In Cycle 3000, Malik learned that the sea does not take people. It returns them.
He returned one tonight, with a jagged bayonet buried in his palm. He stabbed at the throat relentlessly, refusing to let go as his small hands coated in gore.
Now, he sits in the pool of cooling blood, staring at the beast that pretended to be a man. Dragan was double his size, covered in scars worth hundreds of battles, yet he lay silent.
Malik doesn't quite remember the killing. He only remembers the hunger. For the first time in seven years, the pain in his heart was finally gone.
He licked the red triumph off the sharp obsidian, cackling in the dark.
"I am no longer a boy." He whispers, applauding to the distant moonlight, "I am no longer a wolf or sheep. I am something else."
The blade pulses in his hand. it would never forget this victory, and the many more to come.
. . . .
Earlier, the sea roars beneath a veil of lies. Leisurely waves pass, as only the taste of land clouds your thoughts. A young boy with long dark hair walks along the perimeter of a naval ship.
He knew his name; Malik. But all else that he knew lied in the symphony of waves. He sits beside the railing, listening to the sea as the captain calls attendance.
But something felt off . . . He felt that he would die soon.
He felt his body being tossed aside to be swallowed by the ocean, but something told him to be ready, something that pierced his heart.
"Alright, Mercenaries of the Messengers! Roll-Call!" A middle-aged, grizzled captain yelled.
A loose gold nametag etched on gray uniform. It reads: Captain Cyrus.
Standing at the bow's edge, stomping his thick boots as if to make sure the ship maintains stability in treacherous waters. Cyrus called everybody present, then a quick silence.
He paused, staring at Malik's name. It wasn't because he cared for him, but because he didn't know how to anymore.
"Malik . . . son." The crew labeled it a rumor, because he never spoke of it.
Sitting down, the boy raised his arm, silently. Cyrus sighed like something felt off, but he chose not to interfere, like all the other times.
"That boy's like a short blade," He once said. "Might cut you if you don't know how to hold it."
. . .
Malik had no duty, no purpose, and he spent his days alone with his own thoughts. Everyone else had somewhere to be. He didn't.
A crewmate with scars all over stared at him, intently, before he went on his way.
Malik felt watched long after the man disappeared. Then, an idea emerged. Suddenly, he jumped up, his hair bounced upward as it lay back obediently on his shoulders.
Passing Cyrus's office, he takes out a sheet of paper and a marker. He giggles naturally as he scribbles. Looking down, he noticed something he never knew.
A jagged bayonet. Old. Oxidized from a lack of properly rinsing. An oblong hole through the blade, its ridges jagged enough to dig into flesh.
It had likely fallen out of a weapons box. Nobody saw him. Even if they did, they wouldn't bat an eye—he was just a kid, after all.
He put his marker and folded drawing in his pocket, as he knelt to pick it up.
The rust bit into his palm, and he welcomed the sting. Then, a presence emerged behind him.
"Stealing is okay. If nobody gives you anything, then take everything." A voice spoke behind him.
Standing tall next to Malik, his face was coarse, carved with deep scars like dried lava. Its name was Dragan. He would only press Malik when nobody was around.
"You shouldn't sneak around adults."
Slamming the helpless boy to the wall. Dragan cackled as he moved Malik's hair out of his face. Malik opens his eyes, staring deeply into the beast. Dragan backed away in a disgusted tone. Sadness? Loneliness? Hatred? No emotion was discernible.
"Hm?"
Dragan noticed the drawing from his pocket, snatched it. Without even looking, he crumpled the paper and threw it.
The wind allowed the paper into the ocean . . . there was no resistance, only acceptance.
He wished Dragan would stop, but he hated knowing that he never would. Malik never screamed, and never told anybody. He only kept thought of it.
. . .
In a low whisper the boy spoke: "I'll remember that. For that, I accept you." The boy marched away.
Dragan stopped smiling after, and went on with his day.
Malik calmly strolled out the cold hall, and met the glaring sky.
He sat down, pressed his back against the ship's wall, and found Darius working with welding tools on the railing.
"What's up, buddy? You need something?" He asked.
"No, I just wanted to watch." Malik said coldly.
Darius shrugged, ignoring Malik while keeping a smile. When he left, Malik still sat.
Muttering, "Will it always be this way . . ."
The sky bruised purple as evening fell. Malik whispered to himself—and something whispered back, and it wasn't his own voice, it was something else.
"It doesn't have to . . ."
Deep down, Malik wanted to be scared, but the voice felt like an old friend. "Who are you?" He whispered. However, there was no response. Sighing, he quietly went to his room.
. . .
At night, Malik lay in his empty corridor that only consists of a mattress.
Dragan's hand hurt. I felt my heart piercing with every push.
Malik scrunched his head as he lay in drowning emptiness.
Slowly, he gets up. Smiling, cynical. "I am pierced no longer. Dragan will sink." he whispered, pulling the blade out of his pocket.
Staring at the dark sky, he pointed his knife arm outward, and he saw a dull reflection in the blade. Then, the voice arose again.
"I sharpen what you hide. If you let me in, you will never be ignored again."
. . .
Dragan snores loudly. Suddenly—he instantly heard a sound. He quickly leaned up, examining his room.
Nothing.
The bed frame absorbed all light, but something glinted. A rusty bayonet glistened above, quickly vanished. Dragan rushed out of bed. A quick flash of shadow then—
It weaved, locking its arm on Dragan's neck. He felt the tip of a ridged blade grazing his neck.
The giant attempted to shake him off.
Slowly—
"GAHHHH!"
Drips of blood leak off the small gash. The sea muffled his screams. But the moonlight shone on the bayonet.
"M-Malik? That can't be you." The beast stopped resisting in shock.
"It always was, always will. I'm only satiating. A hunger that feeds. A hunger that needs." It cackled.
"What is your deal!" The beast argued.
"Hush."
"You wanted the boy to be weak, I am what came instead." It said, unrestricting the large beast.
Both locked eyes as blood dripped onto the floor. Quickly, the beast charged with a leaning shoulder.
Slam!
It clashed into the wall, but Malik disappeared. Suddenly, he felt a slash at both his feet. Blood gushed from his ankles. It was a sudden pain that he hadn't felt before. Then, the beast fell hard onto the ground.
Malik stood before him with the bayonet coated in red. Instantly, the blade grazed the beast's neck. Dragan grumbled as he gritted his teeth. He knew there was no turning back.
"Look into the eyes you judged. What do you think?"
"T-They're nice," muttered the giant.
"Liar. You used to be real." He held the blood-coated, rusty knife—pressing softly on Dragan's rough neck.
It laughed uncontrollably as the giant couldn't move. Dancing, the blade danced on his throat, with just teasing force—enough to not cut, but leave a mark. Then, the giant felt the blade let go. Opening his eyes, the giant smiled maniacally.
Dragan saw Malik's eyes—not empty, but decided.
He knew he was already dead. For a heartbeat, Malik wondered what would happen if he stopped.
. . .
Gash!
Blood spewed like a faucet, as the moonlit room fell silent.
He didn't hesitate, neither did the blade.
The bayonet speared through his throat. His head fell back, pulling loose flesh, sprinkling blood. Dragan screamed helplessly as he bled out, but the waves muffled his cries.
For once, it was finally silent, the blood pooled as Malik cackled in victory.
Malik licked the blood off the blade, feeling his hunger dwindle.
Suddenly—A figure entered.
"Father?" Malik whispered weakly.
Cyrus couldn't speak. For a moment his breath halted—he saw the boy he raised stood over a corpse.
"Malik . . ." he whispered, half to him, half to whoever else stood behind those eyes. he stared at the rusty blade he held in his hand.
Then he forced his voice steadily. "Leave."
Cyrus didn't shout. He didn't rush to help the bleeding Dragan. He just looked at Malik—and understood that every chance he had to save this boy was already gone.
Then, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath as he held his heart. Cyrus observed the mutilated corpse, and assessed that the worst had happened.
Malik overheard the crew's shock. Then he heard Cyrus.
"Throw him over board." He said once. None would argue.
As time passed, the crew decided to let his body out at sea. Though cruel, there was nothing that could be done.
Malik watched the sea swallow Dragan. For the first time, it felt like the sea was watching him back.
. . .
Cyrus felt an emptiness. He let the ocean raise his child more than he did, and it drifted him away from sanity.
"You would never do such a thing on purpose."
Malik gave a psychotic smirk, "I had no choice. It was me or him."
Cyrus stayed silent, holding his tears.
"Don't stress, Father. I'm still a boy, right?" Malik handed a faint, deranged grin.
He stood up. A frown traced, imprinted on his face. "Come on, son."
"Yes, Father." He hid a maniacal laugh under a veil of guilt.
The moonlight shined brighter—it applauded.
. . . .
The crew still spoke Dragan's name in hushed voices. Malik never did.
But the sea would never forget them. However, could it keep a secret?