Drifting, they all float in their prison.
How naive—the souls which yearn for connection.
How much time has passed since they all laughed together? Minutes? Days? Months? Years, even?
The storm subsided long ago. A glint of sunlight breaches through cracks within the ship, now heavily damaged.
In the main hall, the golden chandelier flickers, faulty. Below, a flood consumes the hall, as everything and everybody float aimlessly.
An obsidian-colored bayonet twirls at the center of it all.
Away from it, a golden book with gilded pages drifts elegantly, moving quicker, like something pushed it. It was pursuing something in its direction—but what?
It aims for a body with empty pockets. The body's eyes are grayer than the dull floodwater, its dark pupils dilated. Its hair is darker than the corners of the room.
Suddenly—
Thud.
The body's pupils constrict back to their normal position. Its mouth opens slightly as it takes a breath of air.
Its body rises, taking a large gasp—almost a roar.
The unsheathed bayonet has awakened.
. . .
It swam, flailing its empty hands in the dark waters.
It saw the rest of the floating bodies, all faced upward, like something had placed them that way.
Looking back, it saw the book. The book had allowed it to wake up—but would it ever allow it to sleep again?
Unable to form a coherent thought, it swam closer to a body with jet-black hair. The body's slightly olive skin tone was recognizable. Its dark-brown eyes were wide open, but looked defeated rather than dead.
With one push, the eyes reverted to normal, and—
Choking from her shock, Kaya gasped.
"M-Malik?" she said. Her vision seemed blurry, as if she were looking past him.
"I'm here, Kaya," he responded, consoling.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, kicking her feet in the water, and saw the damage to the ship. She attempted to scream, but decided it would be best to remain calm for now.
With a deep breath, she plunged herself under the water, swimming gracefully.
As she swam, she pushed each body that remained asleep, waking them up. As they awoke, they all gasped the same way Malik and Kaya did.
While everyone was astonished, barely attached to reality, the first one to speak was Zayne.
"What the hell . . . what the hell happened here?" he yelled.
He saw the ruins of the ship. Vines had grown profusely along the walls, and seaweed hung like decorations, wrapped around the railings above.
As everyone slowly regained consciousness, Malik noticed something.
Counting heads, he saw Kaya, Zayne, Kamil, Samir, Amaya, Lias—and—
His eyes bulged. He swam toward the stairs of the corridor, splashing like a helpless fish.
He darted up the stairs, losing balance, turning corners—but he couldn't see him.
The ship had stopped moving. Even the silent hum of waves was gone.
Malik's heart beat profusely, and he had to hold it together. He grabbed onto a railing lathered with vines.
Why was everybody but him in the main hall? Had he woken up and left the ship? No—he's a sorry old captain, but he wouldn't do that . . . would he?
Malik pondered as he breathed heavily, striding through every corner of the ship.
Zayne, who had noticed, rushed up the steps and yelled from afar.
"Malik! Have you seen him?"
Malik was caught in his thoughts, unable to hear him, as he looked over the railing at the bow of the ship.
Then, he saw it.
The body was face down, drifting.
. . .
Splash!
Malik hurried, swimming pathetically compared to before.
He was so close, yet so far. He reached his arms out into the treacherous, dull sea, hoping to reach him.
When he finally did, he shook him. No response.
"Damn it! Live, you old bastard! This is nothing to you!" Malik yelled, holding back tears.
Relentlessly, Malik beat on the old man's chest, but only water spilled from his mouth. Pressing his ear against his chest, he heard nothing.
". . . Aaaaaaaaah! No! You can't be—! Not now! Not like this!" Malik screamed.
Instinctively, he pulled the old man's body, yelling for help as he swam faster this time.
The old man's weight dwindled—and so did hope.
From the bow of the ship, the crew threw down a life ring attached to a rope.
Malik slowly reached it and placed the weightless man into the ring, gripping it himself.
Within seconds, the rope was pulled upward. When they reached the railing, the old man was laid onto the ship's floor.
Amaya stepped in, forming chest compressions, while Kamil checked his pulse.
"This is no good," Kamil breathed deeply. "He's breathing, but like a man ready to become a corpse."
He was one who had left behind his shell and gone to chase his dream elsewhere.
Amaya struggled, sweat dripping from her forehead as she persisted.
With each press, hope dwindled.
Then, she exhausted herself.
"It's no use," she said.
Malik's body shook. He couldn't accept it.
"Amaya . . . save him," Malik whispered.
"Malik, I can't. He was drowning for far too long," she said, hyperventilating.
"Bullshit! He couldn't die if all realms in the world joined against him! If anyone's gonna kill that bastard, it's gonna be me!" Malik grieved.
Amaya steadied her breathing. "Malik, let him rest."
"I refuse to let him die! If he dies, it's on me!" he barked.
The crew had never seen Malik so desperate, but given he was about to lose the man who made him who he is, they said nothing.
Slam!
"Wake up, old man!" he yelled, sniffling.
Slam!
"I-I can't let it end this way . . ." Tears slipped silently from his eyes.
Slam.
"Don't leave me with him. You're the only real father I have left," Malik said weakly.
. . .
Silence. Not even a breath escaped.
Malik hugged his father tightly. Despite everything that tried to change him, he couldn't let this be one of them. Not now. Not ever.
. . .
Then—a cough.
Water spilled from chapped lips and a stubbled beard.
Blue eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the sudden light.
Malik jolted upright, thinking it was a dream—a cruel mercy meant to ease the pain.
"C-Captain Cyrus!" Amaya shrieked.
The crew huddled around him, mouths agape, stunned by the fact that he had survived.
Suddenly, Cyrus sat up. His face was stone-cold, as if disappointed he was still alive.
Malik rushed forward. "Father—are you okay?"
"You all ought to have more faith in me. Something like that ain't enough to get rid of a man with dreams as big as mine," he said, monotone, like he had forgotten to laugh.
He stood quickly, his weight fully returned, and walked. The stomp of his boots echoed—deafening, yet relieving.
He paced in a slow circle while the others stood frozen. How could a man so close to death moments ago now move so steadily?
He muttered to himself, shaking his head at the ship's decrepit state.
Then he turned to the crew.
"It seems I was mistaken . . . fate posed as the void of the sea—seduced me, and pulled me inward," Cyrus uttered.
He met Malik's eyes. Malik looked away a second too late.
Cyrus cleared his throat. "Is this how things were supposed to transpire?"
. . .