Goldtown

When Colt first awoke he was still stranded at sea. His back was laid across the wooden board that had kept him from drowning while unconscious. His chest wound hurt so badly that it was all he could think about, and made it so he couldn't move his body at all. The cutlass he had stolen was still in his hand. He had wanted to drop it at first, but he hadn't been able to move his fingers without adjusting his body so he just kept ahold of it. Then he got the idea that it might be useful as an oar to row with, if he ever recovered enough to row, which was rather unlikely.

So he just drifted along with the water, full of the pain that was causing a constant ringing in his ears. He tried to look up at the sun as a way to track how far and how fast he was moving. He found it hard to keep focus on it, however, and eventually he fell back into unconsciousness.

When Colt woke up for the second time, the sun was in an entirely different position. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but it must have been at least a day or two. He could tell that he was still outside, but he no longer had the sensation of floating.

That could mean one of two things. One: he had found land, and was safe. Two: he had died, and was currently resting in peace. Only it wasn't very peaceful at all. It was still very painful, in fact, signaling to him that perhaps it was the first option.

He was finally on land. However, as wonderful as it was, he wasn't in the clear yet. He was very far from it. He still couldn't move because of the pain, and he got the feeling it was only getting worse. Drowning was out of the picture, but there were still many ways he could die, especially from his current injuries and lack of treatment.

One thing was clear: he needed to move. He was probably laying on the shore somewhere, completely vulnerable. This wasn't ideal. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't bring himself to roll over, much less get up. He was barely able to fight the urge to go back into a long sleep.

So he laid immobile, staring up helplessly at the sky. He was there for at least an hour. Eventually his vision began to swim and he couldn't help losing consciousness once again. The last thing he saw before passing out confused him greatly. The image of a man drifted into his line of sight. The man seemed short and had a face so red that it was the only color he could see. Or maybe Colt was just bleeding. He didn't know how, but for some reason he was sure it was an Authority officer.

Usually this would be the point where he tried to quickly strike the officer (to show him who's boss) before furiously running away for his life. He was in no shape to do this now, so all he could do was watch it play out.

The officer shouted something that was completely inaudible to Colt (probably "Pirate!") and then reached down to grab him. Before he could, however, the officer crumbled to the ground beside Colt. Standing in the officer's place was the figure of another man, this one just staring curiously down at Colt.

Colt couldn't make any sense of any of this. He tried to say something, or perhaps ask a question, but at that point the pain had already overtaken him. Used to it at this point, he felt himself slip fully back into the world of unconsciousness.

---

By the third time Colt woke up, he was sick of this. He was going to get up and move, no matter what. He hadn't survived in the past by laying around and waiting for the time when he wouldn't wake up anymore. So he wasn't going to start doing that now. He had a sword wound, that was all. Nothing that couldn't be overcome with some bandages and willpower.

But when Colt opened his eyes he noticed that his wound had already been bandaged. He also noticed that the sun wasn't out anymore. He wasn't even outside. Instead he found himself laying on his back on top of a cot inside what looked to be some sort of shack.

Where was he? Who could have possibly taken him in, and for what purpose?

Never mind. It didn't matter. Colt didn't know how long he'd been out, but he knew it was too long. He needed to be on his way. He guessed that he'd ended up on some town island. He could probably swipe some food from a tavern and then sneak aboard a supply ship and be out at sea by nightfall.

Colt swung his feet over the side of the cot and planted them on the ground. Then he used all the force he could muster to heave himself upwards. He was able to balance shakily on his feet, as long as he had a hand on the wall and ignored the pain shooting through his chest.

"I wouldn't suggest doing that," a voice spoke.

The voice caused Colt to jump, lose his grip on the wall, and fall back onto the cot. He got back into a sitting position quickly and turned to the sound of the voice.

An old man sat in the corner of the shack, in an old rocking chair with wood that was flaking off. He had white hair and a short patchy beard. He was old, but he still looked nimble and quick-witted. He wore simple clothing that lacked all color except for an odd-looking, bright-pink bandana that was tied around his wrist. "Your wounds are still healing, son. You'll be fine as long as you give your body time to do its thing."

"Who are you?"

The old man squinted. "Isn't it obvious? I'm a fisherman."

The man spread his hands out and Colt took the time to examine the shack. It then became obvious that the man was indeed a fisherman. A large fish trophy sat crooked on the wall, alongside a painting of a boat on the ocean. In the opposite corner from where the fisherman was sitting, there was a wooden table with a singular chair pulled up. There was also a small food counter and a couple cabinets. The place had an overall cozy feel, but Colt knew he had overstayed his welcome.

He tried once again to get to his feet. "Thank you sir, for treating me, but I must be on my way."

"Nonsense," replied the fisherman. "You will stay here until you are well enough to be on your way."

Colt smiled grimly. "If you knew who I was you wouldn't want to treat me. Besides, I can't pay you."

The fisherman smiled too. "I figured as much. When I found you, you were nearly dead on the shore. All you had with you was a wooden board and a fancy looking sword."

Colt's eyes widened. "You saw the cutlass? So you know-"

"That you're a pirate? I may be a lonely old fisherman, but I can put two and two together."

Colt looked at the fisherman as if only seeing him for the first time. "So you knew I was a pirate and that I had no gold, and you still took me in and treated me? Why?"

The fisherman shrugged. "I'm not a complicated man. You looked like you could use some help, and I was in a position to give some."

"Thank you," Colt said earnestly.

The old man leaned forward toward him, as if trying to read him. "What's your name, son?"

"Colt," Colt replied. "What's yours?"

The fisherman shrugged. "Just call me the fisherman. Everyone else in town does."

That reminded Colt that he still had no idea where he was. He decided to ask.

"Goldtown," answered the fisherman.

Goldtown. Colt felt like he had heard that name before.

"That name must bring in lots of visitors," Colt muttered.

The fisherman nodded solemnly. "Oh, it does indeed. Most are gravely disappointed, however. The town hasn't been rich in some time."

"But it used to be?" Colt guessed.

"Yes. They called it Goldtown because of the massive amounts of gold people would find when digging in the center part of the island. All the gold has been dug up now, leaving a giant crater in the center of the island. Everyone who got rich left, leaving the poor behind to stay. Eventually it became a port for the Authority. With all the pirates that come here, it's a good place for them."

"Authority?"

"Don't worry," said the fisherman. "They don't know I'm harboring a pirate. No one does, for that matter. And no one's likely to check, either. I'm mostly left on my own, save for when I go into town."

Colt finally summoned the strength and managed to get to his feet. "Regardless, an island with an Authority base is no place for me. I need to get back out to sea anyway. I'm not one to sit by and wait as life passes me by."

"I can see that, but you're not leaving. Not yet, anyway."

Colt turned back toward the fisherman and indicated his bandages. "I'm fine, see? Perfectly fine." Then he realized something was missing. "Hey, where's my pendant?"

His hand had ran absently over to his neck, and he had noticed that his familiar necklace was not present.

The old fisherman waved over to the table. "It's there, with your odd-looking sword. I'm not going to steal from you, though it does look like you could get some gold for that thing."

Colt walked to the table and recovered his pendant. It was a piece of strong white string with a small metal bird attached to it. The bird was black and shined in the light so that colors reflected off it. It was Colt's most prized (and only) possession, so he usually kept it near. It rarely ever left his neck, in fact.

Colt also picked up the sword. According to Captain Lobstar, the cutlass was pretty horrible. It definitely wasn't like normal cutlasses, that was for sure. But it belonged to him now, and that was the only thing other than his pendant that he could say that about. So he decided he'd keep it.

"Quite the sword. Never seen one like it," said the fisherman, who was still sitting in the corner.

"Me neither," Colt muttered. "I think it's just for show, though. Not actually useful."

The fisherman grabbed the cutlass from Colt's hand. Colt wondered how the old man had gotten up from his chair and over to the table so fast.

"It's a weapon, and a good one at that," the old man said. "No weapon is created for show. It is created to serve its purpose."

"Huh," Colt said. "I guess I've never thought about it like that."

"No, I don't suppose you have."

The fisherman sat the sword back on the table and returned to his chair in the corner. "Like I was saying before, you're not leaving. If you won't stay for the sake of your health, you at least need to stay until you can pay me back. Medicine and treatment aren't cheap, you know."

"I told you, I don't have any gold."

"And I heard you. But you do have two arms and two legs, all of which you insist are working properly."

"So?"

"So you do have other things of use to me."

Colt knew what that meant: manual labor. That was the point where he would usually make his leave, but for some reason he hesitated. The old fisherman had been nice to him, and had nursed him back to health before even ensuring payment. Colt was a pirate, but he wasn't completely heartless. Doing a couple tasks for the man wouldn't put him back too much.

"You want me to fish for you?"

The fisherman threw his head back and chuckled. "No no. Fishing is an easy enough task to grasp, but very difficult to master. You're welcome to join me if you like, but I should never have another man fish for me."

"Okay," Colt said. "Then what do you need me to do?"

The fisherman got up from his chair again. He stood without any struggle, not at all like an old man. He then smiled as he headed for the door of his shack. "I'm sure I'll think of something. You look like you're used to hard work, so this should be a breeze for you."

That was the truth, Colt thought.

As the fisherman disappeared outside the shack, Colt laid back down on the cot for a moment. He was thinking of his many years on the Bloody Manta, and the work he had been required to do. He could almost always find a way to get out of some of it, but never all of it.

While he was reminiscing about his time on the ship, a thought hit him. He remembered where he'd heard Goldtown mentioned. Captain Rave had said that it was their next destination, that they were coming to loot the island.

Suddenly Colt had an idea.