Marlin Port drifted over the rippling surface of the Great Lake. The morning haze made the metal decks sweat, and the vast cranes groaned like awakening sea beasts.
Kamina sat at the edge of the fishing platform, legs dangling over the drop as thousands of meters of water ruled by murderous aquatic anomalies. He had a bamboo rod he'd bought from some Backstreets vendor for pocket change.
Next to him, Imogen hunched over her own flimsy rod, chin propped on her palm. Her eyelids were still red from the previous night, swollen with the leftover ache Pisanio left behind.
Shmuel, meanwhile, knelt behind them, tightening a portable stove and laying out spices.
Imogen flicked her rod.
"This was supposed to be peaceful," she muttered. "People fish to relax. Why am I sitting on top of The Great lake? Why did we almost die from mermaids on the way here? Why couldn't we just, oh, I don't know, buy a proper ship?"
She aimed a pointed glare at Kamina.
"Because, a legend doesn't need fancy wheels! The wind carried us to where we need"
"It carried us into a whirlpool!"
Imogen exhaled, puffing her cheeks. It looked like she trying very, very hard not to throw her fishing rod into the lake.
"It was my bucket list," she said. "From when I was stuck behind father's protection. I wrote down everything I wanted to do when I was free. All the silly things. And one of them was just… fishing."
"You told me," Kamina said. "And that's why we're here."
"But you also told me not to use my money even though I offered," Imogen shot back. "Why would you bring me somewhere dangerous and insist I stay broke?"
Shmuel coughed into the stove.
"That was… sort of… our shared stupidity."
Kamina rubbed the back of his neck.
"Yeah. We talked about it. We didn't want to use your money. We didn't want to feel like you were responsible for us."
"…Idiots," she muttered. "Total, absolute idiots."
"You say that, but look! You're fishing just like your bucket list said!"
"Fishing shouldn't involve nearly dying."
"It's deluxe fishing,"
Imogen sighed, but her shoulders eased a little.
Despite the danger, despite the lingering grief behind her tired eyes, despite the mermaid claw marks still scraped across the side of the boat they arrived in… she looked steadier than she had in days.
She cast her line again.
The water glimmered with colors, each shade belonging to a different Lake layered atop another.
She whispered, almost to herself,
"I'm going to finish that list. All of it. I'll live the way I choose."
"And we're here to brighten our office mood up!"
Shmuel added, "Preferably without dying next time."
Kamina suddenly perked up, rummaged through the crate behind him, and triumphantly pulled out a cloth sack that clinked suspiciously.
He gave it a heroic shake.
"Today's forecast," he said, "is fishing… with a chance of beer!"
He grinned.
Shmuel stared at the sack of cans.
"We haven't caught a single thing yet."
"Optimism, kid! A fisherman's greatest weapon–"
Imogen's rod jerked so violently it nearly launched itself into the Lake.
"Oh!" she yelped, grabbing it with both hands. "Oh, oh, oh!"
Kamina dropped his beer. Shmuel lunged forward.
All three of them latched onto the rod, forming a precarious human chain. Kamina anchoring himself to the railing, Shmuel anchoring himself to Kamina.
"WHY IS IT THIS STRONG?!" Imogen cried as her boots skidded on the metal.
"It's resisting the CALL OF MY BELLY!" Kamina yelled back, veins bulging.
"It's resisting you being an idiot–pull harder!" Shmuel shouted.
The rod bent at an angle that should have snapped it in half.
A massive shape rose toward the surface.
Three meters?
Four?
Scales glimmered bronze and black under the shifting light. A tail slapped the surface, sending a wave high enough to soak all three of them.
The creature's head began to break the surface with teeth like harpoons.
She abruptly let go of the rod.
Kamina and Shmuel screamed as the sudden loss of balance nearly flung them overboard.
"IMOGEN—?!"
She was sprinting toward their boat.
"What is she doing?!" Shmuel shouted.
"She's thought of a solution, that's what!"
A moment later, Imogen rushed back, planting her feet beside them.
Her rifle slid into place against her shoulder. She aimed down the scope.
"Kamina," she said calmly, "lift it just a bit more."
"ON IT!"
He roared and heaved upward. The fish's skull broke fully into view.
Imogen fired.
The crack of the rifle echoed across the Lake, scattering gulls and making even the Portship's metal frame shudder.
A clean, perfect shot and straight into the creature's brain.
The fish struggled.
Then fell still.
Its massive body sagged back into the water with a lifeless splash that rocked the platform.
Imogen blew the smoke from her barrel, exhaling a breath.
Kamina and Shmuel collapsed backward in tandem, panting and soaked
____________________
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Shmuel crouched over the fish laid out on the cutting board, sleeves rolled up, hands already slick with blood and lake-water. He scraped along the creature's flank.
Imogen sat beside him on an overturned crate, chin on her knees and watching.
Behind them, Kamina stood at the railing with his rod cast out again, beer in one hand. He wasn't drunk but there was a faint flush on his face, and a loose, relaxed with the wind.
"So. I've been wondering… what exactly did you use for bait?"
"Oh," she said, "I bought it from a vendor in the Backstreets. He said it works really well for catching fish here."
She held out the little foil pouch.
Shmuel wiped one hand on his pants and took the bag.
The packaging was glossy. Too glossy.
The label had a little holographic stamp on it. U Corp approved.
He turned it over.
The price tag made his hand shake.
"Four… hundred thousand?!?"
"Is that expensive?"
"Imogen. You could feed me and Kamina for two weeks with this. Maybe three if we stretch it."
"But the vendor said it was good."
"Yeah—because it's supposed to be good. It's four hundred thousand." He tried not to sound like he was scolding her. "You don't buy bait that costs more than the fishing rod."
"I didn't know there was a limit."
"There is absolutely a limit," Shmuel muttered, rubbing his face with his free hand. "There are limits everywhere, actually."
"…I thought bait was just bait. I didn't know there were rules to buying it."
"There aren't rules," Shmuel sighed, "just common sense."
Imogen fell quiet for a moment, watching him clean the fish.
"…I want to learn it," she said eventually. "The common sense part."
Shmuel paused, the knife hovering over the belly.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye.
"You serious?"
She nodded.
Shmuel exhaled softly through his nose.
"…Yeah. Okay. I can teach you. Though I don't consider being a backstreet resident qualifies me to have the same common sense as the one living in the nest."
Her face brightened.
"I also want to learn how to use a stove."
"You—wait. You've never cooked anything before?"
"No."
"Not even boiled water?"
"No."
From behind them, Kamina's voice carried over the wind.
"HEY! Shmuel! Imogen! I think I got one!"
He reeled his line in with one hand, beer still in the other.
Imogen looked at him, then back at Shmuel.
"…He's acting kind of normal today," she said.
"Don't jinx it."
Shmuel set to work. He wiped the fish clean, slashed its belly and along its spine, then carefully rubbed salt and cracked black pepper deep into the cuts. After rinsing the body with clean water drawn from a bucket, he dusted it lightly with a mix of dried herbs and a little thyme, oregano. Finally, he wrapped the fish in a thin layer of seaweed bought from the market near the docks, sliding it onto a metal grate over the small portable grill he'd carried aboard.
A few minutes later, the first sizzle hissed. The heat hit the seaweed and flesh together and released a smell that made even Kamina pause mid-swig of his beer.
Shmuel tilted the grill gently to let oil drip off, then closed the lid. He watched the fish with narrowed eyes, turning it once after eight minutes. The skin crackled. A crust formed with a mix of sea-salt crunch, herb-smoke, and the brine of Great Lake water trapped inside the meat. He cracked the lid. Steam rose up.
He flipped the fish again, this time brushing it with a glaze with a bit of oil, a dash of soy, and something bright, citrusy and maybe a squeeze of cheap lemon substitute. The glaze bubbled, caramelizing just at the edges, sealing in the juices.
He turned off the flame. The seaweed sizzled, crisped, then fell away in blackened curls. He transferred the fish to a rough wooden plank and placed it in front of Imogen and Kamina.
The aroma hit them like warmth after the cold.
Imogen reached out.
First bite.
Eyes closed. A soft moan.
Kamina slapped the table. "Damn, that's good."
Shmuel nodded, leaning back against the rail. "Fish's flesh is supposed to flake easily when it's done right."
They ate.
Between sips of bitter beer which only Kamina is old enough to drink, the fish's flesh peeled off neatly. Smooth, smoky, salty, with that faint citrus on the tail.
I"I never knew fish could taste like this." She bit again.
The fish was enormous, not a rarity even among the deeper nets. Three meters of body. Three people shouldn't make a dent.
But Kamina…
He attacked it. Between gulps of beer and slashes of knife, he devoured chunk after chunk. Bones snapped, fins cracked, crumbs of flesh fell to the deck and let none of it wasted. Shmuel reached for another slice only to find Kamina's plate already cleared again.
Kamina leaned back, chest heaving. He grinned through it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand smeared with marinade.
Imogen glanced at Shmuel, eyebrows raised.
"How are we supposed to measure what's 'enough' when 'enough' tastes like this?"
Shmuel just smiled.
They all looked at Kamina. He raised his beer can.
The Portship rocked gently beneath them, the Great Lake's waves whispering against the hull.
Shmuel was still licking marinade off his thumb when Imogen clapped her hands together.
"Alright! Fish is done, cleanup is done—now we get fish ice cream. Or whale ice cream. Or whatever this place calls it. I'm getting five. One for each of my achievements."
"You have achievements?" Shmuel muttered.
"Not yet," she replied.
"ICE CREAM QUEST ACCEPTED!" Kamina said. "Let's go, team!"
Imogen skipped ahead a little, humming. Her mood wasn't perfect but she was trying.
They started walking down the metal deck toward the food stalls at the far end of the Portship. The smell of fried lake squid and cheap alcohol drifted with the wind. That's when Shmuel's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out.
Bruno.
His face relaxed the moment he saw her name.
He answered.
"Hello?"
"Shmuel? How was your trip to Marlin Port?"
"Amazing," he said. "We almost died to the mermaids."
"Oh, more stories to tell me, huh? Wait, what's a mermaid?"
"That sounds… awful."
"Yeah." Shmuel looked ahead. Kamina was trying to balance on a rail and Imogen was trying to push him off. "What about you? How's it going? Being a feather of a Wing and all that?"
"No free time. When I get some, I'll come visit you. You sound even busier than me lately."
Shmuel let out a small laugh. "I don't look it, but yeah… maybe."
There was a pause.
"My father told me I need to go back home. Or he'll disown me."
Shmuel froze mid-step.
"What?"
"I don't know what he's planning, but… I don't want to upset him any more. I already left his syndicate. I just want to live without blood."
Shmuel exhaled sharply through his nose, thinking.
"…Do you want me to go with you?"
"What?"
"Hire me," he said quickly. "Cheap price. Then we escort you. My office is… unemployed right now." He glanced at Kamina. "The Great Kamina Office is free."
"That… actually sounds good. I'll be at your house then."
"Okay."
The call ended.
Before he could pocket his phone, Imogen slid up beside him, hands cupped over her mouth.
"Love biiiiirds."
Shmuel stiffened.
Kamina leaned in from the other side, mirroring her mocking posture perfectly.
"Love biiiiiiirds!" he echoed, sounding far too delighted.
"It wasn't, We weren't. Just shut up and go get your ice cream!"
Kamina gave him a hearty slap on the back.
"GOOD WORK, SHMUEL! SECURING A FUTURE!"
"I'm going to throw both of you into the Lake."
Shmuel would never know.
That Bruno's voice still lingered warmly in his ears.
That it would be the last time he'd ever hear her speak.
He would never know that one day he would look back on that brief call, that small exchange of softness, and feel nothing but a howling void of hatred clawing up through his ribs.
He would never know how much he would come to loathe her body.
Not her.
Never her.
But it.
The thing that would wear her shape.
The thing that would take her voice, her warmth, her familiar silhouette, and twist it into the unholy.
His hatred for it would not be a flame.
Flames could die.
He would hate it like a star dying with slow and collapsing inward until every atom in him screamed with the weight of it.
He would hate it tenfold, a hundredfold, more than any man was ever built to hate.
He would never stop.
Not after the first time he sees the thing wearing her skin.
Not after the second.
Not after the thousandth time he wakes up choking on the memory of her voice, hearing its voice instead.
He would hate the thing in her body forever, and still it would not be enough.
He would hate what it did to her.
He would hate what it made her become.
He would hate the way it forced him to remember the feeling of her laugh, only to bury it beneath the sound of its hollow mimicry.
He would hate the world for letting it take root.
He would hate himself for not stopping it.
Hate would become the only reason his body keeps moving.
The only thing strong enough to drag him out of bed.
The only emotion he has left to give.
He would hate everything that made Bruno change.
Everything that turned the girl he knew into the thing he faced.
And he would carry that hatred–
alone,
unending,
unsoftened–
for the rest of his living days.
Shmuel would hate that moment for as long as he continued to breathe, and he would hate the breath itself for daring to carry the memory. He would hate how her voice still lingered in the back of his skull, like an echo that refused to rot away. He would hate that the world continued moving, mocking him with its indifference, and he would hate that he couldn't make it stop.
He would hate the thing that took her.
A hate that blistered, that festered, that thrashed like a wounded animal inside his chest. A hate that was alive in ways he wished he wasn't.
He would hate her body for becoming a cage, a vessel, a grotesque masquerade of what she once was. And he would hate himself for looking at that body and still searching for her. He would hate the hope that flickered in him every time he imagined seeing her again, and he would hate the cruelty of hope for refusing to die.
He would hate the thing wearing her skin, hate the twitch of its fingers, hate the way it breathed, hate the mockery of its shape. He would hate the memory of her warmth because now it only reminded him of cold, and he would hate the cold because it reminded him she would never be warm again.
He would hate what changed her, hate the corruption, hate the fate, hate the mechanism, hate the universe that let it happen. He would hate every law of nature for allowing such a transformation, hate every god for not stopping it, hate every moment that didn't break under the weight of his grief.
He would hate so violently that even the word hate felt too gentle, too mild, too human. He needed a new language for this hate, a new alphabet carved out of all the things he had lost. He would hate until hate itself flinched away from him, until hate begged to be spared from being associated with what he had become.
Shmuel would hate.
And the city, in its cruelty, would continue to give him more to hate.
hate
hate
كره
odio odio odio
恨
恨
恨
haine
haine
haine
ненависть
ненависть
НЕНАВИСТЬ
odio
odio
ODIO
憎しみ憎しみ憎しみ
憎
し
み
odio
odraza
haat
mizantropía
ODI
HAINE
恨
malice
malícia
nienawiść
NIENAWIŚĆ
NIENAWIŚĆ
NIENAWIŚĆ
恨
恨
恨
恨
ODIUM
ODIUM
ODIUM
haine
haine haine haine
haine
odio
odio
odio
odio
odio
HATE
HATE
HATE
HATE