SmilinKujo
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Chapter 60 – What Makes a Friend?
🕑 Added 2025-04-04 12:36:39 +0000 UTCJack exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. He had no idea how long he had been sitting here, talking to this thing—this sentient island—but he swore if this went on for any longer, he was going to pull his hair out. Or better yet, call in the clones and jump the ever-living shit out of this blob until it makes some damn sense.
But for now? He tried to compose himself. Jack took a slow breath and recapped what he had learned: "Okay," he said. "To sum it up—you're a sentient island who somehow doesn't remember how you got here. And now, you're trying to bring back your other half because—somehow—you got split in two. So, in other words—" Jack narrowed his eyes. "You're incomplete."
Across the campfire, the half-formed being continued to stabilize into Jean's form. But only on the left side. The right half? It kept shifting—Logan, Petra, Scott, Bobby, Alex—flickering between all of them like a malfunctioning hologram.
Then, in a voice that sounded like many voices speaking at once, the entity answered—"Yes." It stared at Jack through Jean's eyes and said—"That is why you are not supposed to be here. You and your kind are demons."
Jack groaned. "Okay—again—I am NOT a demon." He threw his hands up. "How the hell am I any different from Logan or Jean? We're all humans."
Krakoa's eyes didn't blink. "No," it said. "They are friends." It tilted its half-formed head. "They must return to their roots with me."
Jack stared. His confusion deepened. "Return to their roots"? What the hell did that even—Then. Something clicked. Jack's sharp eyes took in the shifting forms—Krakoa kept using Jean's body as its primary form—but the right side of its body kept changing.
Jean. Logan. Petra. Scott. Bobby. Alex. Mutants. Every single one of them was a mutant. Jack's brows furrowed. "…Are mutants friends?" he asked.
Krakoa closed its eyes. "Their energy is familiar." It shifted again—Logan's form briefly flickered before snapping back to Jean.
Jack leaned forward. "And mine isn't?"
Krakoa stilled. Then, after a long pause, it finally said—"No. You are not familiar. The others like you—they are not familiar either."
Jack's expression darkened slightly. "…Just because I'm not a mutant?"
Krakoa did not respond. Instead—It closed its eyes. And suddenly—The world around them began to change. The quaint village—the campfire—the twisting, shifting mass—It all faded away into a blinding white void.
Jack felt nothing beneath him. No ground. No air. No gravity. Just nothingness. Yet, he didn't panic. He floated there, still sitting cross-legged, watching as Krakoa hovered in front of him. It was waiting. 'Alright,' Jack thought. 'Show me what you wanna show me.'
Then—Beneath them—An island began to take shape. At first, it was amorphous, a shifting landmass that morphed and reshaped itself unnaturally, like something growing rather than something formed by nature. Then—It settled.
And Jack's eyes widened. It was Krakoa. But… different. The island looked younger—its shape more raw, its land untouched, like it had yet to fully understand what it was supposed to be.
Then, as they descended, Jack's sharp eyes caught movement on the waters. A ship. A massive galleon, cutting through the waves, its sails full of wind. Jack immediately recognized the flag. A Portuguese emblem.
His eyes narrowed. "How old are these memories?" he muttered.
They got closer—close enough to see the crew aboard the ship. A captain stood at the helm, his hand gripping the railing as he surveyed the island. Then—In Portuguese, he declared—"We have arrived."
Jack's eyes flicked toward the rest of the crew, who were eagerly preparing to disembark.
The captain continued—his voice brimming with excitement. "This island… it flourishes." His gaze darkened with greedy determination. "There is a chance that we have found the Fountain of Youth."
Jack scoffed. 'Oh, great. This old story.' The scene played out before him like a memory. Krakoa—young and unaware of human malice—simply observed the newcomers. It did not understand them. But it felt… curious.
So—It offered them a gift. A single vine extended toward them, bearing a luscious fruit—vibrant and ripe. One of the conquistadors gasped in awe. "By God! It moves on its own!"
Jack watched as one of them reached out, taking the fruit in his hands. He sniffed it. Then bit into it. His eyes went wide. "It's heavenly!" he exclaimed.
But then—SLAP!
The captain smacked the fruit from his hands, sending it rolling across the deck. "Stupid fool!" the captain snapped. "That is a forbidden fruit! You cannot eat that!"
The soldier flinched. The other men looked at their captain in uncertainty. The captain's eyes burned with fervor. "This is clearly a test from God." He turned his gaze to the island, suspicion and distrust twisting his face. "If we do not pass it, we will never find the Fountain of Youth." His voice hardened. "Cut down every moving vine."
Jack tensed. The crewmen nodded. And then—They attacked. Swords sliced through Krakoa's offered vines. Axes chopped at its gentle, curious extensions. Krakoa felt pain. It didn't understand what it had done wrong. But still—It did not fight back. It simply stopped moving, hoping that if it remained still, they would stop hurting it.
Days passed. The crew searched the island with growing frustration. They found nothing. No fountain. No miracles. Just an island—one that now feared them.
Then, one night, the captain's patience snapped. Standing on the ship's deck, he turned to his men and growled—"Enough of this."
He pointed back at the island, his face twisted in disgust. "This is no paradise." His jaw tightened. "This island is the devil's work, trying to deceive us." He clenched his fist."Burn it."
Jack's eyes widened. The crew obeyed without hesitation. They dragged barrels of explosives onto the shores. They piled kindling and oil at the forest's edge. And then—They lit the flame.
Jack watched as the fire spread—Watched as it ripped through Krakoa's young, innocent form—Watched as half the island was engulfed in a raging inferno. Krakoa screamed. And for the first time—It felt hatred.
Jack sat stunned in the void, his eyes locked on the image before him. The burning island. The Portuguese galleon, now retreating into the horizon, leaving behind a scorched, wounded Krakoa.
Jack clenched his jaw. But before he could say anything—The scene shifted again.
The Portuguese ship is nowhere to be found, replaced by a different vessel—sleek, well-armed, its sails bearing the insignia of the Dutch Republic.
Jack exhaled sharply. "Ah, shit… here we go again."
The Dutch ship cut through the waters, its crew busy working the deck. Jack watched as a stern-faced captain stood at the helm, gazing at the distant island. Then—A first mate approached, speaking in Dutch. "Captain, this is too far to be the East Indies."
The captain—an older man with sharp, calculating eyes—smirked. "I know," he said. "But fate has led us here. I have never seen this island before… it is untouched. There could be treasure waiting for us."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Of course," he muttered. "It's always about treasure."
The Dutch ship dropped anchor, and longboats hit the water, ferrying the crew to shore. Krakoa—still recovering from the last betrayal—did nothing. It remained still. It did not extend its vines. It did not offer fruit. It watched.
As the Dutch crew spread out, one of the men shouted—"Captain! There are unfamiliar plants here!"
The captain rushed forward, his eyes gleaming with greedy curiosity. He crouched down, running his fingers over a strange, vibrant plant, unlike anything he had seen before.
His lips curled into a grin. "This… I've never seen this before." He turned to his men, his voice filled with excitement. "This could be a new spice! Something the world has never known!"
His grin turned ravenous. "We will be rich beyond comprehension." He straightened, his expression darkening. "Take everything. Every last bit. And if we are the only ones who know of this place…" His smile sharpened. "Then we shall remain the only ones."
Jack's stomach twisted. He already knew what was coming. And sure enough—The cutting began. Axes hacked at Krakoa's vegetation. Knives slashed through its vines. Men ripped out entire roots and stuffed them into their satchels. Krakoa felt it all. It did not scream this time. It did not lash out. It only did one thing. It moved. For the first time—it ran.
Jack's eyes widened. The island trembled, a deep, rumbling quake shaking the earth as Krakoa shifted. It was slow, but deliberate.
Jack could feel it—Krakoa wanted to leave. To get away. The Dutch crew staggered, some falling over as the ground beneath them shifted.
The captain's eyes widened in shock. But still—They did not stop taking. And again, Krakoa was left wounded. Again, it was betrayed.
Jack watched as the image changed again. A new ship. A new time. A new betrayal. Jack gritted his teeth. It didn't matter who came. The result was always the same. They hurt Krakoa. They took what they wanted, without asking. And in response—Krakoa kept running.
Jack finally understood. Krakoa had been moving. Not just growing. Not just expanding. Fleeing. It was hunted. Century after century—it kept changing locations, trying to escape those who sought to use it. But no matter where it went…The abuse never stopped.
As Krakoa starts to retaliate, it becomes a legend. The sea legends spoke of a cursed, moving island—one that swallowed men whole and devoured ships. One that no sailor dared to approach. As time passed, the world forgot Krakoa. It was alone.
Until—A sound. A roaring engine. Jack's eyes snapped forward as he saw it—A Japanese kamikaze plane, spiraling out of control, plummeting toward the island. Then—CRASH.
Jack tensed. Smoke billowed from the wreckage. And then—From the flames and twisted metal, a figure emerged. A pilot. Bloodied, battered—but alive.
Jack's eyes narrowed. The pilot should have died on impact. Yet somehow—He is still alive. And Krakoa felt something different. This human's energy—It was familiar.
The Japanese pilot dragged himself from the wreckage, his body battered, his uniform torn. He stumbled toward a tree, slumping against its trunk.
A deep gash ran across his arm, his skin marred with bruises and burns. Yet—Slowly… the wounds began to close. It was subtle—a slow, creeping regeneration. Not instant. Not like a miracle. But still—faster than any human should heal.
The pilot exhaled shakily. He muttered in Japanese, his voice rough. "Shit… I can't even die at this point." He let out a bitter chuckle. "And now I'm stranded." His head lolled back against the tree. Darkness took him.
Krakoa watched. It had seen humans before. They were cruel. Selfish. Destructive. For centuries, it had learned that humans only took. They cut. They burned. They enslaved. But this one…This one felt different. His energy—It was familiar.
So Krakoa hesitated. For the first time in centuries—It did not immediately reject this intruder. It observed.
The morning has come. The pilot woke up, groggy and hungry. His stomach growled, his body weak from exhaustion. Then—He noticed something beside him. A pile of fruit.
Strange, vibrant fruit, unlike anything he had seen before. His brow furrowed. Had he gathered these before passing out? No…
He would've remembered. Still—He was too hungry to question it further. He reached for one and bit into it. His eyes widened. The taste was—Incredible. Sweet. Juicy. Unlike any fruit from his homeland.
He devoured the rest. Then, he clasped his hands together, bowing slightly. Softly, he murmured in Japanese: "Thank you for the food."
He did not know who had left it. Perhaps it had simply fallen from a tree. Perhaps it was the blessing of the island itself. But still—He gave thanks.
Krakoa felt something new. Something it had never experienced before. For the first time in its long existence—It had received gratitude.
Days passed. Then weeks.
The pilot survived. Every night, as he slept, a new pile of fruit appeared by his side. At first, he thought nothing of it. But eventually—curiosity took root. One night—He decided to pretend to sleep.
He lay still, his breathing slow and steady. Then—A rustle. A shift in the air. Something moved. A shadow—slithering. He kept his eyes shut, waiting—And then—A single vine crept into view. The pilot's lips quirked up. He moved fast—"Aha!"
His hand shot out, catching the vine mid-air. The vine froze. A sharp, sudden pull. And just like that—Krakoa recoiled. The vines snapped back, retreating into the shadows.
The pilot chuckled, shaking his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, speaking softly. "Heyyy… Sorry if I scared you." He glanced toward the darkness where the vines had vanished. His voice lowered. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
Silence. No response. Krakoa did not move. Did not reach out again. The pilot sighed. A small, smile crossed his face. He did not push. Did not force an answer. Instead—He simply leaned back against the tree. And waited.
Time passed. The bond between Krakoa and the pilot grew stronger. Krakoa, once an unfeeling island, became something else—something more. It watched. It listened. It learned. And with time, the pilot taught it.
They experimented together. The island had accumulated gunpowder from the wreckage of fallen planes and ships. One day, as they sat by a makeshift fire, the pilot had an idea. "You absorb things, right?" Krakoa tilted its vines, as if nodding.
The pilot smirked. "Then what if you absorb the gunpowder?" Krakoa did not understand at first. So the pilot explained. "Gunpowder is dangerous, but if you can control it… it's power."
Krakoa hesitated. Power was what humans always sought when they came here. But the pilot wasn't like them. He wasn't taking—he was teaching. So Krakoa listened. It absorbed the gunpowder, breaking it down into its essence.
Then—A new flower bloomed. Small, delicate—but deadly. The pilot plucked one, holding it between his fingers. He flicked a match, brought it close—FWOOM.
The flower ignited, an instant blaze of light and heat. The pilot laughed. "A natural bomb plant. That's insane." Krakoa hummed in response, pleased by his joy. The pilot grinned. "You're getting smarter, my friend."
Then came the land-surfing experiment. The pilot stood atop a large rock. Krakoa shifted its land, causing a tremor. The rock moved, gliding like a wave across the shifting earth. The pilot's laughter echoed across the island. For the first time—Krakoa felt something other than fear, pain, or anger. It felt—joy.
They spent years together. Building. Laughing. Learning. A true friendship, unlike anything Krakoa had ever known.
But then—The pilot's body began to fail. It was subtle at first. His steps became slower. His hands trembled when he held his food.
Then one day—He could barely stand. Krakoa did not understand. It did not know why its friend grew weaker. Until—The pilot finally spoke. His voice—frail, yet kind.
"I see now…" he murmured. Krakoa listened. "You've been… taking my energy. Every time we touched."
Krakoa froze. A realization dawned upon it. It had never meant to harm him. It had only ever meant to connect. But it had been feeding off him—slowly, unknowingly. And now—He was dying.
But the pilot did not resent it. His smile was soft. His eyes filled with peace. "Don't blame yourself." Krakoa shuddered. A new, horrible feeling grew inside it. A feeling it had never experienced before. Sadness.
The pilot's breath was shallow, his body tired. "Matter of fact…" he chuckled weakly. "I'm grateful." Krakoa tightened its vines, holding onto every word. "If it wasn't for you, I'd have lived a long life filled with war."
He exhaled. "I couldn't live with that." His voice wavered, but his eyes remained kind. "You saved me."
Krakoa trembled. It wanted to stop this. It wanted to give back what it had taken. But it couldn't. The pilot's time had come. And so—With his final breath, he made a request.
"My friend…" Krakoa leaned in, listening. "Thank you for everything you've done." A weak, choked chuckle. Then—"Bury my remains on your highest peak."
Krakoa froze. The pilot continued, voice barely above a whisper. "I want my body to rest… beside you."
"So I can see the world's beauty… side by side with you." Krakoa felt itself breaking. The pilot's hand trembled, reaching out. Krakoa reached back. A single vine offered a fruit. The same first fruit the pilot had eaten all those years ago.
The pilot smiled. His fingers weakly grasped it. He took a bite. "Delicious as ever." Tears welled in his tired eyes. With his final breath—He whispered the words he had spoken every day since they met. "Thank you for the food."
And then—He was gone.
Krakoa did not move for a long time. It did not speak. It did not change. For the first time—It had lost something precious. And for the first time—Krakoa mourned.
Comments
Kiranx5
Goddam it’s enough to make a grown man cry 😢
Kujo
Thanks, glad you enjoy the chapter👍 also great insight, I think it’s a way of showing the fact that this mutant–pilot–is deeply human inside. Mutant or not, war drains their life from them, which is ironic to this pilot, because he died because the island, the one that gave him a break from the war, is the one literally draining him out of his life.
Vrael333
Ah I think that answers my question if Krakoa has met humans before. It’s sad truly that almost every human who has the chance and the power to do it would decide to empower himself further instead of doing the right thing. In the end humans are deeply selfish creatures. Even the pilot isn’t different because he didn’t want to rejoin the war he stayed on the island. Thx for the chapter :)
