You have a radio, a fully-functioning tablet and generous access to vehicles, so you could try to contact your family you could try to get a ride to the mainland, get to an embassy, call for help and let your family know your brother has died, that everyone you love is being held hostage by pirates. You accepted a generic tribal tattoo - oh, sorry, tatau - without complaint. The merciless branches, the horrific, alien tropical landscape buffeted you carelessly, and I felt your pain. You ran with the terror of a hunted animal through jewel-green foliage, the whip-sting of gunfire chasing your heels, and I sat on the edge of my seat. Your security blanket - the militaristic elder brother who was going to make everything OK - died with a sanguine gurgle under your hands.
I was with you in the beginning: You were a callow youth who quailed at the sight of blood, rich tropical vistas blurring to the rhythm of your panicked breath. This thing you've been doing, it's gotten out of control.
