SALTBORN: PELANTAR SETIA 7
COLD OPEN – "THE FIRST ONE TO HEAR IT"
POV: Nasrul Fikri
Location: Subsea Tether Deck, 02:13AM
Day 1 – Five Years Before
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Nasrul has spent most of his shift trying to fix the incessant valve hum. It never seemed to function properly during his shifts, and he believed it was deliberately sabotaging him.
The valve hum was off.
Nasrul crouched beside the tether manifold, flicking his inspection torch along the bolt seams. The air was thick with the scent of salt, iron, and overheated rubber. The usual groan of the steel under tension echoed through the deck, but something beneath it felt amiss. It was as if the sound was riding another sound.
"...jangan lama sangat..."
A soft, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to drift from the shimmering waters that encircled him, sending a chill down his spine.
He came to an abrupt halt, his body tensing as if struck by an invisible force.
With a swift, instinctive motion, he drew back, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. No one else was meant to be on this secluded level at this time. The scheduled shift change was still an hour away, and the air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant, gentle lapping of the water against the shore. The radios, usually a constant hum of communication, were ominously quiet.
The whisper had been his mother's voice—soft, calm, and familiar, like a gentle breeze on a warm summer evening. It wasn't panicked or urgent, but rather carried the same soothing tone she used when he lingered after maghrib, her words a gentle reminder, "Don't be long. The sea is already dark."
He exhaled deeply, trying to steady his nerves, and counted backward in his mind: 5... 4... 3... It was just stress, he told himself, a result of sleep deprivation. Everyone hears things out here after a hundred days, isolated and surrounded by the endless expanse of the ocean.
Despite his efforts, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He slapped a chalk mark on the flange, logging the time with a shaky hand, but his hands continued to tremble, refusing to calm down.
---
Day 3 – 01:49AM
Ballast Control Walkway
The rig groaned and creaked like ancient bones settling into a weary rest. Nasrul moved slowly along the narrow walkway, the dim light above flickering erratically. The ballast pump had once again been falsely triggered, in the same sensor zone, at the same hour. His boots reverberated with each step, echoing through the metal corridors.
"Baliklah, Nas..."
The voice came from behind him, soft yet unmistakable.
He spun around abruptly, his elbow colliding with the hatch handle, sending a sharp jolt of pain shooting up his arm. He pressed his back against the cold, hard bulkhead, searching for any sign of movement. But there was nothing there.
Yet, he knew what he had heard. It was the way his name was said—not the short, teasing "Nas" that Johari used, nor the clipped "Naz" from the radio. This was a voice from home, filled with warmth and familiarity.
He leaned closer to the pipe, his fingers brushing against its smooth, cold surface. A gentle, steady vibration pulsed with rhythmic life beneath his touch, sending a shiver up his spine. Pressing his ear against the steel, he strained to listen—and there it was: the faint, unmistakable sound of breathing, steady and real. His heart raced, a mix of fear and awe tightening in his chest as he grappled with the realization that he was not alone.---
Day 5 – 03:12AM
Dormitory Bathroom
He hadn't spoken to anyone in two days. Each time someone said his name, he jolted, heart racing. His appetite had vanished; food wouldn't stay down. Sleep eluded him as well, replaced by restless dreams of wet rooms adorned with rusted stairs. In every dream, his mother stood motionless, her gaze fixed on him, silent and haunting.
Tonight, seeking solace, he washed his face. Warm steam curled upward, fogging the mirror. His reflection stared back—pale, with sunken eyes betraying his exhaustion. The faint dripping from the sink punctuated the silence.
Drip.
Another from the shower.
Then, woven into the gentle trickle, a faint whisper emerged—
"It's okay. Come home."
It floated up from the drain.
Staggering backward, he knocked over the soap tray, the clatter sharp against the quiet. The voice wasn't just familiar—it was intimate, stirring memories buried deep.
Leaving the sink running, he fled the room, the echoes of water and whispered words lingering behind.
---
Day 7 – 02:13AM
Subsea Tether Deck
He hadn't meant to come back here.
He'd sworn he wouldn't. The promise had been simple, firm—etched deep into the recesses of his mind. Yet his body moved with a will of its own, betraying him step by reluctant step. His boots clanged softly against the metal grating, each hollow echo swallowed by the oppressive silence, lingering like faint whispers of things left unsaid.
The inspection torch felt heavier than usual in his grip, its narrow beam slicing through the dim, stale air. Dust motes danced lazily within the cone of light, undisturbed ghosts of time long passed. He hesitated at the hatch, fingers pausing just above the corroded clip, the cold metal beneath a thin layer of grime. A breath held—and then released—as if exhaling could dissolve the weight of memory.
The hatch creaked open with a reluctant groan, protesting his return. He descended the narrow stairs, each footfall a metallic whisper against the hollow steps. The darkness below seemed to pulse, thick and unmoving, wrapping around him as he ventured deeper, the beam of his torch barely keeping the shadows at bay.
The deck was disturbingly still.
No wind stirred the stagnant air, no faint hum of machinery breathing life into the space.
No movement. No signs of presence.
Only the faint, rhythmic tapping of something unseen—perhaps pipes contracting with the cold—or maybe just his heart, amplified in the cavernous silence. The sea pressed against the vessel's hull from below, a silent sentinel waiting, heavy and indifferent.
He moved forward, drawn by an invisible thread, towards the manifold. His steps slowed, breath shallow. The torch's light flickered briefly, casting his shadow long and distorted against the walls.
He stopped just short of the manifold, arm outstretched but fingers hesitant, suspended mid-air. His breath hitched. The space between his fingertips and the cold metal felt vast, filled with both dread and anticipation.
Finally, he closed the distance.
His fingers grazed the surface.
And the manifold responded.
A subtle tremor rippled beneath his touch. It grew, a deliberate pulse, a rhythm emerging from the silence. Like sonar finding its mark. Like echoes of a memory, long buried, pressing back through the void to greet him.
"Nasrul..."
"We remember your voice."
He stared at the rusted valve, his knuckles bleached white as they gripped the cold, corroded pipe. The faint hiss of steam whispered through the cracks, mingling with the metallic tang of the stagnant air.
"Come back to the water."
The voice wasn't pleading; it carried a warmth, an undeniable invitation woven into its simple cadence.
He took a hesitant step back, his boots scraping against the grated floor. His gaze darted around the dimly lit space—silent machinery stood like forgotten sentinels. The flickering glow of emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows. He knew the surveillance system had gone dark when the stack surged earlier; no prying eyes would witness what came next.
Slowly, deliberately, he approached the rusted railing. The metal groaned under his weight as he climbed, the cool breeze from below brushing against his face. He paused at the edge, the void beneath beckoning with silent allure. Closing his eyes, he strained to hear beyond the hum of engines.
His eyes twitched. He climbed the railing slowly, steadily, and stepped off.
INTERNAL MEMO – 17 AUGUST 2014
Technician Nasrul Fikri – Missing Presumed Dead
• Last seen: 02:10AM, Subsea Tether Deck
• Items recovered: Inspection torch (damaged), clipboard, personal headset
• CCTV: Offline due to flare surge
• Witness reports: None
• Weather: Clear.
Conclusion: Voluntary jump. Psychological stress suspected. Case closed.