Chapter Text
Prologue
- A destiny bound by blood -
The tumult of his thoughts never ceased.
It was an inevitable fact, it had always been that way since he was a child.
He hoped that the constant whirring of the helicopter's propellers would distract him. But it didn't. Quite the opposite. They had the perfect consistency to function as white noise, causing him to hyperfocus, capable of making him recite the thousand and one ways to throw himself overboard into the deep ocean beneath his feet.
He couldn't stand being still for long, and yet, he wished the time would never come to get off that flying contraption. That he would never have to reach his destination.
He was weighing the pros and cons of accepting that task in his head -again- Only to arrive -again- at the same result.
He had to do it. He had to clear up any doubts. And if playing the role of the “good son” helped him achieve his goal, he would do it.
“You should see the improvements we've made to the ship, sir.“ He heard the coordinator's voice through his huge headphones. “I bet your father will be very pleased with what I have to tell him about our new advancements.”
He doubted it. There wasn't much that made Morrow D. Noxley "pleased".
Not even his favorite son.
“That remains to be seen,” he said curtly, immediately silencing the nervous little squirrel.
He hated acting like that. He hated it deeply. The arrogance, the pride, and that stoic look so characteristic of his family.
But he hated the bootlickers even more.
“We are here simply for a supervision report and technical review of fishing practices,” his companion reminded the coordinator with a serious expression, not so intimidating but efficient. “We will not waste time on unnecessary detours.”
“Of course, of course,” the squirrel laughed nervously, bowing constantly by way of apology. He coughed uncomfortably and turned his gaze toward the window.
He gave his friend a slight nod of thanks. His friend returned it discreetly. He knew him well enough to know he wasn't comfortable in this situation.
But it was something that had to be done.
His boots struck the damp metal. The smell of salt and fuel mingled with something else: fresh fish, industrial cold, and the unsettling feeling of isolation.
The wind continued to buffet his jacket as the helicopter rose again, flying away and leaving behind an abrupt silence that seemed heavier than the noise before.
He looked closely at the faces of the people present. Memorizing their expressions hidden behind that mask of false pleasantness. It was a skill he had perfected over the years. He knew better than anyone what it was like to be unwelcome somewhere.
Even so, he used his best acting skills to feign the utmost indifference. Successfully hiding his immense desire to dig up all the secrets hidden on that ship.
"Welcome, sir..." the coordinator exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm.
"Are all the crew here?" he interrupted politely (as politely as he could), playing his role as a nepotism baby to perfection.
"Yes, sir," he replied, "the rest are off at work. But don't worry," he chuckled, trying to appear friendly, "those who should be here are here."
A burly cat in uniform stepped forward and extended his hand. He politely shook it firmly.
“I am Captain Whisker,” he introduced himself with the air of someone accustomed to giving orders. “It is a pleasure to have you here, sir...”
“Young Noxley will suffice,” he interrupted again with a direct gesture. He probably sounded like a disrespectful brat. But it didn't matter; it helped him play his role. To make them underestimate him. To make them see him as just another spoiled rich kid.
Besides, he hated, truly hated, being called by the name his father had given him. That wasn't his name, not in his real life.
At least he could tolerate his last name.
“Of course,” Captain Whisker replied with a tense smile.
After a long round of greetings and awkward questions about the health of his father and older brother, the tour of the ship began.
As they made their way through the facilities, he couldn't help but notice the prying eyes and poorly concealed whispers directed at him.
He wasn't surprised, to be honest; he was used to it. Everyone here was expecting a different kind of person. Someone more imposing and calculating. Just like his brother.
He, on the other hand, was nothing like that. Quite the opposite. His life could be summed up in a single word: “bastard.” Or illegitimate son, if they were feeling kind that day.
In a way, it was logical to think that. He was nothing like his father, not even like his beloved mother, may she rest in peace. And just by looking at him, it was clear something was off.
Unfortunately for many, that whole theory fell apart as soon as two simple facts were analyzed:
The first. That his father had already done his DNA test (bless today's technology), which he kept very diligently in a drawer in his desk (and which, at the age of four, he had found while rummaging where he shouldn't have. A bad habit of his).
And the second. That he was the spitting image of his maternal grandfather. Who, ironically, had been a nuisance to his father when he was alive. Perhaps it was karma Morrow was paying for being a son of a bitch.
Even so, that title never left his life. He wore it like a crown, a reminder that no matter what happened, he would always be the black sheep of the family.
"As you know, young Noxley, today you are aboard one of Doomline Maritime newest factory ships. One hundred and thirty meters long,” began the captain, adjusting his cufflinks before clasping his hands behind his back as they walked along the metal deck, ”you may think it's not as impressive as some of our other ships, but the key is not its size, but its autonomy. We don't just fish... we process everything right here.
“Impressive,” he replied with a measured nod, letting his gaze wander over the cranes and conveyor belts, as if evaluating each piece.
“This place has the capacity to spend eight weeks at sea without needing to call at port, accommodating a crew of eighty,” the captain continued, resuming his steady pace.
“A real achievement,” he replied again. He was used to these kinds of situations, and he knew better than anyone that if you gave the right answers at the right times, you could sound interested without having to try too hard.
“Only the highest quality for Doomline Maritime, standards, of course,” he added with a sidelong glance, pleased with that reaction. “His father made sure...”
“What's down there?” he asked, tapping the floor lightly with the tips of his shoes. It was a habit he had that his parents couldn't break him of.
"Oh... Well," the coordinator muttered, taken aback. He hadn't expected the tour to be actively interrupted.
"The engine room, young Noxley," replied a bear, taking a step forward. "That's what my team and I are handling."
"I see..." The sentence hung in the air a second longer than necessary, heavy with meaning.
“Good!” exclaimed the coordinator enthusiastically, in an attempt to regain his lost attention. “Let's continue with the tour,” he added, smoothing his lapel with barely concealed pride. “And young Noxley, let me tell you that some things deserve a closer look,” he said, trying to strike up a rapport.
The industrial cold became more intense as they crossed a gate. The floor was damp, and the constant hum of the machines filled the air.
“This is where the sorting begins. Some species are destined for direct consumption. Others... well, others have more specific uses,” explained the captain.
He stopped in front of a section that was partially isolated from the rest of the plant. It did not appear on the general plans hanging on the wall.
“As you can see,” the captain continued as they walked along the processing deck, “efficiency is our priority. Nothing goes to waste… at least, nothing that can be turned into profit.”
There, under white lights and an almost surgical chill, were several stainless steel tables. On them lay nets full of fish and marine creatures that were clearly not cataloged in any standard database. Some specimens had unusual markings, others deformities that appeared to be the result of handling.Examples that didn't quite match what one would expect from a typical commercial catch. These weren't simple deep-sea trawl fish. The proportions were unusual. More horrific tissues. Irregular pigmentation.
“Accidental finds,” the coordinator said, noticing his visitor's fixed gaze. “Deep-sea trawling sometimes brings surprises. Our contract allows us to study any off-catalog specimen before officially reporting it.”
A technician opened a sealed container and took out a pair of translucent fish that looked almost like hybrids: visible organs, convulsive movements, eyes too large and bright for their species. The coordinator pointed at them casually.
"Not all of them are immediately viable for consumption, but some have 'special' applications," he said, winking. "We conduct studies and experiments. Some labs pay very well for these findings, and... well, the company wins the occasional private contract."
The hum of the machines seemed to grow louder.
“Of course...” added the coordinator with a slight nod of his head, “certain regulations are... flexible in international waters.”
He held his breath. In a way, it was... true. There was no explicit illegality, no threats or warnings, just a silent ruse: the manipulation of marine life that no one really supervised. It was as if each piece was technically allowed, but his ethics screamed that it crossed an invisible line.
“Fascinating, don't you think?” insisted the coordinator, picking up on his silence. “Deep biodiversity, applied in ways that few understand.”
He simply nodded, biting his tongue. His desire to intervene screamed that this was not right.
“Sure... very... interesting,” he managed to say, as his eyes scanned the specimens again, wondering how much his father knew about this subject. Knowing him, probably... everything. But his brother?
That thought made his stomach churn; so many smells and sounds made him feel sick. Still, he tried to appear calm, observing the work of some of the operators with cold attention.
One of them picked up one of the creatures still wriggling in the tray as if he had done it many times before. He took it by the base of its body and slid it from side to side, as if moving a heavy package on a conveyor belt. There was no rush, no obvious carelessness; it seemed to be just part of a routine.
But for those who knew the sea and its inhabitants, every movement was poorly executed, the grip was too strong in sensitive areas, the temperature conditions of the tray were inadequate, and the creature had already shown signs of stress. Everything indicated that this species could not withstand further handling.
“No...” he murmured unconsciously, feeling his heart race.
The creature whimpered in a wet thread, its body vibrating to the rhythm of the movements. Before he could intervene, a sharp crack echoed: something gave way, and the creature stopped moving. Rigidity invaded its body, life disappearing in seconds.
The operator sighed in annoyance, without looking away from his next task, and simply pushed the creature into a nearby basket where food wrappers, cardboard scraps, and various debris lay, mixing with the material that should never have been touched.
He took a step back, gasping slightly, his hands tense on the railing. It wasn't just the waste of a valuable specimen; it was the combination of brutality, negligence, and disregard for basic protocols that hit him hard. Every rule, every method he had learned over the years, was being ignored as if it didn't matter.
“What... Is this?” he exclaimed through clenched teeth. His jaw trembled. For a moment, rage and pain enveloped him completely.
“Excuse me?” said the production manager, diverting his attention from the entire system dedicated (in his opinion) to slaughter.
“This!” he exclaimed, pointing at the whole scene with his hand, his voice breaking between frustration and amazement. "These animals... each of them has behaviors, interactions, hunting strategies, migration patterns that no one will notice if you stack them like this! It's as if they've torn pieces of the ocean out and put them here without any care! The temperature parameters change from tray to tray! The water is stagnant! The soft organs, they're abyssal creatures, they break with any movement! They don't even know which species is next to which! This is going to ruin any useful data they could get from these samples! All the information, the study, the observations... Everything is going to be lost due to simple routine and negligence! There is no proper labeling, no stress monitoring, no minimum protocols! Every move they make..!”
“Sonic!” His name burst from his companion's lips. He paused for a moment, breathing heavily, his hands trembling on the railing. The intensity of his own voice surprised him, as if he had been holding back a torrent that needed to burst out.
And for a moment, he forgot the presence of the captain, the coordinator, the production manager, and the crew. Damn it, everyone.
Now, in that moment, only the creatures he had studied ruled his mind; how they swam, how they interacted, how each species was a small adaptive miracle. And there they were, treated as mere instruments.
Then he remembered where he was. The captain looked at him neutrally, as if listening to scientific warnings of rigor were just another piece of information, and he realized he had to pull himself together before it made him look like an out-of-place fanatic.
The need to keep up appearances prompted him to take a step back, compose himself, straighten his jacket, and feign interest while his mind was still replaying every detail of what had just happened.
“Excuse me,” he said with feigned calm. “I need... to get some air,” he said in a controlled voice, turning toward the open hatch on the deck.
The wind hit his face, cold and salty, and for a moment, he allowed the indignation to dissipate a little as he took a deep breath. Slightly maddened by what he had just witnessed.
That was one (of many) of his damn problems. His brain always worked faster than it should have. This caused the situation to get out of hand on more than one occasion.
His ADHD combined with his sense of justice didn't help the situation much.
He loved the ocean. Even though he often felt uneasy about its immensity and his lack of swimming skills. He loved it. It could be said to be the only thing he had in common with his father.
He still fondly remembered when he was just a child and had told his father for the first time that he wanted to work on one of his many ships. The pride in his eyes was something that was rarely seen in Morrow D. Noxley.
The pride of knowing that his son finally had something of him inside him.
However, that memory was always clouded by his father's look of pure and raw disappointment, tattooed on his memory.
How could he forget it? A conversation lasting more than an hour, full of shouting, insults, the intervention of his mother and brother, and the distant crying of his little sister, which could be summed up perfectly as:
"Hey Dad, remember when I was a kid and I said I wanted to work at sea? Well, guess what? I want to do it, but not in the family business, but as a marine biologist. What's more, I'm disgusted and hate the mere idea of even working in such a vile and extractive place. Is that clear? Yes? Good, let's go eat some extra rare steak like only you like it."
"Are you okay?" he heard his companion's voice behind him, a worried look in his enormous blue eyes.
"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, "excuse me, I lost... my temper."
"It's okay," Tails murmured, leaning against the railing. "If you hadn't said anything, I probably would have thrown up in front of everyone," he added with a humorless smile.
"This is bullshit," he muttered, pulling at his quills. "I don't understand how they are even allowed to do all this."
"No offense," his friend said, glancing at him sideways as he uttered that phrase he always used whenever he wanted to talk about Sonic’s wealthy family, "but I seriously doubt that businessmen care much about the lives of 'mere fish.' Whatever! After all, if we run out of oceans, and we insignificant mortals die due to climate change, it's very likely that the rich will hop on a rocket to Mars. Would you spare me a seat? Or should I pretend to be your pet?”
"Very funny," The hedgehog muttered, giving him a light tap on the head. The Kitsune just laughed. "I wish it were only that..." he muttered through gritted teeth. Still haunted by that damned thought that had been tormenting him for weeks.
He hoped that was all it was. He couldn't bear the thought that the rest of his unstable and fragmented family was involved in something even worse. Yes. They weren't perfect. They were far from being saints. Maybe they were privileged bastards lacking empathy and altruism, but that didn't make them criminals.
His brother's face came to mind. He hadn't spoken to him in a long time. Not since the not-so-recent (but not so distant) death of his little sister from an immune and hereditary disease. The same one that had taken his mother.
Little Mihrimah. Maria.
Their mother had always said that he and his brother were like night and day. Well, Maria was the star that rose between them, illuminating them with her joy and affection.
But she was gone, and with her, what little sense of family remained. Now there were only three men left.
Three men. A tyrant, an heir, and a bastard.
Yes. Without a doubt, his family was cursed.
He remembered how his brother, being the eldest, would go out of his way to take care of them both. He had never been a hedgehog of half measures. And that was the damn problem. That he never was (nor would he ever be) a middle ground, only someone who crossed one extreme to the other.
A protector with the will to sacrifice himself to protect all those he loved, or a creature so cold and indifferent that he could ignore you for the rest of your life. And right now, Maria had taken that protector away.
He didn't hate him. He couldn't. And that's why he had to do all this.
"I want you to leave without me in two days," Sonic said confidentially. "I'll be snooping around here for a while. I'll be back in a week."
"You're going to play stowaway on your own father's ship?" Tails muttered, horrified.
“I feel like there’s something else here that needs to be looked for, and I won’t be able to find it if I’m here as….” he sighed in annoyance. “Maurice,” he muttered through gritted teeth as if he were swearing, “don’t worry, I’ll tamper with the departure log. But I need you to leave early in the morning, that way I’ll throw them off.”
“You do know what they do to stowaways on international ships, right?” Tails commented, worried.
“Relax, if they find me out, I’ll just play the ‘rebellious son’ card,” he said, winking at Tails. “It’s not the first time I’ve snuck onto a ship.”
“You and your foolish backpacking expeditions,” he sighed, without a hint of humor.
The advantage of being a “bastard” in the eyes of others was that, far from his father's entourage of workers, suits, and opulence, he looked like any other guy.
When the helicopter took off, he was no longer on deck. He waited in a technical corridor until the noise of the blades had become a distant murmur. Only then did he breathe differently. Realizing that he was finally carrying out that silent decision he had been mulling over for days.
He had done the check-up as usual, reviewed environmental logs, and asked questions that were just uncomfortable enough to seem competent but not suspicious. No one noticed anything strange. He was the academic son. The one who studied ecosystems while the others negotiated figures. A character capable of not being a nuisance but generating enough desire for him to leave. And when he “did it,” no one felt the need or desire to confirm it twice.
He didn't need to hide like any other intruder. He simply needed to remain unseen.
His status as a “stowaway” was not that of someone hiding among boxes; but of someone who walked around the ship without really belonging to its crew. An administrative ghost. A figure who was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. If someone saw him in a hallway, they assumed he was just another worker. If someone asked, he responded with technical naturalness. His greatest weapon was appearing legitimate long enough.
He slept little, avoided dining rooms at peak hours, and drank water from technical stations. He moved when the engines made as much noise as possible so that it would absorb the sound of his footsteps.
He observed more than he spoke. From elevated corners or side corridors, he saw interactions that never occurred on land, but he never confronted anyone. He just made mental notes. He learned to distinguish when something was routine and when it was not.
At first, he avoided the lower decks out of sheer prudence. However, it didn't take him long to memorize the respective schedules.
The cargo areas were always more closely guarded, due to their value. The fish (because it was fish, he hoped it was fish) was the asset of the voyage. Everything there had to appear legitimate, with inventories, stamps, strict routines, and reports, lots of reports.
Then came the inconsistencies. Containers marked with codes that did not appear on the registration lists, sealed compartments that made no sense on a vessel of this type, an illogical number of barrels of marine diesel, storage lines that did not appear on the plans he himself had reviewed before embarking. And some doors were locked with a different system than the rest of the ship.
That's when he realized that the fish was an alibi. Surprise. The water is wet.
And that what was really valuable was much deeper down.
The locks required cards. He needed to get a card.
This had been much more difficult than he thought. Getting it was an odyssey. He was almost discovered.
Even so, nothing could stop him. He needed to dig deeper. No matter what.
What he found next was not a random consequence, mere coincidence, nor much less a stroke of bad luck. It was the result of his own actions and decisions that had led him to a destination that, despite everything... he didn’t know it yet, but he wouldn’t regret it.
He had been moving around places where no one expected him to be for days. Going deeper. Deeper and deeper.
And that's when everything started to go wrong.
It was his last day. This was where he had to find the definitive answers, the confirmation of all his theories.
He couldn't leave that ship without tangible evidence; the inconsistencies he had seen weren't enough. At least, they wouldn't be enough for his father. Even so, he decided to send what he had been collecting to his personal email, just in case.
He decided to be more daring, going down that semi-hidden service staircase that connected to a technical corridor. With the help of his access card, he made his way like Dante through the circles of hell.
The noise from the cooling systems drowned out any echoes. There, the floor vibrated differently; It wasn't just the engines; those were constant. The vibrations pulsed intermittently, coming from the compartments themselves.
As he had imagined, he came face to face with one of the hidden storage rows, filled only with containers with no visible brand name. The cold was more intense here. Not the uniform cold of refrigeration, but an irregular cold, as if some compartments were storing something else, something that needed a stable temperature but not freezing.
He took a breath and went straight to the back of the room, where the shadows were so deep that they seemed to devour the pale white light of the lamps.
The container was connected to the ship's electrical system. At the rear were two metal doors secured with vertical locking bars. Four in total. Each one ended in a handle that, when turned, released the upper and lower latches.
He swiped his card through the side reader of the internal system and heard a sharp click from the electronic lock. His breath caught in his throat.
He turned the first bar, then the next, and the next, and the next, releasing all four. When he pulled the door open, a rush of cold air escaped like a held breath.
The smell hit him first.
Salt. Ice. Raw meat. A faint trace of ammonia from frozen blood. A little... Foul-smelling for his taste; he preferred live fish to dead fish.
Inside, rows of pallets occupied almost the entire space, lined up with industrial precision. Each one held thick, waxed, moisture-resistant cardboard boxes.
He picked up one of the top boxes. Inside were blocks of deep-frozen fish, compact, separated by plastic sheets. Fillets pressed tightly together, covered with a thin layer of frost. All perfectly processed.
It was the same with the next four, one after another. Take, break, rummage, and put back in place. He was about to give up; he couldn't stand being in such a closed, lifeless place.
Until he noticed that not everything was in order.
He wasn't like his brother, so meticulous and attentive to detail, so controlling and with that habit of wanting everything to be symmetrical. No, and that's why it took him a while to notice that some of the pallets weren't completely organized. While the boxes at the front of the container were uniform, at the back, the distribution changed slightly.
He moved further inside and took a box from the most hidden pile.
The coldness of the cardboard was slightly different, less dry. He touched the side of a box. The frost was thinner, as if it had been handled recently.
He clenched his teeth tightly to stop them from chattering and flexed his fingers over and over again, all in an effort to calm his nerves.
It didn't take a genius to guess what might be inside that box. White and in a bottle? Or rather, in a compact place, hidden inside an even more hidden pallet, inside a container located in a hidden room on a ship sailing the high seas, near international waters.
"Please don't be cocaine, please don't be cocaine, please don't be cocaine," he repeated rapidly in a frantic murmur.
He tore the tape with his thumbnail and opened the box.
Rectangular packets, roughly the size of a brick, wrapped in clear plastic, tightly packed.
Cocaine.
He took a small knife from his pocket and cut open the bag, only to find himself face to face with what was already obvious. White powder, like flour.
One of his intrusive thoughts gave him the brilliant idea of putting a little in his mouth, to see if what he held in his hand was really what would be the end of his family.
What if it was actually talcum powder? And since tariffs on personal care products were so high lately, what better way to smuggle it than hidden inside fish?
He immediately dismissed the ridiculous idea for simple and logical reasons. First, it wasn't a good idea to get high after uncovering a cesspool of dark water, and second, he had to stop making a fool of himself and living in denial. He hid a package inside his shirt. He'd show it to his father later. Or better yet, to his brother.
He was about to leave when he decided it was best not to overlook anything. He dug deeper into the box, and what he found truly surprised him.
A small, dark briefcase, no bigger than the palm of his hand. It reminded him of a toiletry bag. A wisp of cool air escaped when he opened it; it seemed to have its own internal refrigeration. Inside were five perfectly sealed glass vials, nestled in a dark tray.
Each vial also had a neatly packaged syringe beside it.
KRYBD-X it read in red letters. He'd never heard of anything like it, much less knew what they were for. He avoided opening them for safety reasons. However, he didn't hesitate to slip a vial into his front pants pocket.
"Time to go," he said to himself, trying to control his racing heart.
He stood up from the floor when a noise made his stomach lurch in his throat. A thump. Constant, yet irregular. He quickly left the container.
He was trying to close the hatches when that sound caught his attention again. Was there someone else here? A worker? He doubted it; if that were the case, they would have discovered him by now. Even so, and despite all logic, he abandoned his task of cleaning up the mess he had made.
He followed the sound with unsteady steps. The constant tapping led him toward a hidden hatch in the wall between the containers. The closer he got, the easier it was to distinguish the other sounds coming from that place: constant panting, growling, and scratching, the clinking of what sounded like a chain... Tapping, tapping.
Something big and heavy. Something agile and elusive.
With a trembling hand, I swipe the card through the scanner.
The first images that came to mind were not pleasant; rather, they were a constant reminder that if it were possible (if they got creative), his family could fall even lower.
Images came to him of chained women, frightened foreigners, unable to find answers because they didn't know the language. Transported in containers by ship and by land, forced to serve. Imagining the workers going down into that hidden compartment to abuse the victims made his stomach churn.
Mobian trafficking.
Then a thunderous hiss pulled him out of that whirlwind of catastrophic thoughts. And he came back down to earth. Then he realized something he had obviously ignored.
There was only one figure. But that wasn't a woman.
Her torso was hunched toward him, her hands resting on the floor for balance and support. But her hands weren't hands, similar yet with webbed fingers and claws so long that they made the hidden knife he carried look ridiculous. Her arms were covered with a bunch of light, translucent scabs. No. Scales.
Her face was fixed on him, but she didn't look scared. On the contrary, she seemed to focus on his every move with a fierceness and intelligence that could intimidate anyone.
He could tell that the closest thing the creature resembled was a hedgehog. However, that description fell apart the moment he noticed its enormous eyes, their tapetum reflecting an unsettling red hue. And its tiny fangs, bared as it growled and hissed at him, resembling those of a shark. Not to mention its face, thickly covered in the same scales as before.
Then his gaze drifted upward. And he knew the obvious. That creature was clearly not a Mobian.
Suspended from the ceiling by a longline and impaled with a hook, hung an enormous fish tail. No. A siren's tail. Larger than a bluefin tuna's. It reminded him more of a Mako shark's.
"Focus," he mentally admonished himself.
Distracted by his analysis, he stumbled slightly. That was all the creature needed to feel threatened and leap in his direction.
However, she didn't get very far. When she raised her hands to propel herself forward, all she did was lose what little stability she had left. Her impaled tail acted like an anchor, bringing her to a sudden stop, pulling her down and limiting her movement, forcing her backward. Her face slammed directly into the ground without any protection to cushion the impact. The longline acted like a pendulum, pulling her body back into place, away from him. Her torso twisted back toward the far wall as the motion dragged her out of that unnatural bend.
Far from stunning her, it seemed to agitate her even more. She thrashed about frantically, trying to find some foothold, causing the hook that had impaled her to dig in even deeper. From that beautiful, scaly tail, spurted jets of dark blood.
Then his heart twisted in pain.
It hurt him to see her like that.
He remembered his university training, when he first witnessed them trying to untangle fishing wire from a sea turtle's fin. How that material deformed its limb, until it was lost. How he had gone days without eating because of the rage, helplessness, and deep sadness he had felt at not being able to do anything. Well, that feeling was nothing compared to how he felt now, at that very moment.
Seeing so much blood, so many screeches of despair, broke his heart.
“Enough,” he thought firmly. Getting sentimental would not help the situation. It would not help that creature.
He remembered his teacher's words.
“Animals are beautiful and complex creatures. They have their own systems and behaviors. It's normal to feel empathy toward them, love toward them. To see ourselves reflected in them. But remember: they are not like us; they act based on instinct, on their evolution. You must not mobianize them, you must not judge their behavior based on our standards. Because all you will do is hurt them and yourself.”
Don't mobianize them. Of course, it was pretty obvious. He was a marine biologist. And what he had in front of him was not a girl, but a wild and frightened creature. Capable of attacking if it felt threatened.
The creature had finally found support again with its strong arms. Its gaze, once calculating, was now crazed and angry, its hisses and growls quickly turning into threatening bites at the air. It seemed to have learned its lesson and would not jump again. Still, he couldn't let his guard down.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. If he wanted to help, he had to act coolly and calmly, or he would end up hurting himself and that beautiful specimen in the process.
Raised his hands, just enough to show that he was not carrying any weapon that could hurt her, but not enough to scare this with their size (which, if you think about it, was ridiculous, as the siren was twice his size).
Approached this very slowly, staying close to the wall to remain out of this reach in case it changed this mind and decided to jump at him. He lowered his gaze to avoid eye contact; he didn't want this to think he was challenging her. That would be the last straw.
It seemed to have calmed down a bit. The biting had stopped, and once again it was staring at him with this piercing gaze.
He approached the lever that held the pulley. He deeply wished it were automatic; he didn't even want to imagine having to lower it mechanically. How heavy it would be.
“I sincerely doubt it'll appreciate me letting go of its suddenly,” he thought humorously. Nothing like humor in awkward situations.
As was to be expected given his luck, it was mechanical. Never before had he wanted to go to the gym more regularly than at that moment. He could even hear his friend's voice teasing him.
Slowly and carefully, with all his strength, he lowered her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the siren's expression change from alertness to “I don't know what you're doing, I'll let you do it, but one wrong move and you'll be my next lunch.” For some strange, masochistic reason, he liked seeing that change.
With some embarrassment, he had to admit that in the end it wasn't a completely “smooth” descent; his arms gave way under the immense weight. At least he was grateful that the fall hadn't been so sudden, just a slight (not so slight) thud from the huge fin. Besides, the siren didn't seem to care much, quite the contrary.
The moment the lower half of this body was no longer upside down, this eyes opened wide in analysis. Almost as if it couldn't believe what had just happened.
What happened next could be summed up in two words: shocking and fucking terrifying. Almost like the ocean itself.
With a firm expression, it leaned on its arms and with the upper part of its tail (where he thought its knees would be, if it had any, of course) it stood up straight, with its back and neck straight, just like a queen would.
It was... tall. Very tall. It was three to four heads taller than him, and its tail (now finally resting on the ground) was almost as long as a person.
Instinctively, he lowered his head even further toward the ground.
Then he noticed its tail still impaled on the hook and connected to the chain. Blood was no longer gushing out, but it still didn't look good. It hurt him just to imagine what it must be feeling.
Recklessly, he reached out his hand toward its fin.
The effect was immediate. The siren coiled its tail around his hand like a snake, baring its fangs as a warning. He stumbled backwards to get away.
How curious. If someone had asked him how a siren would move on land, he would have answered without hesitation with some scientific fact, such as that due to its size and weight, it would be slow and clumsy, like a sea lion or Disney's "The Little Mermaid”.
He would never have imagined that it would look like a terrifying Medusa.
“Focus,” he repeated to himself. Damn habit of getting distracted.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said in a soothing tone. It was ridiculous, he knew. More than likely that this creature didn't speak his language. Still, he hoped that his honesty and intentions would be reflected in his actions. He looked up, not haughtily, nor threateningly. Quite the opposite. There was pleading and confidence. Asking permission. “I know it hurts, and believe me, the last thing I want to do is hurt you. But if I don't take that... horrible thing off you, you won't be able to leave here”
The siren frowned and let out a slight hiss through its teeth.
“Please,” he pleaded again. More to himself than to the creature.
He didn't know if it had understood him. Or if his gestures had reached it. The point is that it slowly uncoiled herself. Reducing its size until most of its torso was pressed face down against the ground, its head hidden between its arms.
“Thank you,” he murmured with a sigh of relief. He approached slowly, without sudden movements. The siren was still watching him, but made no further gesture.
Up close, he could see the physiological details of its tail more clearly. He noticed it was... flaccid, despite its obvious strength and muscle mass. Was it because it had spent so much time hanging upside down? Or was it because it was probably an abyssal creature and the pressure and gravity were doing their job?
He looked with disgust at the hook piercing its, which had a slight coppery color and was soaked in fluids. The siren growled in response.
“I know,” he said, as if he understood its, “it's disgusting what they've done to you, but don't worry, I'll try to remove it as carefully as possible to avoid further damage,” he explained. He remembered how a former college classmate studying veterinary medicine had told him countless times that animals were often reassured when they were included and told about their medical procedure, just as they would be with a Mobian. “If only I had anesthesia or my tools.”
He carefully took the hook and slowly turned it to detach it. A slight spasm shook the siren's tail, and he feared that the pain would cause it to curl up again.
“Shhh,” I cooed, “Calm down. It won't be long now.”
The click of a gun being loaded stopped him in his tracks. And it seemed he wasn't the only one. Under his fingers, he felt the siren go still.
“Get away from the creature,” said a voice from the doorway. He looked in that direction. The figure was wearing a uniform; he was probably a guard, or to be more specific... a mercenary.
He raised his hands as he slowly approached the creature. It was reckless; if the bullets didn't kill him, the siren behind him probably would.
“Put that down,” he said in a serious tone. “There's no need for violence.”
“You shouldn't be here,” the mercenary exclaimed, pointing the gun at his chest. “You've released a precious cargo.” Damn fool.
“It's no cargo!” he exclaimed angrily. “You shouldn't be here. I don't know what you've been doing, but you're going to stop immediately. Clearly, you haven't realized who I am,” he added irritably, playing the boss' son card.
“Maurice Noxley,” said the mercenary mockingly, “the bastard. Of course. We suspected there was a stowaway rat on the ship. Let me tell you something, kid,” he said, clicking off the safety, "your daddy's contacts won't do you any good.”
“Who do you work for?” he asked, slowly approaching the man, his hands still raised. “I know what you've been doing here.”
“The dead don't need answers,” the mercenary said with a cynical smile. “For now, the important thing is that you've freed that monster.”
"The only monster here is this one in front of me," he insulted. “And a very ugly one at that. At least the little mermaid is more charming.”
The figure let out a dry laugh.
“Damn hippie. You don't have a clue,” the mercenary spat, his jaw tense, his knuckles white around the gun. “That creature you defend so much has killed more than a dozen of my men.”
“Well...” he replied without raising his voice, though his breathing was slightly shaky, "that's what happens when you piss off a bull, you have to deal with the horns.”
“Oh, believe me,” the mercenary muttered, tilting his head slightly before turning the barrel toward the siren. “I'll deal with her,” he added coldly. “They need her for study, unless they want to dissect her corpse.”
“No!” He didn't think. He moved. He lunged forward just as the mercenary pulled the trigger.
The impact wasn't bullet against flesh, but body against body. Drier. Shorter.
The sound of the explosion bounced off the metal of the hold and multiplied into violent echoes. Something sizzled above. A light flickered.
The smell of gunpowder mingled with the salty cold.
The siren reacted before anyone else. It twisted around, this tail straining the chain to its limit, these scales scraping the floor. It propelled herself into the darkest corner of the compartment. Curling up, trying to make herself small where it was impossible to be so. These claws scraped the steel wall, searching for a grip or a possible escape route, leaving twisted grooves as the shots exploded again.
After that, the world became fragments.
An electric crackle exploded somewhere on the ceiling. Sparks fell like a brief rain.
The shots were no longer individual. They were overlapping booms, echoes bouncing around the place.
The gun changed hands. A second shot sounded too close. Something broke behind the walls with a sharp crack.
And then:
An irregular silence.
A beep.
Then another.
The white lights flickered one last time and died.
The compartment was plunged into brief darkness, accompanied only by the frantic beating of his heart and the desperate wail of the siren, just a moment before the red emergency lights came on, bathing everything in a blood-red hue.
An alarm began to sound, announcing a malfunction that no one was there to hear clearly. A different smell began to mix with that of fuel: burnt wire. The electrical system, struck by an unseen fault, sizzled somewhere beyond the bulkhead.
A corpse lay on the floor with an empty stare. But that didn't matter. There was no time, he had to be quick. Without a shred of compassion, he tore the ammunition from the fallen mercenary’s body.
The noise of chaos reached him distorted, muffled by a persistent ringing in his ears, while his irregular breathing accompanied his clumsy, heavy steps.
He stumbled toward the siren, its chain vibrating with tension. With one hand gripping his side, he kept holding the smoking gun in his trembling other hand.
He wanted to be gentler. Be more careful. But there was no time. In the distance, he could begin to hear the sounds of distant screams.
And then there was him. He didn't have time.
He aimed at the chain and fired.
Once, twice. On the third shot, both the chain and he finally gave way.
He fell to his knees. He would have liked to have removed the hook, but in his condition, it was more likely to cause him further harm.
At least it'll have a chance to escape.
“C-come on,” he gasped, “what are you waiting for...”
He tried to speak. However, the burning sensation in his chest was unbearable. His body refused to draw breath. It didn’t take a genius to understand what was happening—basic knowledge and logic were enough.
A bullet had pierced one of his lungs. He was going to die.
That much was clear. Still, a certain bitterness crept in.
He had suffered his whole life. What better way to go than this? Slowly. Painfully. In a place he hated, locked up, cold, confined in a box. Far from the brightness of the beaches and the vastness of the sea he had loved so much.
A wet, irregular bubbling sound came from his lungs. Each breath was accompanied by a liquid sensation. Clumsy. Fragmented. A spit of blood.
He heard something slowly approaching him. Crawling. He looked up. Only to find himself face to face with that immense creature. He couldn't help but feel sad. He was the first marine biologist to have ever seen a siren in person, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Not even a photograph for the memory,” he thought humorously.
Seeing this up close was even more impressive. How these features, those of a maiden and a sea beast, blended together in a kind of disturbing valley that would scare anyone or attract the most daring. This eyes, with a nictitating membrane, looked at him with intelligent curiosity.
“H-hey...” he tried to say, but a new blood-covered spasm interrupted him. “I told you to leave...”
The siren crouched down to be level with his face, separated only by a few inches. One of this scaly hands rested on his left shoulder and pushed him lightly. A groan of pain escaped his lips.
“N-no...” he tried to say. “Go... They're coming.” His jaw clenched, he was slowly suffocating. “D-don't worry about me,” he said, forcing a smile to cheer this up. “Don't worry... Everything will be fine.”
The siren blinked, a slow, deep gesture. As if it were nodding in agreement.
This hand slid gently toward his chest and this nose brushed against his.
It opened its mouth, and something came out of it.
He had heard legends about the song of the sirens. A celestial, feminine voice capable of driving sailors to madness.
What he heard was nothing like that.
To begin with, it wasn't even a female voice. There were no vocal cords. Only vibration, like a whale, a deep pulse that he not only heard, but felt, yet compressed, refined.
A sound that pierced him and transported him.
Back to a clear sky and warm sand, to a bottle of cold water. To a consultation in the lab. To a sea turtle release. A chat with his friends. To fleeting kisses with his girlfriend.
To the sea, blue, deep, and shimmering. Immense and mysterious.
It transported him to her. A face with pinkish scales and jade eyes. An intelligent gaze and animalistic wildness.
A siren.
"You are... the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," he said, a tear tracing a path down this cheek.
And then it pierced his chest with force, reaching his heart, where it clenched it in a fist.
And he, his gaze lost in his paradise, felt his love for the sea one last time.
(...)
The constant creaking of the bed filled the room, accompanied only by loud female moans, intermittent sighs, and the occasional male grunt.
The vast city lay beneath his feet, like a huge modern painting illuminating everything in its path, seen only by the privileged eyes of the heir residing at the very top of his tower.
But, frankly, there wasn't much scenery to admire now.
He was mostly focused on his companion's neck, covering it with bites and hickeys, keeping his mouth occupied to remain silent. Quite the opposite of the woman beneath him.
"Oh, yes! Shawn!" she moaned. "That's good... Please don't stop!"
Too noisy. This encounter had gone on too long. He should finish.
It wasn't that he was an inconsiderate lover, quite the opposite. He was quite good at what he did. No matter how dry he could be at times, he possessed a varied repertoire of skills in bed that made more than one of his previous partners want to return.
Except for him... opening up, being vulnerable, wasn't an option.
More like a nuisance.
He preferred control and order, situations he could handle. And those he could push away whenever he wanted.
He wasn't one to make noise.
They had already enjoyed themselves, and it was time for the curtain to close. So that tomorrow they could return to the stage.
He moved one of his hands to the center of the woman's body, stimulating her just enough to bring everything to an end. As he had said, he was a considerate lover.
The sound of his phone rang with an incessant vibration. Annoying. He decided to ignore it. At this hour, his secretary would be resting. So it was very likely that it was another one of his nighttime encounters.
One was enough for him tonight.
It rang again. Too insistently. After the tenth ring, he decided to stop.
“No, please,” the woman whimpered, “just turn that thing off.”
“Silence,” he said firmly, then sat down on the bed.
Fifteen missed calls. Rouge.
He frowned. What was Rouge doing calling him at this hour? Wasn't she spending the night somewhere at Casino Night or drinking champagne on a terrace in Spagonia?
The phone vibrated again. This time he answered.
“What,” he said firmly. There was no need for greetings between them.
He could feel the woman in his bed sitting behind him, covering his neck with kisses and licks. He decided to ignore her, to let her entertain herself with something else.
“Sha-Shadow,” Rouge exclaimed breathlessly. That put him on alert. With a gesture of his hand, he signaled the woman to stop and leave.
With an irritated sigh, she did so. Everyone knew that when Shawn Noxley made a decision, it was final.
If the party was over, it was over. She quietly gathered her things and left.
“What's wrong, Rouge?” he asked, frowning. Few things disturbed the albino bat.
“Shadow...” she stammered, “your brother... Sonic... He's dead.”