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Seven days passed in a blur.
Henry was ready to head out solo this time—no one driving him, no one making introductions. He'd earned his place now.
Behind the bar, John was doing what he always did: fiddling with something that didn't look like it needed fiddling, like he was allergic to stillness.
He glanced up. "You sure George is setting out again? Might wanna give him a call first. No point in driving down there for nothin'."
"Doesn't matter. I need to swing by and grab my paperwork from Tom anyway. Even if we're not heading out, I can check the lay of the land."
Henry didn't need to pack much. No one on a crab boat gave a damn about clean clothes—three minutes on deck and you'd be soaked in seawater, fish guts, and regret. Rain gear was for wind protection, not staying dry. Dry was a myth.
The boat had everything they needed in terms of tools and equipment. So "preparation," for Henry, really just meant showing up.
Before leaving, though, he dug into the old backpack Tom had given him and pulled out the bank's money bag. He fished out a few small bills, then set the rest on the bar.
"John, this is the payout from last run. Stash it somewhere safe, will ya? If you need some, use it."
John looked at the cash like it had personally offended him.
"Jesus, why the hell didn't you put this in a bank like a normal person?"
"Last time you found me, I was butt-naked and half-frozen. You think I had an account? Or any papers? I'm grabbing those from Tom today."
John grumbled. "So put the damn money in the bank after you get your paperwork."
"I already cashed it, and they took a fee. Why would I hand it right back so they can charge me again when I want it later? You think I look that dumb?"
"Let's not pretend you're some genius, sunshine. You can't even tell Scotch from bourbon."
"Hey, first time tasting shit, how was I supposed to know that's what shit tastes like?"
John snorted. "Keep your fish-stink money. I don't want it."
"Yeah, well, it's king crab stink—expensive stink. What, you want me to bring it on the boat with me? Or leave it in the car so some bottom-feeder from the docks can help himself?"
That got John to grunt in reluctant agreement. The southern dock town saw a flood of strangers every crab season. Not all of them were there to fish. Some were hustlers. Some were thieves. A few didn't even bother pretending and just flat-out mugged people.
"Fine. Leave it by the register. I'll drop it in the safe later."
"Appreciate it," Henry said, shouldering his now-empty bag and heading out the door.
Late October in Alaska wasn't for the weak. Even with thermals and a heavy coat, the cold hit like a punch to the gut. The kind of weather that made your lungs contract and your balls hide.
Not that Henry needed the layers. His physiology could handle extremes just fine. But there was no reason to broadcast how weird he was. Best to look normal, feel normal—even if "normal" felt like stuffing himself into a cotton oven mitt.
Once on the road, Henry didn't bother with posted speed limits or defensive driving. He focused, fully locked in, super senses dialed in to the road ahead. No traffic, no cops, no surprises.
The Cadillac DeVille—an old '65 model—was ancient by any standard. But Tom had taken care of it like a jealous lover. No major wrecks, no lazy fixes. It ran smooth, even with ice patches along the shoulder.
Two-lane blacktop stretched ahead like a promise, and Henry kept the needle around 100 km/h without breaking a sweat. The tires gripped like claws, and the engine purred its approval. Two hours later—faster than last time—he rolled into the southern fishing town that served as the seasonal launchpad.
First stop: the docks.
If the boat was leaving soon, he'd let Tom know to hold the paperwork until they got back. If not, he'd swing by Tom's office and pick it up in person.
Outside the dockmaster's station, a loose crowd of familiar faces loitered—fishermen, deckhands, and George himself. The mutant deckhand Henry had saved on the last run was there, too, along with a few others.
But one crewmate was conspicuously missing.
In his place stood someone new—someone massive.
The guy had to be pushing seven feet, easily over 400 pounds. A walking brick wall. Mutant, for sure. His arms were absurdly out of proportion—thicker than his legs, practically hanging past his knees. No sleeves, just raw skin exposed to the cold, like it didn't bother him at all.
Henry could feel the attention shift as he walked up. He was the last to arrive, technically, but still ten minutes early. George didn't seem to care.
The old captain stood and addressed the group.
"Alright, couple quick things," he said, voice loud and gravelly. "First—got a ping from the Annie-21. They're behind schedule, slow on the haul. Docking in two days."
No one groaned. Everyone nodded. They were used to delays.
"So we meet here, same time, two days from now. Once they unload, we hop on, do gear checks, restock, get ready. Any problems?"
Murmurs of "Nope," "All good," and "Roger that" passed through the group.
"Second," George continued, "we've got a new greenhorn. Big guy's strong—saw him lift a full crab pot by himself. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so keep an eye on him."
The usual chorus of lazy welcomes followed.
"Hey, welcome aboard."
"Strong's good. Saves us the hernias."
No one asked his name. On a crab boat, rookies weren't people yet. They were just "the new guy" until they proved themselves.
The fact that he was a mutant? Nobody cared. Not here. Not on the deck.
Because when you're hauling a half-ton crab pot and the wind's trying to shove you off the side of the boat, the only thing that matters is who can hold the line and who can't.
Truth be told, Henry could've lifted that pot one-handed and jogged laps with it. But he looked normal. Human. No reason to out himself just to show off.
So he stood there with the rest of the crew, hands in his pockets, and gave the new guy a polite nod.
Another day. Another greenhorn.
And two days from now—another trip into the unforgiving, freezing hell that was the Bering Sea.
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