The ship was strong, made of wood and steel, with a mast standing tall and proud. It cut through the water, elegant yet dominant, parting the ocean to achieve the goal it was built for. The wood was carved beautifully, but Sayaka Maizono was certain she could tear into the material with her keratin claws. The flag was black, red, and white - a signal saying “don’t fuck with us” - because those colors were powerful. A battle between good and evil, resulting in a bloody collison.
The boat itself was not the main attraction, of course. It was a common occurence to see ships pass through these waters, entering a land far more sinister than they could fathom, only looking towards their fantasized destination. It was mundane and boring to Sayaka, because the sailors all tended to be men around the same age, drinking beers and boasting. She was sick of them. What she needed was something newer, with faint spice in their taste and sweetness in their scent. When this ship passed by her home, and she looked out with begrudging curiosity, she knew she found something new. Fresh. Tasty .
This ship’s crew was a combination of men and women. Some were astronomers, gazing at the vast black velvet with specks of white, trying to decipher nebulas and constellations. Others were navigators, listening to the tales of the former to find Sirius A, in a cluster of more negligible stars, so that they could find their way forward. Others sailed the ship, or lazed around, or wrote reports on what lingered in the water ( hah, if only they knew ). But on the ship of typical and average people, there was a woman who stood out. Tall and skinny, with hair as dark as the sea at night and eyes betraying a tempest.
She learned her name was Mukuro Ikusaba while the sailors chanted over whiskey and music. She was a soldier - well, a veteran now - who found peace in the salty breeze of open water. She chased after the stars in the sky to find her destiny, and Sayaka could admire that. There was experience in the way she conducted herself, but desperation when she explained her actions to others. She was enigmatic.
One person on the ship, who spoke about folklore in cryptic ways, asked if Mukuro believed in sirens and mermaids. She laughed, a raspy and hesitant noise, and said that she only had faith in what she saw. Another sailor joked, “Don’t we all? Ain’t that why we’re at sea?”, and nobody appeared to disagree.
Sayaka chased after that ship, beating her tail against the water and sucking air through her gasping gills. She was passing through leagues upon leagues of dark water, her indigo hair plastered against a pale and determined face. She was never inactive, per say, but this was the farthest she has ever gone. Never has she been this intrigued, this persistent, this hungry for someone else. She wanted to know who Mukuro was, and there was only one way to achieve that.
When the sun was beginning to rise, turning the water slightly orange as it reflected the sky, Sayaka rested against rocks at the bottom of the ocean. She opened her mouth and sang, loud and clear. She told a lament, words from an archaic siren tongue that were unknown to humanity. She shouted and rejoiced and wailed when need be, and soon, she saw a shadow fall into the water. She smiled.
It’s been so long since she’s been fed.