Finnick could already see tomorrow's headlines.
Reality Bites: Star Chef Shredded to Pieces
Murder a la Carte: Fame Never Tasted So Fatal
Lights, Camera…, Murder?!
And so on…
Well, if they identified his body, anyway.
The aforementioned body was currently hanging on for dear life at the railing of the eminent Nispedana Summer Cruiseship. His knuckles were white, all the veins in his arm bulging out, and his palms slick from sweat.
He gasped as he felt the salt wind tear at his clothes, threatening to pry his grip loose. His feet no longer had an anchor, and the side of the ship was too slippery to grant him traction.
For now, he didn't risk using his pitiable strength to move sideways, afraid he'd slip and let go, primarily because there was someone waiting to take advantage at the slightest opening he showed.
The churn of the ship's massive propellers growled underneath him, reminding him of the fate that awaited him if he let go.
He fought the urge to look down. Instead, he glared at the damned bastard who pushed him there in the first place.
"Help me up already! You know I can't swim!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. Sadly, his voice was drowned by the propellers as well as the strong winds and rain.
He heard that this was the common path of this cruise. Whoever added the tropics as an itinerary during the late summer must be an idiot.
Finn blinked through the humid air, the heavy raindrops, and his own gossamer hair to glare at the culprit. "This is getting too much. This joke—"
If he hadn't had the reflexes, he could've gone straight to the blades below, minced like the meat he loved to cook.
"Who said I'm joking?" the man asked, looking at him with a grin gracing his ugly face.
This man's name was… never mind, he didn't even remember. Something with a John. Anyway, this guy was an assistant to another star chef—who happened to have lost to him during a competition last year.
"...what do you mean by that?"
To be fair, this whole situation reeked of attempted murder. He wasn't naive. He had experienced quite a few things in his short 27—please, please, please, be longer—years of living.
It was just that he didn't think he'd become a victim, after everything. Besides, this cruise trip was a celebratory one for the whole company. How was he supposed to know someone wanted him dead?
"Come on John—"
"It's Jeik."
"Okay, Jeik," Finn said, veins popping off at the side of his head, and his teeth teetering from the cold and tiredness. He tried to sound as calm as possible despite being literally a few fingers away from dying.
Fortunately, as a cook with an active lifestyle, his arm strength was quite strong, which was how he was still holding on after all this. "I'm sure there's a perfectly logical non-lethal way we can discuss this."
"Not really," the other man said. "My boss specifically instructed me to get rid of you today."
The fugly bastard said this while slowly prying his fingers off the railing. Finn's eyes twitched as he struggled to hold on. But he was already shivering and weak. How much could he fight against someone who wasn't carrying his own weight?
Slip!
"FUUGGG!" He felt his heart drop to his stomach, but his reflexes saved the day again, holding on to the railing a few rows below.
Several curse words passed by his head, and he desperately wanted to curse at this bastard, but he knew his life depended on his handling this with calmness.
Fortunately, being an orphan, then becoming a child gangster, and then working in hellish kitchens for over a decade definitely ironed out his mental fortitude.
"...okay, then can y-you tell me why?"
"The boss wanted to be a judge on that show, something about his lady love being a contestant. Then they found out the production team gave you the slot."
"What?" Just because of that? Just because of an appearance in a freaking reality show?!
Okay. There were plenty of non-murderous ways to get what they wanted!
These bastards had no imagination!!
"You can just threaten me!" he yelled. "I am properly threatened–eek!" he screamed, barely holding on to the railing. He probably looked like a flattened gecko right now. "Your boss can have the gig! I will call—"
"You underestimate your popularity Mr. Finnick Altheus Solthar," he said. "If you decide to speak, many people might try to protect you. At least this is the case while you're still breathing."
Finn was now shivering from cold and fear, and his body was practically vibrating. He knew his grip only had so much energy left. "Are you people gangsters or something?!" How could their default action plan be murder?!
"Well, the boss' father and grandfather were indeed from that industry."
"..."
"Y-Y-You damned Fugger—Jeik, listen to me," he changed his tone when he saw the fugger turn his attention to his other hand. "Whatever he's paying you, I can double it."
The man chuckled instead. "With what money? You already spent all your money building your restaurant."
Damn. He's right.
Recently, he had enough money to finally achieve his dream: Build a restaurant.
He had been cooking for more than a decade. After various trials and tribulations, he—despite not even being an elementary school graduate—became the head chef of a small restaurant at the young age of 25.
This restaurant was an open kitchen where the tables were U-shaped that enveloped the chefs within it. The customers watched him work, watched him create delicious food all while doing it with a surprising amount of grace and charm.
He was handsome, and he had great body coordination, so he was—in their words, not his—a pleasure to watch.
A year ago, he was scouted and recruited to join a reality show about professional chefs from different restaurants, making them compete for the title of 'Master Cook', along with some prize money and promotion for the restaurants they worked for. The challenges were difficult and interesting, but he pretty much breezed through them.
This, in addition to his face—as well as his sob story, the PD team somehow managed to find out—he became a star. He rejected other offers, of course, because he only wanted to cook, not to smile for the camera.
However, he got another offer a few months back, and it was to return—this time as a judge.
The prize money, as well as the upfront money for becoming a judge, was enough for him to begin construction of his restaurant.
It was supposed to be completed in two weeks…
Thinking about how excited he was to get there—and how he might not get there at all—clenched at his heart. Instead of feeling pity for himself, he just felt angry. He glared at the bastard who was teasingly flicking those pudgy fingers at his grip.
Why would he give that up for something like this? For people like these, who could not see poor people as people?
He had worked so hard—how could he be reconciled with going out like this?
Finn's amber eyes focused, and he felt renewed energy pass him. By instinct, he knew he was about to give way, and this was the last chance.
Jeik smirked, not knowing his resolve. His hand simply hovered over the redhead's remaining palm. "Well, you, an uneducated street urchin and orphan, shouldn't have coveted what you're not destined for," he said.
"Don't worry, although many people will be shocked at your disappearance, they'll forget you soon. You don't have family, anyway."
They dared to do this for such a little thing precisely because he didn't have a family. Or lifelong friends, for that matter. Because he refused to join an agency, he technically didn't have backing either.
He had no one.
Finn gritted his teeth, looking like he had been shamed and had already succumbed. Jeik thought his words had cracked the last bit of fight in him. Unexpectedly, just before he could pry the third finger, it disappeared.
His eyes widened when Finnick shifted railings like a monkey, using his remaining arm strength to move further to the side. Jeik gasped when he saw the redhead start climbing too, about to enter the deck.
Finn could barely breathe, and frankly, he was just letting his body do the work. He doubted he'd be able to feel his arms for a while after this, but he'd think about that later.
When he got a few meters away, he lifted his body up, and soon his feet finally found their bearing. He smiled in relief, thinking he could finally get to safety—
Flop
Suddenly, a force pushed him over, forcing him to let go of his support. This time, his arms were too far from the railing to do anything about it.
His body moved on its own and kicked the nearest surface, pushing him further away. Several meters away, in fact.
If he jumped like this as a kid, maybe he could've done parkour as a hobby.
It felt counterintuitive, but Finn guessed it was better than sinking because he was too near the boat.
And so, he flew, farther and farther, to his only way of survival. He also tried to angle himself as vertically as possible to minimize the impact on his body.
As gravity worked on him and as he fell smack into the sea, his mind couldn't help but ask: Was this really the end of his life?
After the initial shock, would no one really remember him anymore?
He wasn't always alone. Until he was seven years old, he actually had parents—loving ones.
At the time, he had no worries except for his homework, whether it'd rain when it was time to play, or whether his parents would feed him fish (again) later that night.
He wondered when he'd feel that again?
Anyway, the bright side was that he did not fall on the propeller, managing to use what was probably a lifetime's worth of adrenaline to kick himself far enough so he wouldn't get sucked in by the ship's movements.
Splash!
But that was about all he could do for himself. After all, even with adrenaline, he still could not swim.
Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle
He wanted to curse, but that'd get him to swallow water. He could only feel his helplessness against the waves and his own weight, and soon the surface became unreachable to him.
Unexpectedly, some time during his panicked squirming underwater, he saw a text appearing at the corner of his eyes.
.
.
.
[Cosmic Integration has begun…]