"Fernandes, Portuguese, twenty-seven years old. What are your specialties? What work did you do in Mozambique before?"
"Sir, I don't think I have any particular specialties! But if profession means work, then I suppose I was a plantation farmer before?" Fernandes asked uncertainly.
Faced with the East African employee's questions, Fernandes still appeared somewhat ill at ease. The East African before him looked quite imposing, even making Fernandes feel a little afraid.
This East African looked to be under twenty. Though his youth still showed somewhat because of his age, that gray, weather-beaten face, like withered tree bark, looked as if it had endured great storms and towering waves, making people instinctively overlook his age.
But to Fernandes, rather than feeling oppressive, this East African gave off a faint, intermittent killing intent.
Combined with the old East African National Defense Army uniform he had not yet had time to hurriedly change out of, he had clearly "killed people," and quite possibly had several Portuguese lives on his hands. To the Portuguese present, this was a wordless deterrent.
"So, you were a thug?" Prust asked.
Prust did not notice the thoughts running through the minds of the Portuguese being registered. As a former Defense Force soldier who had enlisted not long ago, then retired from the military and been reassigned on the spot, Prust had indeed seen blood.
In his mind, people like Fernandes on Portuguese plantations ought to have been thugs. After all, farming did not seem like something Portuguese colonists would do themselves. They only needed to keep watch over the Black slaves.
Shaking his head, Fernandes said, "I've never bullied anyone. Although my status was a little higher than the Black people's, my job was mainly to patrol the plantation, observe the cotton's growth, and then report it