes be mistaken as twins. Except that Pete was more rounded while Smoke is one stick away from meeting his maker...he also has a cow licked hair and an indisputable fact that between both of them, Pete is in many ways more decent than Smoke…at least by the standards currently held by the Gomorrah's crew.


“What the hell,” astounded, Smoke threw a menacing glare towards Pete, “is it just some sorta kind of a ghastly foreshadowing of my own demise...or is it a brick reminder that I should and would one day, pay for all my debts...especially with them burn brothers?”
"Is there a difference?"

"Well...the latter kinda gives me the creeps actually"
Pete pays no attention to his answer.

"One day, all of our demons gonna hunt us, with claws and fangs they will come for us. Remember that, Smoke… and there’s nowhere in the corners of this triangle would be safe for us to hide" Pete continued his oration.

"Hey!” annoyed and puzzled, Smoke, asked, “are you drunk?"
Pete threw him a stare before taking a bottle of rum inside his jacket and took a swig of it. "Corz I am, what else should I be?"
"You do remember the doctor telling you to quit, eh?"

"Don't talk to me like that, not when you're sitting there smoking like a friggin stack."

"Well...errr" embarrassed, Smoke scratched his head while grinning foolishly. "Something bothering you, mate?"

"It's Maria," said Pete, while his eyes wander along the horizon of the raging seas.

"Mar---” looking for something to connect, he pondered for a while, and then remembered a golden-haired woman with plump bosom. “...oh yeah, what about that?"

"The last time Gomorrah made port in Anchortomb, we met. And she's with a little kid"

"And..." Smoke asked obliviously, it took a few seconds to pass before it hammers his face. "Holy! Y-you mean, y---you had a spawn with that wench?!"

"Don't call it like that, Smoke!" Pete finally snapped. Even though they are thick as thieves, it is still undeniable that Smoke is an insensitive coconut. The number of times that they are plunged into trouble just because of Smoke's careless banter is enough proof of his denseness.

"It is called a child...a human being,” he huff, “like a real person ye know, only smaller." He explained slowly while gesturing his hands to make sure that every bit of details gets through Smoke's thick cranium.

"Well...errr... sorry, mate. I kinda get the concept, yes...it’s just..." he hesitated "…It’s your child, right?" He nearly whispered.

Pete looks at him glumly, "...I don't know"

"Y...you don't?"

Pete took another swig of his poison. By this time, the bottle was empty and he throws it mindlessly over the side of the ship. But instead of landing in the water, it collided with the ship’s railing and shatter into pieces. He recognizes the sound it made. It’s the sound of someone else’s problem.

"I was ten when I first met the man I thought was my father..." Pete resumed, "and I swear to god I look just like him. From the color of his hair, even on how he uses to passion it, up to his stone gray eyes and the way he walks. Even I was but a child, but the resemblance is uncanny." Even with the dark clouds covering the sea, the subtle hint of pride in Pete’s expression didn’t escape his notice.

"You talk to him, right?"

"Oh yes I did...a barman he is, in Anchor-tomb. So I walk towards him, and with all the courage in my young heart I told him; hi, my name is Pete Halen, and I am your son.” A grin etched in his face.

“I said those very well-practiced words trembling and proud,” Pete added before he finally smiled.

Creased brows and on the edge Smoke asked, "And..."


"Nothing," Pete replied plainly.


"W-what do you mean nothin', come on, he’s got to say something." He urged impatiently.


Pete eyed him before taking a deep breath "Yup, cor'z he did, but before that, he just stood there and look down on me like I was some kind of an insect. He looked at me as if I am…nothing." His expression suddenly took a plunge. "I was ten back then, Smoke, and I'm looking at this huge man waiting for acknowledgment, acceptance actually, and then he told me; you can't possibly be my child.”

Smoke didn’t utter a word, instead just looks at him solemnly.

“My world began to shatter, I could feel every bit of courage leaving my body
but tried to keep it in me, and with a trembling voice, I asked; W...why? How could you be so sure?”

“He stands from his seat, I was startled, with his cold eyes looked down in me, and listlessly said; Coz if you are, then I should have felt something...that's why.”

“Those words echo in my mind, as I’m unable to move. Then he left, without even looking back at me. And that was the last time I dared to talk to him.”


Looking for an appropriate word to say, to at least sound like a proper human being, but having a vocabulary of a cucumber, Smoke said rather cheerfully,

"well, that was terrific!"


Understanding that Smoke means well despite his apparently misplaced sense of humor, Pete clenched his fist, looks up the heavens and took a deep breathe while praying for the gods to stop him from bludgeoning his friend’s thick cranium…he did succeed. And a moment later he turned to Smoke and said,

"It is...and I've learned how to live with it"


On the other side, Smoke realized that he was now seeing a different side of his friend, the one that is vulnerable, shown only to those he trusts. And that made Smoke proud.

Afraid to ruin the moment, he dare not say another word, instead pulled his coat closer and throw his gaze back to the sea.

"How about you, Smoke..." Moments passed and Pete once again cuts through the silence.

“Eh?"

He hesitated, trying to analyze Smoke before saying,

"Do you think you would have known, and felt something... when you finally met your child?"

Smokes eyes widened, mouth hangs open, his tired and calloused hands shaking... He took a puff of his cigar and blew the fumes in contrast with the chilling wind, he looked at Pete in the eye and took a deep breath before saying,

"I...I don't know "

Suddenly, lightning flashed and illuminates the ship and the surrounding sea like daylight.

As the thunder roars and the ships roll from port to starboard, Smoke notices something. Up in the clouds, together as the lightning flashes, he saw something gliding along with the dark clouds.

It couldn’t be a bird, not on this hurricane.  Could it be a dragon? It could… but there’s something off about it.

For a moment he pondered, but he couldn’t come up with any. And so from the monkey island, using the sound powered microphone he shouted.

“Dragoooooon!”

Another chain of lightning flashes, this time it’s much closer to the ship, but different, it seems to be coming from a certain point in the sky and then scattering outward like an expanding circle of lightning.

Like a hole being ripped opened.

Closer and brighter the lighting becomes… it’s blinding.

But before he was completely blinded by the light, he took one last glimpse of the object flying relatively too low and too fast against the Gomorrah. And as it does, chains of lightning followed its trail towards them.

They cannot escape this one.

Something happened that night.

And that is the problem.