Cycle: 3000. Time: 06:00
A young boy with long brown hair walks along the metal perimeter of a naval ship.
He knew his name; Malik.
But all else that he knew lied in the symphony of the waves.
He sits beside the railing, listening to the sea as the captain calls attendance.
"Alright, Mercenaries of The Messengers! Roll-Call for the day!" A muscular, grizzled captain yelled atop the chrome-silver perimeters on a large naval ship.
Gray hairs on his well-groomed beard shines in sunlight.
Wrinkles and crow's feet form on his face as he takes a glance.
A loose gold nametag etched on gray uniform. His eyes azure, bluer than the bright skies.
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 then called everybody present.
Then a quick ambience.
Cyrus paused when he reached Malik's name. Not because he cared — but because he didn't know how to talk to him anymore.
"Malik . . . son."
Son.
It seemed like a rumor to all, because he never spoke of it.
Sitting down, the boy raised his hand and didn't say a word.
Cyrus scratched his beard like something felt off, but he chose not to interfere like always.
"That boy's like a short blade," Cyrus 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. Malik didn't.
People passed him the way water passed a stone — shaping him without noticing him.
That was when the whispers of the sea became louder than any human voice.
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 knife leaving only edges as it spikes with ridges that can dig into flesh.
It had likely fallen out of a weapons box at some point. Nobody saw him. Even if they did, they wouldn't bat an eye—he was just a child, after all.
He put his marker and folded drawing in his pocket, as he knelt to pick up the harbinger of bloodshed. Malik gripped it like a forbidden secret.
When Malik touched the blade, the world sharpened.
He felt something awaken in his drifting mind.
Voices blanket his mind as he thinks of words he never knew, and an indifference he never felt.
However, the voices couldn't reach him, so they sounded like static.
Something that made sense of a world that didn't. He wasn't sure why he took it. His intuition felt that he needed it.
"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 to reveal bright gray eyes that stare 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.
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.
Malik went out to the edge, and found Darius working with welding tools.
"What's up, buddy? You need something?"
"No . . . I just wanted to watch." Malik said coldly.
Darius shrugged, ignoring Malik while keeping a smile.
When he left, Malik still sat.
"Will it always be this way . . ."
The sky bruised purple as evening fell. Malik whispered to himself — and something whispered back.
It doesn't have to . . .
Malik knew the voice wasn't from anyone he knew directly.
Deep down, he wanted to be scared, but the voice felt like an old friend.
"Who are you?" Malik whispered.
However, there was no response.
Sighing, he quietly went to his room.
. . .
Malik lay in his empty corridor that only consists of a white mattress.
I'm alone.
Nothing's real.
Dragan's hand hurt. I felt my heart squishing with every push. That's real.
Malik scrunched his head as he lay in drowning emptiness.
Hate is real.
. . .
Nighttime.
A black sky filled with blinking lights that Malik was told to never speak of. It fills his room with faint white moonlight and dust as the sea rocks his bed.
He looked like a child to them.
But really, was he?
Deep down, he wanted more. And he would do anything for more.
An avarice, such greed unquenched.
He wanted to be seen. Felt. Feared. A thirst for such despair in others' eyes.
Bummer. I know they're real, but not to them.
Slowly, he gets up. Smiling, cynical. He felt real.
"I am real," he whispers as he pulled the blade from his pocket.
Then the voice arose again.
Yes . . . we are.
"Who are you?"
I sharpen what you hide.
If you let me in, you will never be ignored again.
. . .
Dragan snores loudly.
Suddenly—Dragan instantly heard a sound. He quickly leaned up, examining his room.
Nothing.
The bed frame absorbed all light, but something glinted.
What in Zaleth's name?
A rusty bayonet glistened above, quickly—vanished. Dragan rushed out of bed.
A quick flash of shadow then—
It weaved, locking its left arm on Dragan's thick, scarred neck. The Bayonet had outmaneuvered the beast. The giant felt the tip of a ridged blade grazing his neck.
The giant attempted to shake him off, but the blade persisted.
Slowly—
"GAHHHH!"
Drips of blood leak off the small gash.
The sea muffled his screams. But the moonlight shone on the Bayonet.
"M-Malik?" The beast stopped resisting in shock.
"I'm only satiating. A hunger that feeds. A hunger that needs." The Bayonet cackled, with layered brown wooly hair on his scalp reflecting in the gray moonlight.
The Bayonet is no longer a boy. The boy was pulverized. This is all that remains.
"What is your deal!" The beast argued.
"Hush." The Bayonet pierced.
"You wanted the boy to be weak . . . I am what came instead." His words stabbed through his ears.
The Bayonet unrestricted the large beast, yet it remained hesitant.
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 had disappeared when he looked around.
Suddenly, he felt a slash at both his feet.
Blood gushed from his ankles like a sprinkler.
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, inches away from the end.
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 without thinking.
"Liar. You used to be real." He held the blood-coated, rusty knife—pressing softly on Dragan's rough neck.
The Bayonet laughed uncontrollably as the giant couldn't move.
Dancing, the blade danced on his throat, swaying its movement, 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.
Gash!
The Bayonet speared through his throat. His head lay back with pulling loose flesh, sprinkling blood as he embraced it.
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.
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, Cyrus closed his eyes, took a deep breath as he held his heart.
Cyrus observed the mutilated corpse, and assessed that the worst had happened.
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.
Cyrus stood up. A frown traced, imprinted on his face. "Come on, son"
"Yes, Father." The Bayonet hid a maniacal laugh under a veil of guilt.
The moonlight shined brighter—it applauded.
. . . .
Cycle: 3010 Time: 06:01
There stands the Bayonet, pondering, pure, cleansed.
Cyrus stands next to him.
Ten cycles later, the crew still spoke Dragan's name in hushed voices. Malik never did.