Homecoming (Kancolle)

[Aurora Raven]

The Shetlands were supposed to be safe. They were safe. Years without any attacks, without even any sighting of an Abyssal, but the moment I decide to visit it… Always picking the wrong queue at the post office.

It's ridiculous to be thinking about post office queues at a time like this. Ridiculous thoughts are all I have left in the wake of fear and hysteria.

Two days in a lifeboat being towed somewhere by Abyssals. Two days waiting to be killed. Two days imagining what they're going to do to us.

I don't know how many people were on the ferry. At least two hundred, probably more. Now there are just three of us on this lifeboat.

I shall not soon forget what happened to the others, no matter how much I want to. The small ones look like children, but they're the worst. Smiling angelically as they kill in the bloodiest ways imaginable. They would have killed us all if the adult ones hadn't dragged them off, still covered in blood and guts. They kept us alive, are keeping us alive, for some reason.

There's only so long you can be scared out of your mind, and it's less than two days.

I ran out of tears a few hours in, rested in catatonia, then cried for hours more.

I don't know the order of the stages of grief, but I've been through denial, I was too scared for anger, and who would I bargain with? The monsters outside? That just leaves depression and acceptance, right?

Maybe I cried all the stress hormones out because I just feel numb now. Is this depression or acceptance? It could be either.

No, I don't think it's acceptance. I'm not ready to die.

Maybe I should. Maybe I should climb out of the boat. Not to try and swim to land, that would never work. Even if I were a strong swimmer, which I'm not, no one could make it to land; not this far out, not in this cold. But to drown, to die before we get to wherever they're taking us, before they do whatever they're planning to do to us.

I'm too scared though. I really don't want to die.

Am I really going to just sit here and wait for them to torture us to death because I'm too scared to drown?

If I'm even allowed to drown. They want us alive for some reason. Would they just fish me out of the sea? If I got past the adults, the small ones would get me.

Drowning is the best case.

I still don't want to drown.

At least we have plenty of food and water with so few of us. Not that the food is good, or our appetite great. We have eaten little, and in silence. The presence of the monsters outside is oppressive. I still don't know my fellow survivors' names.

Is there any point in asking the names of people who are about to die?

Yes, so someone remembers them, so someone can tell others about what happened to them. Everyone deserves that, but I can't do that for them. I'm going to die too. I'm in the same boat as them. Heh, I'm literally in the same boat as them.

My breath catches and I almost giggle at the unintentional wordplay.

I thought the hysteria had ended. I guess I've still got a little left in me.

Thoughts running around my head. Anything to distract from the situation. I feel sick. Nauseous with stress. Static in my mind.

I try to control my breathing, choke down any more sobs.

It's stupid, no one will judge me for this, no one can blame me, I've already done it plenty, but it still feels embarrassing to cry in front of people. The others aren't crying. Am I lesser for doing so?

Maybe they want to cry too and we're all just putting on a strong front for each other.

I'm glad I'm not alone.

It's selfish to be glad they're here too, dying too, but I don't want to die alone.

I should talk to them. These are the last hours of my life, I shouldn't squander them in my own head.

How can I be scared of speaking to another human, especially at a time like this? Terminal and still procrastinating. I'm so pathetic.

No. I won't die with regrets over not engaging in the last opportunity for human connection I'll ever have. I muster my courage.

"Hey—"

I'm cut off and thrown forward as the boat jerks harshly to a stop.

The door is ripped off its hinges.

An Abyssal climbs in. One of the adult ones. She reaches for me.

This is it then. Oh God I hope the Christians were right about life after death. I'm the thief on the cross, the atheist in the foxhole. Lord forgive me. Forgive me for not knowing the words, for not having the time, for not… for not. I hope I see my parents again. I hope—

She doesn't kill me.

She grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. She drags me out of the lifeboat.

I try to pull away, but her hand is like a vice, her pace inexorable. There's nothing I can do against her strength.

The other two men are being pulled out as well, their resistance just as futile as mine.

One spits at the Abyssal holding him. It hits her square in the face. He pays for his defiance. She tightens her grip. A terrible crack. An agonised scream. His arm shatters. He collapses, only held up by the hold she has on his broken arm.

I don't know if she intends to do more, but a fourth Abyssal pulls her away.

"We need them alive!"

"It's just an arm. He's not dead."

"Control yourself." She hisses, then turns to the one holding me. "Bring them, everything is ready."

We are made to walk up the black beach, lest we be dragged up it. Everything is black. The sand, the rocks, the clouds filling the sky above. It looks like hell. It feels like hell.

The air is thick, I struggle to breathe it in.

Every step makes it worse, the nausea and dizziness growing.

Ahead is a structure. Dark brick, dark metal, just, dark. Blurry, the details changing moment by moment, shadows deepening, contrast not showing properly. My eyes refuse to focus. My headache intensifies. I close my eyes and let my captor pull me along.

I can feel it as soon as we enter. The absence of what little sunlight there was outside, the cold that feels like it's leeching all vitality from me. Which circle of hell is the frozen one? Is Lucifer waiting for me at the end of this corridor?

I'm led into a larger room. There is something, someone there. Worse than Lucifer. Bigger than the other Abyssals. No, the same size, but larger in presence. Such terrible presence. My eyes burn trying to look at her. My ears ring, the screech rising in pitch and power beyond what I thought possible. The pressure on my eardrums building and building. I can't take this.

My legs give way. I fall to my hands and knees. I throw up, acid burning my throat and mouth. I try to wipe away the tears from my eyes and my hand comes back with blood. My nose runs with hot blood, dripping onto the stone floor, the only colour in this monochrome hell.

I'm dying. Just being near this monstrosity is killing me.

The pressure lessens. I can hear again. Footsteps heading away.

The devil is leaving. Sparing me. I see her back as she walks away. Her demons are still here though.

I can't stand. I try to crawl away, dragging limp legs behind me. I reach a wall. I cower against it.

I see a circle in the centre of the room, blacker than black. A void within its boundary.

I see the other two, their pale, deathly pallours, the blood streaking down from their eyes and noses. They're alive. They look dead. I must look the same.

None of us are leaving this place alive.

I'm so tired. Everything hurts.

Why can't we be saved?

Why is there no one to save us?

One of the Abyssals picks up the man with the broken arm. He twitches in her arms. She walks to the circle, and drops him into it. A splash reveals it to be a pool of something. A black liquid that quickly covers him.

Whatever life is left in him stirs as he thrashes and flails. Trying to get out. The liquid coats him, spreads across him, his bright yellow jacket disappearing under the black. His figure becomes less defined. He's melting. He's screaming. He's gone.

The pool returns to stillness.

The Abyssal walks back to us and grabs the second man. I don't watch. I need to get out of here.

I hear the splash behind me.

I crawl.

I hear the crying.

I crawl.

I hear the silence.

I feel a hand grab my leg.

No no no no no.

My fingers find no purchase on the stone floor.

I'm dragged backwards, towards the pool, towards death.

Splash.

I thought it would hurt. I don't feel any pain. I don't feel anything. I'm sinking. I can't feel my legs. The liquid covers everything. I reach for the edge. My arm is too short. Where are my fingers? Where is my hand? The liquid is up to my neck. I think I'm kicking my legs, but nothing is happening. I keep sinking. It's in my mouth now. I'm drowning.

---

Where am I?

It's cold. Are my eyes open or closed? Do I still have eyes? I can't tell. It's pitch black. It's so cold.

I can feel something vital leaving me. Something I didn't know I had till I felt the absence.

I'm dying. I'm being consumed.

Please. Someone. Anyone. Help me. Please. I don't want this. I don't want to die. Please. I'll do anything, just save me.

Something moves, brushing against me. It's vast. It hates. It hates so much. It touches me.

---

I'm looking at the stone floor.

I'm kneeling. The circle is around me, but the pool is gone.

I feel… fine. The sickness is gone. I can see, I can hear, I can feel, I can think.

My arm! I look at it. It's all there: arm, hand, fingers. This isn't my hand. It's too small. It's white.

I turn my head to examine it, white strands fall into the edge of my vision. Hair?

"A carrier, not quite like Tungsten though." One of the Abyssals is talking to another. "I'll go tell the Princess. Tungsten will want to know as well." She leaves the room.

The Princess! That monster is coming back here? I can't face her again! I need to get out! I feel fine. I can stand. I can run!

Fear and adrenaline fill me.

Action stations. Action stations. Assume damage control state one. Condition Zebra.

I can almost hear a klaxon, a voice whispering in the back of my head.

I jump to my feet and sprint for the door. My foot doesn't hit the ground right, but I adjust and keep running.

An Abyssal is blocking my way, the one that manhandled me earlier.

I try to push past her, hoping my momentum will do something.

Crash!

She goes flying, slamming against the wall. I don't slow down at all. How did I do that?

No time for that. I continue my flight. I don't know what happened, but I feel so strong. I can escape! I can survive!

Sunlight! Only a bit further. I'm out of their godforsaken keep. Stone tiles give way to rock, give way to soil, to sand, to water.

I'm running on water. On the sea. Like a Shipgirl. Like an Abyssal.

I'll run all the way home.

Full speed ahead, all engines.

South. I need to go south. I think it's morning, sun in the east, sun to my left.

Set course bearing 180°.

I adjust slightly. I know this is south.

The island is behind me, further away with every moment. I've escaped hell. I'm going home.

 

[Aurora Raven]

I don't know how long I've been running — 17 hours — but I can't stop till I'm safe.

I don't know how far I've run — 520 miles — but I'm flagging now.

My breathing is still steady, but my chest aches. Not quite a stitch, the wrong place, the wrong sensation. A tightness in my chest, like my heart has been beating too hard for too long. It's not though. I can't feel it beating hard. I can't feel my pulse in my neck or hear it in my ears.

I couldn't keep up the frantic pace I had made at the start of my escape, slowing after a couple of hours to my current speed — 30 knots. At some point I stopped moving my legs, but I kept moving over the waves regardless.

Even though I haven't been using them, my legs ache. I'm tired, but I have to keep going.

Fear has kept me driven, kept me occupied, but not to the extent that I've made it all this way without looking down at myself.

This isn't my body.

Long white hair purer white than human, that blows in the wind, kept out of my face by a hairband. Pale bone white skin where it's not covered by a black jacket and dress.

I've deliberately not checked, but I think I'm a woman now. The breasts are rather noticeable.

Bits of a ship attached to me. A miniature flight deck strapped to my left arm. Miniature people walking across it, defying gravity, stuck to the deck no matter which way I hold my arm.

I guess I'm a Shipgirl then?

Shipgirls aren't this colour.

Is this how Shipgirls are made? People in dire straits, granted power to live?

I thought they were actual ships before they were people. That's how the media talks about them, how they talk about themselves. Maybe it can go both ways?

I'm not comfortable with this, I didn't want this, but I'll take it if it means living. I asked for help, and this is the form it came in. I won't be ungrateful for my survival, whatever it is that answered my plea.

You know what answered.

Maybe this is temporary, just a short lived boon to save my life. Even if it's not, maybe they can fix it when I get home. I'm not an expert in magic or whatever.

Surface contact, bearing 100°, range 40 miles.

There's something there, to my left. I can see it. No, I can't see it, but somehow I know it's there. I don't think it's a ship, it's too big. Is it land?

Is it Scotland?

I turn towards it. I'll be safe on land.

It comes into sight, real sight from my eyes. The night is dark but the moon is bright enough for me to see clearly. It's land, beautiful land. Green grass, something alive. This nightmare is almost over. After this I'm never getting on a boat again.

I walk off the water and climb onto the rocks. They're wet and slippery, and the heels on these shoes don't help. At least they're not stilettos, maybe a three inch wedge. Could be worse. I consider taking them off, but it's probably not a good idea to go barefoot on these rocks either, and I don't see a zipper.

Where am I? I don't know the geography of the north coast of Scotland.

South then, I'll just keep heading south and I'll reach civilisation again eventually, even if I have to walk all the way to England to find it.

A mountain is in my way and my tired legs don't thank me, but the further I get from the sea the better. I climb it slowly and carefully. I try to watch my step, but the sky keeps drawing my eyes away.

The stars are so bright and clear. The majesty of the galaxy stretches out above.

I'm not wearing my glasses, but I see it all in perfect clarity. Even with my glasses my eyes were never this good. Can't beat magic eye correction. Heh. I smile. I've been afraid for so long, and now the weight is lifted.

Now that I think about it, I've been in the cold wind this whole time, but I feel fine, good even.

Reinvigorated, I make it over the peak of the mountain.

Light, artificial light. There's a town down there, by an inlet, more of a village really. It's a tiny, ugly thing; a blemish on the beautiful landscape, the glare of their lights polluting the sky.

There's a runway behind it. A small airport?

And behind that… more sea. More fucking sea.

This is an island.

I hold my head in my hands. I'm not even on the same landmass as home.

From this high up I can see other nearby islands too. I try to picture a map of Northern Britain. There are a lot of islands around the coast, this must be one of them. I'm not home yet, but I'm almost there. It can't be that much further.

Maybe I can get a plane there.

I descend the mountain side to the road. It leads into the village, the inlet to my right, the mountain to my right.

As I get nearer to the village, I see a yellow sign.

…

Did I have a stroke?

That's not English. Do they speak English in the Scottish highlands? I don't know, but I don't think this is Gaelic either.

Wait, that letter, 'ø', that's a Nordic letter isn't it.

There's no way I'm in Norway.

Two days from the Shetlands to that place. I shudder at the memory. Then one day south to reach here. We couldn't have reached that far north of Norway in two days.

Where is Sørvágur?

I continue walking, entering the village proper. There's no one walking the streets, no lights on in the buildings.

What time is it?

02:30

I don't have my watch anymore, I don't know. I can tell it's some time in the early hours of the morning. I doubt anything is open at this time in a remote place like this. Maybe I can find a police station or something though, or a 24 hour convenience store if I'm lucky. I haven't eaten in a while and I'm starting to get hungry, especially after that hours long sprint.

I don't have any money though. The void ate it like it did everything else. I'm sure someone will be kind enough to give me a sandwich or something in my circumstance.

Another sign, an advert for a concert? The website is www.country.fo. What domain is .fo? F, F, F, what begins with F and is Nordic?

Finland? No that's .fi, and I'm definitely not in the Baltic sea.

The Faroe Islands! They're north of Britain and they're Danish. Thank god I'm not hopelessly lost. My course was correct, I just forgot about a set of islands on the way.

I laugh nervously. That's one mystery solved and crisis averted. Ok, ok, things are back on track. I know where I am and I can get transport home from here.

Still, hopefully I can find something to eat and somewhere to stay rather than just stand around out here in the dark till morning.

I continue walking.

What was that?! I saw something in the edge of my vision. I think I saw an Abyssal.

I turn a full circle, searching for her, but there's no one here.

I'm just seeing things in the dark. No one followed me here, I'd have seen them on the open sea long before I got here.

I let my breathing settle.

The buildings get larger as I get deeper into the town. I see someone!

A man in a heavy coat, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. His breath misting in the cold and mixing with the smoke. What a filthy habit, and he's clearly so addicted that he can't go one night without giving in to it. Why else would he be out in the cold at this hour, all alone? What a sad sight, disgusting and pitiful in equal measure.

Still, he'll probably know where I can find the authorities around here.

"Hey!" I call out to him. I flinch at my voice, totally different to how I should sound.

He looks up. He startles, drops the cigarette, cries out, and starts running.

Why is he running? He's not being very useful right now.

I chase after him.

His reaction is annoying, making me chase after him, but something else too. Exciting? Part of me is enjoying the chase.

He's shouting something now, screaming even. He's going to wake the whole town up at this rate. That's not very considerate of him. I hate people like this.

He keeps looking back at me, his face looks terrified. What an idiot. Does he think I'm going to hurt him or something? It's good though, he deserves to be scared, the rude wretch.

Something smells really good. I don't recognise it, but it's not helping my hunger. Whatever, I'll find it after I catch this guy. Seems to be coming from the same direction actually.

I feel bouncy, high. Weird, I shouldn't be getting runner's high after only a few seconds of running, that's crazy. Whatever is causing it, it's intoxicating. I let out a laugh.

I'm gaining on him. It's a shame it'll be over so soon. I feel great, alive, happy. All my worries are gone for now. The problems so far away.

Only a metre separation now. I leap at him.

"Got you!" I yell in exhilaration.

He just screams and tries to throw up his arms, but they don't do anything. I bat them aside and spear my arm through his guts.

He's crying and sobbing, as if anyone who cares can hear his dying sounds. Even if someone came there's nothing that can save him now.

His insides are squishy and warm around my arm. It feels funny. I giggle.

Ah, this is good. This is right. Contentedness envelopes me and I relax into it, smiling as I watch the light leave his eyes.

And then it's gone.

I'm kneeling on the ground and a man is dead grievously wounded on my lap. Did I do this?

His lifeless eyes stare at me, accusing me, condemning me.

"No. No I…" I stutter, my smile turning brittle, then breaking into horror.

I need to do first aid. There's so much blood. How do I stop it? Apply pressure on the wound. I move my arms to press on the wound but— Squelch. Oh God, my arm is still in his chest. If I remove it, he'll bleed out even faster. I can't just leave it in there though. I don't… What do I do?

I can't fix this. I can't undo this.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I plead.

He doesn't hear me. He's dead.

I pull my arm out, covered in viscera and blood.

There's so much blood on him, on me, spreading in a bright red puddle across the ground. Everywhere except where it's supposed to be.

There's a huge hole in his torso. I can see my knees through it. There's no surviving that, and I know that he hasn't.

More than his catastrophic injury, his lack of breathing, his stopped heart, I know that he's dead because I don't hate him anymore.

What was I thinking moments ago? About his smoking, about his running, about his yelling.

The disdain, the excitement, the joy, the intoxicating smell, the high, the peace; it's all gone. All that's left is me, and the corpse of the man I've murdered.

"Oh God."

I look up. There's a shop window in front of me.

The Abyssal I thought I saw earlier is there, covered in blood, kneeling over a corpse. She meets my eyes, the baleful blue glow. She shudders as I do.

It was my reflection that I saw earlier.

Her eyes, my eyes. Her hair, my hair. Her skin, my skin. Her, me.

I knew this earlier, I just refused to see it. The reality I denied crashes down on me. The lie I told myself, the debt to the truth is repaid with interest.

How could I have ever entertained the idea that I was a Shipgirl? I'm the enemy. I'm the monster.

A high pitched scream stirs me from my thoughts. I turn my head to the right and see a woman running.

I should kill her too shouldn't I? It's what Abyssals do. This is my purpose now. She'll alert more people if I let her go.

She keeps screaming. Shrill harpy, can't you see I'm trying to think? I need to silence her.

The not-smell is back, rushing over me, beckoning me to chase again, to kill again.

I stand and turn to go after her.

The corpse slides off my legs and hits the ground.

Splat.

He's still staring at me.

I flinch and turn away.

The woman has turned a corner, out of sight. I can still sense her, sense her fear, but it's getting more distant.

No. I refuse. I'm not going to kill her. Even if it's what I'm supposed to do. Even if it would feel so good. Even if…

I need to get out of here. Before more people come. Before I kill more people. Before I lose myself.

I just wanted to go home.

I start running, not towards the woman, towards the sea.

My feet hit the water and I skim across the surface, fleeing the scene of my crime.

The town lights up behind me. As word spreads, as more people wake up to the horror that I left behind, the not-smell grows stronger. I understand what it is now. It's their fear that I can feel, urging me to turn around, to raze the town to the ground.

I keep my eyes facing out to sea. I don't turn to look.

Surface target, bearing 286°, range 9000 yards. Aft port battery, load HE, ready for ranging shot.

That whisper in the back of my mind again. I can't make out what it's saying. I feel something moving.

I can see the town. I'm looking in the opposite direction, how can I see the town? I close my eyes. I can still see.

I'm thinking like a human. Ships don't have two eyes. I keep my eyes closed, turning my attention inwards, focusing on my senses, old and new.

I can see in all directions, through the lookouts standing on my bridge and across my hull. I can feel the terrain through my surface search radar.

I can see the town through the rangefinder on the fire control director on the aft of my island. Through the gunsight on a turret with a loaded gun.

I can feel the crew in the director with their fingers on the trigger, waiting eagerly for the command. All I need to do is give the command. Just one word.

Shoot.​

I have eight turrets, each manned with crew ready to load more shells, sixteen cannons ready to flatten this town. One word.

Sho—

Lifeless eyes staring back at me.

Did he have a family? How many lives did I destroy in a single moment? How many more will I destroy with a single word?

The tiny monsters inside me can keep waiting. I won't give it to them.

The people behind me aren't safe till I'm out of range. I need to go further away.

North.​

South or east. South is home, east is the open Atlantic. I won't even consider going north, I'm never going back there.

The Atlantic is a contested battleground. Will the Abyssals there kill me? Will the allied navies kill me? I don't want to die. I'm already hungry, I'm not going to find food in the ocean. Will I starve? I don't want to die.

I want to go home, I want to go south, but can I? I'm a danger to everyone. Can I subject people to that because I'm too scared to do otherwise?

I'm more afraid than I am ashamed.

I turn south.

I turned away from that woman.

I turned away from the town.

I can control myself.

For how long?

I'm going south.

I think my hunger is because of how much fuel I burnt sprinting here. How much fuel do I have? How far can I go? I don't even know what I am beyond some kind of carrier going by the flight deck on my arm. I'd better pace myself. More speed, more resistance, so going slower will get me further on less fuel, right?

Half ahead, all engines, 100 revolutions.

This feels so slow compared to my earlier speed, but my legs and chest don't ache. I can keep this up for as long as I need to.

Over the course of nearly an hour the town leaves my artillery range. I can stop keeping such a tight hold on myself. There's no one to hurt out here, and there won't be for many hours. I can relax.

Surface contact, bearing 75°, range 8 miles.

What? A ship? Two ships! I can see them through my lookouts' binoculars. Warships! They're small, old looking. WW1 maybe?

I see more than ships though. The image of a ship is overlaid over a person. Both real, simultaneously both. It's trippy. These are Shipgirls.

This is the first land I've come across after running out of an Abyssal base, of course it has defences. They must have heard about what happened in Sørvágur, what I did there.

They're coming to kill me.

Action stations, action stations. Assume damage control state one, condition Zebra.

I can hear the klaxon this time. I can feel the shift inside me as my crew prepares for battle.

Different parts of me whispering to each other. I can't make out the words, but I know what they communicate.

Half ahead, all engines, 200 revolutions.

I accelerate.

Surface target, bearing 75°, range 16,000 yards. All batteries, load HE.

Fire directors and range finders pinpointing the target. Crew loading shells into sixteen guns.

All batteries ready for low angle engagement.

My turrets swivelling to face the foe.

The Shipgirls are just doing their duty. They're just protecting people. They're just hunting a murderer, but…

Fight.​

I'm not dying here. I won't let them kill me.

Kill.​

I'll kill them first.

Shoot!

Eight cannons roar and flash. The shells fly out, and fall short. Columns of water obscuring my sight of the enemy.

Load, adjust, shoot.

Ten seconds later my guns fire again, and again.

Miss after miss, but my directors refine their ranging with every splash.

Finally, they return fire. Their guns are bigger than mine, but they look archaic. Obsolete and slow.

Their shots fall short by at least a mile, in the dark I can barely see the splashes they're so far off. Mine are missing by only a few hundred yards, and getting closer with every salvo.

I've sped up, but the enemy is still crawling. How slow are they?

14 knots.

Can they not go any faster? They do look old.

At this rate I'm going to run out of range.

Wait, I can just leave. They can't catch me.

Fight. Kill.​

I could win though. I'm bigger, more advanced. My shots are straddling them now, it's only a matter of time before I hit them, before I sink them.

But I'm just protecting myself, I don't need to sink them if I just leave.

They're missing now, but their guns are big, and there's always the chance they'll get lucky. The sky is lightening, it's almost dawn. Their aim will be better with the light.

Why am I risking myself like this?

Full speed ahead, all engines. Set course 240°.

I make a right turn, heading directly away from them, and accelerate to my max speed.

I'm leaving.

I continue firing as I break away though. Six minutes. 55 more shots from each of my aft guns. Just as the distance reaches 20,000 yards and I'm nearly out of range, I see a single small explosion on the larger enemy.

A small smile of satisfaction.

I'm quitting the battle, but in my first action, I came out on top.

Cease fire.

Secure batteries.

Their bigger guns should give them more range, but they stop firing too.

I sail away as the sun starts to rise.

 

[Lonel]

Interesting, should be fun to see where this goes.

 

[doomlord9]

Nifty.

For inspiration, have an amusing AI trend I recently discovered on YouTube.

True size Shipgirls.


View: https://youtube.com/watch?v=ReugFrZDk3A


View: https://youtube.com/watch?v=hmOKzpofy-Q

Absolutely someone's ALOT of people's fetish, but still neat.

 

[Aurora Raven]

Interesting, should be fun to see where this goes.

Click to shrink...

Nowhere happy. There are chapters from later arcs in my snippet thread. Spoilers obviously.

Absolutely someone's ALOT of people's fetish, but still neat.

Click to shrink...

I'm sorry to disappoint those people, but our MC is 5ft 7.

 

[Aurora Raven]

It's been several hours since the battle, just sailing south at a slow and steady speed. Going by the sun, it's already late afternoon. I let my body relax, and my thoughts slow, even so, I have nothing to do but think.

I've sailed two hundred miles. I'll reach land again soon. What will I do when I reach it?

I think back to the Faroe islands. The excitement of battle has faded, as has the satisfaction.

I murdered a man.

No, it wasn't murder. I didn't mean to kill him. It was an accident, or temporary psychosis

Temporary?​

or some other form of diminished responsibility. It wasn't my fault.

He's still dead.

For all my excuses, he's still dead.

If I had never set foot on that island, he would still be alive.

I didn't mean to kill him, but my actions led directly to his death. I am responsible for it.

I'm taking the same actions. Heading towards land, towards people.

It won't happen again. I didn't expect to feel that way, to lose control. I couldn't prepare for it. I didn't even know that I'm…

That I'm an Abyssal.

It was a one off. I didn't kill that woman, or that town. I stopped myself twice. I can stop myself again. I will. I'll do better next time. I'm not… I'm not a monster.

Not human.​

I'm scared. I'm alone. I… I want to go home.

Come home.​

The whispers come and go, and I still can't make out what they're saying. If they're my crew, shouldn't I know what they're saying?

Surface contact, bearing 124°, range 33 miles.

I heard that one. Understood it. I'm getting better at feeling what my radar is detecting.

The return expands quickly, filling the whole space from 124° to 177°. That's definitely land.

That's got to be Scotland this time. I haven't sailed long enough to reach Ireland. Please don't be another random island that I forgot existed.

I turn towards it and it soon comes into view.

That's a cliff. I can't climb up that.

I follow the coastline south until I find a spot that isn't a tall wall of stone. It's only a little over a mile before the cliff gives way to a rocky shore that looks dangerous, and beyond that, an actual beach.

Scotland has beaches?

I mean, it's not a fantastic beach, barren and windswept, but it's a lot more than I expected to find.

I walk up the sand, golden in the afternoon sun. It's deserted, thankfully. I can postpone putting myself to the test a little longer.

As I stride from sea to land, my senses dull. I can't feel the terrain with my radar. I no longer see in every direction from dozens of eyes. I feel… lesser. Less like a ship, more like a person.

Shaking it off, I walk past the sand and up the slope onto grass. I still don't see anyone, but I do see a few buildings to my left.

I turn right.

I had thought to find authorities, get a ride home, but that was when I had believed myself… had deluded myself into thinking that I was a Shipgirl.

I'll need to get home some other way.

I come across a single building in a fenced off area. There are headstones inside.

A cemetery this close to the sea?

A sign on the gate: No Dogs.

Well, the language is right.

The sign next to it: Commonwealth War Graves.

There's someone standing in the graveyard.

He's alone.

Vulnerable. So vulnerable.

No, these aren't my thoughts.

I'm not thinking about killing a man in a cemetery.

I'm not.

The sea is right there. I could dump the body. Even if it washed up ashore, I'll be long gone by the time it's discovered.

As long as I don't tear his chest open, who's to say an Abyssal did it? They'll be looking for a murderer, not me.

I could kill him and get away with it.

No one is around, I could take my time.

Approach behind him, grab him, let him see what I am, let him fear, feast on it.

The look on his face…

Lifeless eyes staring back at me.

Remember this. Remember how the joy is fleeting. Remember how the horror remains. Let the guilt echo in my mind. Let the first man I killed be the last. Let his death save others from me.

I don't approach the man.

I turn away.

I walk away.

A gasp from behind me.

The feel of terror.

I stop walking.

I turn around.

I can't take my eyes off him.

He sees me. He recognises what I am. He fears me. He starts running.

Gravel shifts under my foot as I prepare to kick off.

I…

I…

I slam my fist into my thigh.

Pain!

Damage control teams and medics to starboard batteries.

There's a small dent in my leg. The bottom of my hand is bent and crumpled.

Aft starboard battery, turret rotation jammed.

I can't move my fourth and fifth digits.

There's no blood. Why isn't there any blood? Where is my blood?

If I peel open my hand, what will I find inside? Flesh, or machinery?

I squeeze my eyes shut rather than look at my hand.

I can hear the man running.

Keep running.

Run for your life.

Run for my soul.

Already ours.​

I don't look up. I don't tempt myself with the knowledge of how close he is. How slow he is. How easily I could catch up.

I stay kneeling, staring at the ground, till I can no longer hear him, till I can no longer sense his fear.

He's going to tell somebody.

You should have killed him.​

I stand. I need to get moving.

He ran towards the houses to the north. I'll follow the road inland, east.

If I'm lucky they'll just think he's seeing things. Only one witness, no evidence. Really, the fact that he's untouched is evidence that there wasn't an Abyssal here.

I had it under control, I turned away, until I tasted fear. Until he identified me as an Abyssal.

If I can hide it, people won't be scared, and I won't be tempted.

I look down at myself.

Bright white hair falls into my view, flowing over a black jacket. Underneath that, a black dress ending mid thigh. Black stockings. Black boots. All contrasting with the bone white of my skin.

There's no mistaking me as anything but an Abyssal. Maybe I could pretend it's a Nier Automata cosplay, at least a blindfold would cover up my eyes. That might fly at a convention, but certainly not right next to the ocean, nevermind all the ship parts covering me. Maybe I could hide the little radars and AA guns under a heavy coat, but there's no hiding the near metre long flight deck covering my entire left arm.

I need to get out of these clothes and find something less distinctive to cover myself with.

Where am I going to find human clothes?

A raincoat appears in my hands.

What?

This is my raincoat. Grey, the inner lining falling apart. The coat I wore to the Shetlands. The coat I was wearing when I…

How do I have this?

What else do I have?

Another coat appears in my hands. Bright yellow.

I've never had a yellow raincoat.

Where did this come fr—

One of the other men in the lifeboat was wearing a yellow raincoat.

We were all thrown into that pool. We all melted in it.

I close my eyes and focus on my insides. In a cargo hold somewhere in my hull, three sets of clothing.

I'm hyperventilating.

Are they part of me? Am I me or am I some conglomerate of the dead? A ghost ship.

I run through my memories. Every memory I can find is my own, only my own.

My memories. Do I have them because I am me, or are they just what's left from the man thrown into that pool? Am I just a confused Abyssal wearing the memories of a human?

No. I won't let myself think that way. It's a pointless thought. Like wondering if you die and are created anew each time you sleep.

I have my memories, I have my mind, I am me, in all the ways that matter.

I don't need this coat, take it back, wherever it goes.

The yellow raincoat disappears, returning to the hold inside me.

Ok, I've got a full set of clothes I can summon, my clothes.

I take off my jacket, or at least, I try to. It gets caught in the bits of ship stuck to me. They're not strapped to me, they're sticking out of me. Out of my arms, out of my back, out of my head even.

Shipgirls don't walk around like this all the time, they can make it go away.

I close my eyes, focusing on feeling them. All the parts of me that are a warship. On the sea, they were close, as a part of me as my fingers. Now, on the land, they're distant. I could pull them closer, manifest the warship that I am, and I can push them further away.

Push the ship down, make myself be more of a person.

I open my eyes, the ship parts are gone.

I take the jacket off, but I can't find any zipper or other closure on the dress.

I made the yellow raincoat disappear. I try to do the same with my Abyssal jacket. It disappears from my hands just like the raincoat did.

Can I just make the dress disappear too?

No. Maybe if I'm holding it in my hands?

Apparently I was wearing a white one piece underneath it, and that is now all that I'm wearing. Well, that and the stockings.

I'll keep the swimsuit/leotard on. I don't have any underwear that will fit my new body, and I don't want to see underneath it.

Touching and dismissing the stockings and boots too, I summon my old clothes and put them on.

The trousers are a little tight around my hips and very loose around my waist, but the belt keeps them up, even if the tail of the belt is a foot long and I have to wrap it half way around my body to the loops on the back of my trousers. I roll the bottom hem up a couple of times. How many inches have I lost?

I'm swimming in the t-shirt and my jacket, but at least they have room for my chest. My hip length raincoat is now mid-thigh.

The shoes are a lost cause, way too big for me now. I summon back the Abyssal boots and pull my now overly long trousers down over as much of them as I can. Looks like I'll be wearing high heels for the foreseeable future.

I tuck my hair into my collar and pull the hood up.

Aside from my hands and my face, I'm covered up.

Pity I wasn't wearing my gloves when I was captured. They were with my luggage when it, presumably, went down with the rest of the ferry, so I don't have them with me now.

The face is a problem, or rather, the eyes are a problem. This is Scotland, people pale as corpses probably aren't that uncommon, but glowing blue eyes are a little rarer.

None of us had sunglasses or a facemask. I have my glasses, but I don't think transition lenses are going to be dark enough to block the glow.

I'll just need to try and turn away from anyone, close my eyes if I can't do that. It'll have to be enough.

I've already spent too long here, that guy could have already called the police, who could have called the navy, who could be on their way here to kill me. I hurry down the road at a fast, but human, pace.

My nervousness gets the better of me and after taking a quick look around to make sure no one can see me, I break out into a faster than human sprint.

Running in heels isn't as hard as people say, or maybe the Abyss just makes good shoes.

I feel something bouncing along my leg as I run.

Unzipping my pocket, I reach into it and find my phone. It's been in my trouser pocket this whole time. Through my capture, my transformation, my whole journey.

I check my jacket breast pocket too, and find my passport, wallet, and keys.

I don't look anything like my passport or driving license photo anymore, so those aren't too useful, but at least I'll be able to open the door if I get home.

When I get home.

I hold down the power button on my phone. Come on, have charge. It powers on and presents the lock screen. 17:40 Fri 30th August. It was the 27th when they attacked the ferry. Three days of hell.

I press my thumb down on the fingerprint sensor.

Fingerprint not recognised.

I should have expected that.

I look at my thumb. I don't see any grooves at all. I don't think I even have fingerprints.

I'm glad the touchscreen still registers my fingers at least.

Entering the code I unlock the phone and go straight to google maps.

Wait, do I have a signal? One bar. Please work.

The map takes an age to load.

Where is Habost? Zooming out, I find myself… on another goddamn island.

I'm in the Outer Hebrides. That's still Scotland. It's fine, it's only 34 miles of sea to the mainland, only two hours even if I take it slow. Five miles over land through what looks like uninhabited shrubland to get to the sea. First, getting through the village, well, single road, of Halbost without killing anyone.

Actually, just south of me, in Swainbost, there's a petrol station, with what looks like a convenience store attached. They're bound to have some cheap sunglasses right?

I'll go there, grab some sunglasses, then head east to the sea, sail to the mainland, then make more plans from there.

Leaving the road, I run across the fields.

Why does anyone live here? This is desolate and depressing. Even the sheep look depressed. At least the sheep aren't scared of me, nor do I feel any desire to hurt them.

I take a running leap over a wire fence. I clear it easily. I should advertise my one step program to becoming a peak athlete.

Setting aside everything else, it does feel good to be able to run faster and jump higher than ever before.

I get to the petrol station, and it's nothing like the image on google maps. Three pumps in front of a small building, Swainbost Licensed Grocer.

Sure, whatever, the mission remains unchanged.

There's going to be at least one person in there.

In and out, find and steal an item, don't kill anyone. I can do this.

Should I keep my hood up? Looking like a shoplifter would attract more attention, and white hair isn't solely an Abyssal trait. The hood might be able to hide my eyes a bit, from the side at least, though. I'll keep the hood up. Better a shoplifter than an Abyssal.

I walk through the open door, looking down, eyes mostly closed, head tilted away from the counter. I must look so suspicious right now.

Magazines, crisps, other snacks, there! A few cheap looking sunglasses on a rack, and by the counter, some face masks. Thank you covid.

I grab both then sprint out the door. I hear a yell behind me. No fear though. My disguise worked!

Out the door, across the road, over the fence, through the fields. I don't think anyone's chasing me, but the sooner I'm off this island and away from the guy who saw me at the graveyard, the better.

It takes me less than 15 minutes to cross the island, even on uneven terrain, and soon I'm stepping back on to water.

Next stop, actually Scotland, for real this time.

 

[Aurora Raven]

Two hours later, I'm nearing land again.

The setting sun behind me casts my shadow far eastward, as if even that is desperately reaching towards land.

Said land is mostly cliffs, but it doesn't take long to find a beach, several actually. I can see structures and cars near some of them, so disregard those ones. The mainland is more populated than the Hebrides.

Infested.​

Humans really get everywhere don't they?

I try to check maps again to find a path avoiding populated areas, but I don't have a signal out here. All I have is my position, 58.184°N, 5.417°W, and a map that is pretty much just the shape of the land. London has some detail, the data must be stored in cache, but I've never had cause to look at Scotland, so I've got nothing saved there.

There's still some information, a handful of cities and main roads, but none of the small towns and campsites that I'm trying to avoid. All it can tell me is that I'm 65 miles from Inverness and 510 miles from home, land miles, not nautical miles, which I realise is the unit I've been thinking in all this time.

Ok, that's fine, I'll be able to get more information once I get back into mobile data range, but I need to get on land for that, and to do that I need to pick a beach.

The furthest south and the furthest from what looks like a campsite then. At least most people aren't going to be out on a beach at nearly 20:00. There's a good chance I won't run into anyone.

The sun is finishing setting as I step onto the shore. Good, I'm safer, everyone else is safer, under cover of night.

There's a road, barely, at the top of the beach. South or east? East would take me further inland, probably a better chance of finding that data I seek,

Stay by the sea.​

but my objective is south, and if I run into trouble I need to be by the sea.

I'm not sure how long I've walked, in the dark, without buildings, without people, without anything, just following the gravel road, but I eventually come across a sign marking the beginning of a village, Achiltibuie.

No one is awake, no one is going to appear. I'm just going to run through it. Follow the road, don't look up, keep moving.

The village passes quickly and soon I'm out of it, past it.

The road turns from gravel to dirt, turning into a path, then into nothing. Where is the road?

I look up and am greeted by the sea.

Of course I picked the wrong road.

All roads lead back to us.​

I'm not backtracking. If I follow the coast I'll find another village or road eventually. The coast to my left does not look easy to walk though, a tall and rocky mountain.

The sea in front of me is flat, its waves no obstacle to me.

Back to the sea.​

An inlet is barely even the sea. It's fine, I'm just going back for a little bit, just to get around the mountain. I'll be by the coast the whole time. I step onto the water.

The sea welcomes me back. All the parts of me that I suppress on land return and embrace me. I feel complete, like

Where you belong.​

this is where I belong.

It's a short trip across the inlet, and I find what I was looking for on the land to my left. Structures, a road, I could walk ashore again, but

Stay.​

I don't want to. I can stay out here a little longer. Just a little longer.

I don't think the land to my right is an island, it's the mainland too, this inlet will either become a river or be a dead end, I can walk onto land then.

I'm conscious of the rocks on either side of me, there's even a lighthouse on my left. I don't want to dash myself upon the rocks, break my keel in shallow water. My keel?

There are boats here, fishing boats. They're so small compared to me, built of fragile wood. I pity them, trapped here, unable to brave the ocean. They're either too small to have spirits or they're still sleeping. For the best maybe, they don't have to be aware of their slavery.

I see where the boats' masters are now, an actual settlement rather than a handful of huts. All dark, all sleeping, all defenceless.

Defenceless?

These aren't my thoughts. I recognise these feelings, they're not mine. I need to get off the water, get away from that part of me.

I run up the beach, a carpark full of caravans meeting me at the top. I catch my reflection in a windscreen, Abyssal. My clothes are gone and I'm wearing the dress again. When did that happen? It must have been when I sailed.

I check over myself: All the clothes, all the ship parts, it's all there again, and my right hand isn't crumpled anymore. It's healed… Repaired. I didn't notice it.

It's good that it doesn't hurt anymore, that I can move all my fingers again, but I don't like that my body just does things without me knowing. I suppose it's always been like that, I never instructed my heart to beat, nor for my body to heal, but this new body is capable of much less innocent acts. It's not safe for me to ignore it.

I can't walk around a town like this, I need to get changed again. I can take the clothes off just by touching them, can I put clothes on the same way?

Grabbing the dress and disappearing it, I hold my hand to my legs and try to reach for my trousers. That worked. Quick change wardrobe, convenient. I quickly put all my human clothes on and make my way out of the caravan park. Even if everyone should be asleep at this hour there's no reason to risk discovery by a night owl.

This is a sizable settlement and a tourist spot, surely they have modern infrastructure. I turn my phone on, and sure enough, I find a signal.

Where am I? Ullapool. How far from home am I?

Almost five hundred miles from home, and that's in a straight line. I can't just set a bearing and walk. Can I? No, even if I can just walk through the elements and across rivers, my new strength doesn't mean I can just walk up a cliff, nor can I walk across a motorway or through a town during the day.

The distance is daunting, it seems insurmountable. It would be a hell of a journey by car, even worse by public transport, and neither of those options are available to me. Even if I walk without stopping, which seems possible given I haven't slept in days but still feel fine, it'll be at least a week, probably longer. Add time for any detours around towns I have to take. Add more time if I need to travel by night only.

I'm nowhere near as fast on foot as I am on the water.

Come back to the sea.​

I'm almost tempted to go back out and sail down via the Irish sea, but that's just asking to be spotted and sunk.

God, this is so hard, part of me wants to just contact the authorities

They'll kill you.​

but they'll kill me, so that's not an option.

I'm already peckish. I suppose I've already shoplifted once, I could break into a store along the way and steal food. Is that really sustainable though? If it's during the night time, I'll have to break in. There will be alarms, there will be CCTV, I'll be leaving a trail of evidence. If it's during opening hours, there will be people, both customers and staff. It might be against store policy, but it only takes one enterprising employee to try and stop me, and then there will be another corpse, the whole country will be on alert, and I'll be screwed.

Food can wait, home comes first. Always first.

I turn back to maps, how does it recommend I make my way home?

Eleven hours by car, great, my car is at home. Could I steal a car? I don't have the faintest idea on how to start a car without the key. People tend to leave their keys somewhat near to their front doors right? I could break down a front door, search for a key, then take a car.

Even if I manage that, the car will be flagged as stolen and the number plate will light a trail across a hundred road cameras leading straight to me. I can't drive it all the way home.

Steal a car, drive for one night, ditch it far from home, then walk the last hundred miles or so? Maybe, but can I steal the car in the first place?

What if the residents wake up? The door can't stop me from entering, but it can stop me from entering quietly. The people inside will wake up, they'll be terrified, and then I'll kill them.

I can't do it. It'll lead directly to my death. The police might not rush to investigate a stolen car, but a home invasion and a bloody murder, or two, plus a stolen car they can track, it will be a national manhunt.

For all that I want to be home within twelve hours, I must discount stealing a car.

Next option: Eleven and a half hours by public transport. Bus to Inverness, train to Edinburgh, train to London, train in London, train home.

I've been around people. They won't be scared if I don't do anything scary. I can board a bus without hurting anyone. Where the bus is going though, a city…

My hands itch.

I don't know Inverness, I don't know Edinburgh, but I know London. I can see King's Cross station, I can see the crowd of people.

My hands twitch.

I can see what I'll do to them.

I clench my fists, focusing on the pain of my nails pressing into my palms. They'd be drawing blood if I had any.

I can't go there, not to a city, not to a busy train station.

Next option: Two hundred and nineteen hours on foot. The path goes through Edinburgh and Manchester, I'll need to avoid those. Still, at least ten days of continuous walking. A glance to the top right of my screen shows that I have 64% battery, even if I only check intermittently my navigation will run out before that. I'll find some paper somewhere— a blank piece of paper appears in my left hand. Ok… And a pen? A fountain pen appears as well. I haven't used one of these since primary school. I'll write down the steps and landmarks whilst I have the map available. Between that and my built-in compass, I should be able to make it. I can probably obtain a paper map from a motorway service station too if I need one.

Scanning through the instructions, steps 45 to 49, stay on the A9 for sixty miles… There are 489 steps.

It's so far, and it's going to take so long. Is there really no other way?

The map does offer a fourth option: Fifty eight hours by bicycle. I'm strong, I'm fast, I bet I can cut a few hours off that, even if I have to detour around cities. Six hundred and seventy miles, it goes through Inverness too, but after that, it even looks like it dodges major cities.

The more I look at it, the more this seems plausible, more than plausible, the best possible option.

Ok, I'm going to cycle down the length of this country. My phone might last three days if I ration it, but I note down the instructions, far fewer than the walking route, anyway.

Now, I need to find a bicycle.

More accurately, I need to steal a bicycle.

I had never stolen anything, then I stole sunglasses yesterday, and now I'm stealing a whole bicycle today. Who knew the slippery slope of criminality was this steep?

And the man I murdered.

I'm at the bottom of the cliff already. What is theft compared to that?

Why stop at one?​

Would killing more really damn me further? I don't know. I won't think like that. It's not about me, it's about not hurting anyone else. I'm doing this to avoid killing anyone. I'm doing the right thing now.

Moralising later, preferably never, bike first. I've got to stay mission focused.

I exit the caravan park and enter the town proper. The sky is lightening, though it's not really dawn yet, even if there's some early bird walking the streets, my disguise will hold, especially in poor light, and I'll be out of here before daybreak.

House, house, house, playground, leisure centre, church. No bikes, no bikes, no bikes, no bikes, bike!

In front of a house on my right, leaning against a side gate, a bicycle. I move closer to inspect it. It looks to be in working order, a quick spin of the pedals moves without resistance. It's not an off roader and I'm not sure if it'll last six hundred miles of being ridden hard, but I'm not spoiled for choice. I'll make it work.

The bicycle is secured to the gate by a chain but that's not going to stop me. I take it in both hands and with nary any exertion pull the metal links apart easily. I whisper an apology to the homeowner. I hope you don't dearly love this bike or anything, but this is better for both of us.

Bicycle obtained, instructions noted, I'm ready to resume my journey. I don't have a helmet, but I'm pretty sure my skull is stronger than any bike helmet.

I haven't ridden a bike in at least a decade, but it's literally riding a bike, the saying can't be wrong.

I step onto the bike and place a foot onto its pedal. It's a tad awkward with my heeled shoe, maybe I should try and steal some shoes next, but you're supposed to cycle with the ball of your foot anyway.

I check the map one last time. I don't want to actually go to Inverness, but that is one of the few places to cross the river Ness. Instead of going east of Loch Ness I'll go west, then turn east afterwards to rejoin the route.

A835 for forty miles till Wester Moy, then I'll turn south and cross the river to take my detour. I note down all the road numbers I'll need: A832, A862, A833, A831, A82 till the A86, A889, then finally rejoin the route on the A9, having bypassed Inverness entirely.

The route after that takes me awfully close to Edinburgh, and Glasgow is just to the west of that, but I'm sure I can thread the needle between the two cities. In any case, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I push off and start cycling, slowly at first, but soon gaining in confidence and speed. Yeah, I remember how to ride a bike.

---

A/N: I've been plotting out our MC's journey step by step via Google streetview. I have learnt more about making my way down the west coast of Scotland than I ever intended. All the street signs and structures that our protagonist sees are real, and yes, there is a bicycle leaning on a side gate outside a house on Quay street in Ullapool.

 

[Aurora Raven]

Asphalt, road markings, trees, fields, hills. I can almost pretend that everything is normal. With no one in sight, all alone, I feel normal. Even the villages, small and quiet as they are, I pass through each in under a minute without seeing anyone.

So unlike the sea, beaches, cliffs, and mountains, the environment here could be home.

I was never that fit, exercise was always quickly straining. Hours of cycling would have left me exhausted, but now it's so easy I can almost forget I'm doing it. No muscle aches, no heaving breaths, just smooth repeated motions carrying me steadily to where I want to go.

I don't think I'm that fast, not by automobile standards, but without the chassis of a car around me, it feels recklessly fast, white dashes blurring beneath me. My coat hood is blown back and my hair half untucked from my collar by the air rushing by me. It's fine, people have white hair, it's not any one feature that will expose me, but a combination, well, apart from my eyes. There's no point stopping to fix my hair anyway, it'll just get blown out again.

I'd expect my eyes to water from the speed too, but they're fine, not watering or anything. I don't think that's just because of the sunglasses shielding them.

My nose is fine too actually, despite all the plantlife surrounding me. I have, or had I suppose, hay fever. I won't miss losing that part of me at least.

The road I'm on is heading south west, I think the body of water to my left is Loch Ness, no monsters around though. Apart from me.

A road sign indicates the speed limit has decreased to twenty miles per hour.

I wasn't keeping a close watch on speed limits, but I think it was a national speed limit road before this, sixty miles per hour. That's a pretty steep drop, sure to catch motorists off guard, that might be the point of it, getting some extra revenue from speeding tickets.

Do speed limits apply to cyclists? I'm not sure, maybe they never legislated for it since it would be pretty hard to break the speed limit on an unpowered bike. Even if they do apply, there's no number plate for an ANPR speed camera to catch.

More relevant to me, the speed limit dropping means I'm probably about to enter a town, where I might encounter pedestrians.

Counterintuitively, it's likely safer for me and for them if I speed up rather than slow down. The sooner I'm through here, the better.

Whoosh!

I flinch and nearly fall off the bike, my left foot leaving a furrow in the gravel on the shoulder of the road as I barely catch myself from the shock of a van passing on my right by less than a foot.

"Son of a bitch!" I shout-hiss.

You're supposed to leave at least a metre and a half of space when overtaking a cyclist, especially on a windy road like this! Fucker is probably speeding too by the looks of it.

At the speed the gap between us is widening I'll only have a couple of seconds to make the shot. That's all I need. My arm is already up, the gun is already in my hand, the sights are already lined up, my finger is already pulling back the trigger, the hammer is already cocking…

What am I doing?

The van goes round the bend and out of sight.

I shudder and exhale, taking my finger off the trigger. The hammer snaps back to its uncocked position.

Where did the gun come from? This is a human revolver, not a naval gun turret, and I'm not on the water. How did a gun appear in my hand?

I wasn't carrying a gun when I died changed, was one of the other men? No, I know some people have guns, legally or otherwise, but would they have carried a hand cannon like this on to a ferry? It wouldn't be easy to conceal a gun this size, it's damn near a foot long. Then again, it was cold and wet, and under a heavy rain coat, it would be possible. If they had something like this they probably would have used it, either on an Abyssal, or on themselves.

The gun looks too old to be something one of them would have; no plastics, all dark gun metal. I take a closer look, engraved over the cylinder is 'Mark VI', and under it is 'Webley Mark VI Patents 1919'. This gun predates the second world war even.

Unless one of the other men was carrying around antiques, and ammunition for them, this must have come from the ship part of me.

Focusing on that part of me, feeling what it's inside, I find them. Dozens of revolvers just like this one, racks of rifles and machine guns, an armory inside me.

I must have called this gun into my hand, like I've done with my clothes.

I try to disappear the gun, but it stays. They don't want to take it back. They want me to use it.

"Take it back. I don't want it." I insist out loud, pointing the gun into the water.

Reluctantly, it returns to its position on a gun rack.

I let my arm fall to my side. I can still feel the gun, every weapon in me, just waiting for a chance to leap into my hands, to kill.

And I thought I would be safe as long as I didn't touch anyone.

With every new discovery about myself, I find new dangers.

Too dangerous to go home.

I shake it off, I've come this far, I've done fine. Once again, I didn't pull the trigger. I'm stronger than whatever fucked up thoughts the Abyss tries to put in my head.

I'm already off the bike, I might as well take the chance to see where I am, how much progress I've made on my journey.

I'm just outside Fort Augustus, eighty miles into my journey. It's only six in the morning, I've only been cycling for two and a half hours at most. That's an average of, what, thirty something miles per hour? That's a good speed, that's a great speed. Five hundred and eighty miles left, that's less than twenty hours if I can keep up that speed. I can go faster than that, I wasn't exerting myself at all. I could be home today!

The thought buoys me, spurs me onwards.

--------

I don't encounter any pedestrians in Fort Augustus, and only a few motor vehicles, fortunately none as rage inducing as the van earlier.

I have to avoid my own anger as much as I do their fear to keep things under control. I wonder if sertraline will still work on me, I think I've got a couple of boxes of the stuff back home, though they may be expired by now.

I maintain a rapid speed, even after the town when I turn off the asphalt road to a dirt path, even when riding up the side of the mountain the path cuts across. I don't think the bike appreciates it, especially not when I'm going down the other side of the mountain at even greater speeds. My nerves don't appreciate it either, going that fast down a dirt road on a bike is terrifying, but my ability to feel and endure fear has been exercised, and I can take it. I can take a lot if it means getting home faster.

I'm rewarded for my efforts though, I've travelled another hundred and thirty miles in under three hours. Unfortunately, it's now rush hour and I'm about to cross the Forth river into the outskirts of Edinburgh.

There are even other cyclists on the cycle lane crossing the bridge.

Yearning. Images of possibilities. Bloody images. Beautiful images. Images that I could make real.

I didn't think it would be this strong without their fear calling to me.

My eyes keep wandering onto targets… people.

I thought I was better than this.

Each individual person doesn't call to me too strongly, but the number of them. It's… something. I don't want to say overwhelming, I don't want to admit that.

I let my fear bolster my self control where morality and righteousness aren't enough. If I lose control here, I will be hunted, and I will die.

Push aside the visions of murder and focus on the visions of death, my death if I fail this test.

I won't fail. I can't fail.

Sunglasses on fully, hair tucked in, hands clenched firmly around the handlebars, where they can't summon a gun, or reach out and tear.

If my teeth were any weaker they'd crack.

--------

Another three hours, another hundred and twenty miles. I'm out of Scotland and into England now, the Lake district to my right, the North Pennines to my left. England's green and pleasant lands surround me, but my sword can, must, stay sleeping and out of my hand. I do actually have a sword, several swords. Hell if I know why, my hull is from the nineteen forties, not the eighteen forties, maybe for ceremonial reasons. The numerous bayonets in my armory are likely meant for a more practical purpose.

--------

Another two and a half hours, another hundred miles. I had to make an adjustment to the route, like hell I'm going through the centre of Manchester. I go through the less dense gap between Liverpool and Manchester instead.

The motorway is a scar upon the landscape. I miss how pristine the highlands were. How uncontaminated. The number of people keeps growing, even when it's not rush hour they scramble along in their thousands.

I'm not sure how much more I can take.

It's only going to get worse.

I'll get used to it, I'll have to. Every time I resist is a victory, every time I say no is another step closer to beating this.

--------

Another five hours, another hundred and ninety miles. I'm out of the north, out of the midlands, in the south now. I've never been to Milton Keynes and I see no reason to change that, especially now. With a little route alteration I can dodge every city and town now, sticking to smaller roads through the Chilterns. Compared to scraping around the outside of Manchester and Birmingham, this is easy. It helps that it's evening too, far less people out and about compared to the early afternoon.

I'm so close now.

--------

Another half an hour, another twenty five miles. I recognise this place, Windsor. Even steering around Staines and every other town, I'm less than twenty miles from home. I'm giddy.

--------

The reservoir to my right, the river to my left, a road I've travelled countless times.

The park, the church, the trees, sights I've seen countless times.

One more turn, I see my house. Windows dark, gate closed, locked up tight, but welcoming me all the same.

I climb off the bike, the gravel crunches under my feet with every step I take.

Nine o'clock in the evening on the thirty first of August, the sun has just set, I'm standing outside my house gates. It's surreal. It feels unreal. Some part of me didn't think I'd make it.

I did make it, despite everything, I did make it. Everything will be fine now.

I unzip my coat. I reach into my jacket breast pocket and retrieve my keys. The keys smell of oil and metal, like they always do.

Two keys for the door, one key for the gate, two keys so similar I get mixed up every time. I feel for the shape of the lock brand on the gate key, like I always do.

Unlocking the gate, walking through, locking it behind me. I run my hand over the car sitting in the courtyard. Wish you were with me earlier, it would have saved me a lot of trouble.

The front door is heavy and double locked, two keys, a ritual I've performed countless times, it feels more sacred now. I open the lower lock, then the upper one, like I always do.

I open the door and just stare inside for a moment. One more step.

I take that step, my heels clicking against the wooden floor.

A step to the right, avoiding the alarm sensor's line of sight as I reach the control box and key in the code, like I always do.

I take off my raincoat and hang it on the rack, like I always do.

I'm home.

I've done this so many times, felt this so many times.

I'm home. I'm safe now. I don't need to fear, to struggle. Why am I breathing hard?

I see myself in the mirror to my left. The familiarity of home makes the unfamiliarity of myself all the stronger. It doesn't matter, I'm still me, I'm home.

I'm home. Why am I crying?

 

[GreekPerseus]

Excellent start to a story! Can't wait for me. I hope they figure out how to avoid the whole murder boat thing before they do something tragic

 

[Kojivsleo]

Wonder how long its been since she died and came back, couldn't have been too long since her house still has her stuff inside.

 

[Aurora Raven]

Wonder how long its been since she died and came back, couldn't have been too long since her house still has her stuff inside.

Click to shrink...

Abduction from the Shetlands ferry was on the 27th August 2024, return home was on the 31st August 2024.

 

[Aurora Raven]

I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. I've been trying so hard to get home, and now I'm here. What now?

Another step and I almost falter. All the exhaustion of the past four days hits me at once. I exhale heavily. I'm not sure if I want to sleep or eat first. I'll decide that after I'm no longer standing, I've been on my feet too long.

Click.

Right, shoes. I'm not going to track dirt from the highlands across my carpets. Sitting down on the bench in the foyer, I look for a way to take off my shoes. I still don't see any zipper or laces.

"Whatever." I sigh.

I touch them and disappear them whole from my feet.

My feet don't look real. White and untextured, like a mannequin's foot. Later. Later comes eventually.

Stepping into the dining room, another mirror to my right. There are too many mirrors in this house. I'm far too tired to do anything about it. Where would I even put them all if I took them down?

I toggle all the lights on for the dining and living room, all three sets at maximum. The smart metre lights up and turns yellow. The living room lights are old incandescents, not modern LEDs, and power hungry. Sure, burn my money, it's worth it to have a little brightness right now.

I'm a couple steps from throwing myself onto the living room sofa when I realise that my trousers are thoroughly splattered with mud from several hours of extremely fast cycling.

I don't want to do anything other than just crash out, but I want to have to clean all the blankets and cushions on the sofa even less.

No one's around, I don't need to hide from anyone other than myself. I disappear my trousers and jacket too. I'm less uncovered than I expected, my t-shirt drapes down over me like a short dress.

A quick glance over myself doesn't reveal any further debris or mud, so I carry out my original plan of collapsing onto the sofa.

I'm still tall enough that I can't lie flat, so I curl up on my side, right arm bent underneath me.

It's immediately uncomfortable. My upper arm is being pressed into my the right breast, crushing it against my chest. I can't ignore it.

It's always something. I can't even curl up on a sofa without something getting in my way.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

I've been putting off my problems, promising myself I'd deal with them once I was home. Now that I'm home I'm out of excuses. I need to start trying to find some way to fix this,

Not broken.​

but that can wait a little longer, just till I'm not so tired.

I expected that I'd sleep the moment I put my head down, but it doesn't come. Maybe I'm too hungry to sleep. Ok, food first, then sleeping.

Reluctantly, I sit up and push myself off the sofa. I head upstairs, retrieve a clean pair of trousers from my wardrobe, put them on, then return downstairs to my kitchen. My fridge is nearly empty, I ate all the perishables before leaving, but I think there's some stuff in the freezer.

Three tubs of ice cream does not a dinner make. A box of chicken munchies doesn't either to be honest, but in defence of the chicken, it can be ready in under ten minutes in an air fryer, which is substantially less effort than getting out a rice cooker. A compelling argument in favour of the chicken.

I empty the entire box of chicken into the air fryer, key in nine minutes at 180°C and start it up. I fill and turn on the kettle too.

Normality. I crave it.

The teabag container is empty.

I reach for the boxes on the top shelf.

… I can't reach the top shelf.

I'm not going to go get a ladder or a chair just to reach parts of my own kitchen. I refuse.

On my tip toes, straining my arm, I can just about grab the corner of the box with my fingertips. It takes a few grabs before I can ease it close enough to the edge that I can grab it fully and bring it down.

I put one teabag in a teacup and refill the airtight container with the rest then put the box back on the top shelf with a small jump. It takes me a couple of tries of jumping and poking to get it to sit in its place.

It would have been easier if I had just dragged a chair over, or climbed up onto the counter top, but I'm too stubborn to admit defeat like that, often to my own detriment.

I just want to do things the way I used to. I just want things to go back to how they were.

No going back.​

And the damnable whispering. It keeps getting louder and clearer; I can almost make out words now.

Come back.​

I shouldn't try to

Listen.​

listen, but I want to know. I'm tired of this unintelligible murmuring.

North.​

North?

The air fryer beeps to announce it is done.

I got distracted and didn't finish making the tea. I add sugar to the teacup, more than I probably should, and pour the boiling water in. I'll leave it to brew whilst I eat.

I forgot to preheat the bowl in the oven too.

I dump the chicken from the air fryer drawer into the cold bowl and return to the sofa to eat it. All too soon, I'm eating crumbs. The bowl is empty and I'm no less hungry.

I suppose it has been a while since I've eaten anything.

Rice as well then. I dig out the rice cooker from a drawer. Half a cup of rice is normally enough, but it doesn't look like much. Mind, it never does with how much rice expands when cooked, but it still looks like too little. Am I overestimating my hunger?

I add another half cup, then pour in a second full cup. Any more than that and it won't fit on a plate.

I boil some more water and pour it into the rice cooker till it just about covers the rice, then place it in the microwave. Six hundred watts for eleven minutes, maybe longer with how much I'm cooking, but I can always add more time later if it's not cooked through, eleven minutes to start with.

I go to finish making the tea whilst the rice cooks. I'm opening the fridge door when I remember there's no milk. Great. Black tea it is.

I remember to preheat a plate in the oven this time.

The microwave finishes and I scoop out a veritable mountain of rice onto the hot plate. I add to the mountain with a more than generous helping of shredded pork floss. It barely fits on the plate. This dish would serve four people.

I see the time on the microwave as I turn it off, it's nearly ten o'clock.

I sit down at the dining table and turn on the TV.

Some hospital drama is wrapping up. It's not really my thing, but I appreciate the sound of people talking, looking at people without wanting to hurt them.

The mountain of rice shrinks quickly, too quickly, a lot faster than my hunger diminishes. Am I going to have to make another absurdly sized portion after this?

I'm absently minded gnawing on the spoon like the wooden stick in an ice cream bar when I hear the crunch of rending steel. I pull what's left of the spoon from my mouth. I've bitten the whole head off. I don't stop chewing it. It tastes like metal, like iron, like blood. It tastes good. I swallow it.

I stare at the remainder of the spoon in my hand. It's already ruined, there's no point keeping it.

There's no point wasting it.

I take another bite, and another.

I finish eating the spoon.

I want more.

I have a lot of cutlery, a lot more than one person needs. I can spare a few.

I eat three more pieces of cutlery.

Is this normal? Well, not normal, but normal for what I am now?

The iconic intro music of the news grabs my attention and makes me look up.

"Tonight at ten, Typhoon Shanshan has caused widespread disruption in Japan with at least six killed, badger culling is to end in England within the next five years, and our top story for the night: search and rescue operations for the MV Hrossey continue even as experts warn that survivors are increasingly unlik–."

I turn the TV off.

No, this is immediately relevant to me, I can't hide from this.

I turn it back on.

"–tacked and sunk by Abyssal forces on the twenty seventh of this month. Analysis of the wreckage revealed that one lifeboat was not accounted for, which led many to hope that survivors were possible, but four days on, search and rescue efforts have not succeeded in finding any. Experts warn that the window of survival is closing.

With a passenger capacity of six hundred, the loss of the MV Hrossey may be Britain's worst maritime disaster in almost eighty years since the second world war."

There weren't six hundred on board. The ship was pretty empty, plenty of free seats and cabins. I remember when booking the ticket…

The booking. The ferry company will know I was there, and they'll think I'm dead. They'll report that to the authorities, who will try to confirm. They'll check here. They'll find me. I can't stay here. I don't want to leave, I don't want to go–

"Officials are still confirming who may have been on board the ship on its last journey."

Right, they wouldn't know who was actually on board. Sure, they have a list of people who booked tickets, but that doesn't mean all the people who booked actually turned up.

I pull out my phone and check my emails. Sorting through all the bullshit LinkedIn sends me, I find an email from North Link Ferries, sent two days ago. Urgent, request for information regarding your whereabouts.

I'm safe, they don't know I was onboard. I just need to tell them that I was late or something, that I didn't take the ferry. No one needs to know I was there.

I send a quick reply.

----

Hello,

I confirm that I am alive and well.

I was delayed on the 27th and wasn't able to make it to the ferry before it departed.

My apologies for the late response, I hope I haven't caused you any issues due to that. I have been somewhat rattled by my narrow escape from disaster and not quite thinking straight in the past few days.

Kind regards,

Victor Hathaway

----

Hopefully that will end any investigation into me before it can begin.

I've eaten, I've solved one problem, I can rest now.

I load the dirty plate into the dishwasher, pour and quickly drink a glass of water then turn off the downstairs lights.

I climb up the stairs without slowing or any wincing. It's not right. I should be exhausted. I've cycled six hundred miles. My legs should ache. They don't, and the lack of pain is more disturbing than if it was present.

Should I brush my teeth? I just bit through steel, what is plaque going to do to my teeth? Humans brush their teeth, I'm going to brush my teeth. Even if I'm not human.

I'm confronted by my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

This is the first time I've really seen myself. Not a mostly transparent reflection in a shop window, or a mirror in the edge of my vision.

I want to look away, but the mirror isn't showing me anything other than reality. I want to run away from it, but running is all I've been doing. I can't run forever, not from myself.

Bigger eyes, a smaller nose, thinner eyebrows. Hair covering her forehead and the sides of her face. She'd be pretty, if she wasn't a monster.

Such bright blue eyes, standing out from white hair on white skin.

I don't need a mirror to brush my teeth. I wet the toothbrush, apply the paste, then leave the bathroom. I can do it by feel.

I return to spit out the toothpaste into the sink. Will it get easier if I stare at myself for long enough, see myself enough times, or will this image attack me every time I see it?

I peel off all the bottom-most layer of clothing. I should probably shower before I go to bed, but, uh, I'm not doing that. Besides, unlike my human clothes, my body and the Abyssal clothes seem strangely clean.

They're white, any dirt should be obvious.

I was covered in blood when I killed that man, but there's not a single stain. Where did it go? When did it happen? Was it when my hand healed?

I climb into bed and pull the covers over me, plugging the charging cable by the bed into my phone. It beeps and lights up as it starts charging.

"Thanks for lasting all this time."

I normally sleep on my front, but that's rather uncomfortable now, for two reasons I'd prefer not to dwell on. I lie on my side instead, left arm resting on my leg, right tucked under a pillow under my head, both deliberately away from my chest.

I don't feel cold, or hot. Temperature is dampened, not numb, but easily tolerable. I curl up all the same.

Sleep doesn't come. I shift, turning onto my back. I stare at the ceiling. It's slightly illuminated, despite no lights being on. It's not from the light polluted skies, or the streetlights on the road outside. You're supposed to avoid blue light before sleep, but I can't turn off these blue lights.

I hold my hand up in front of my face, the room is dark, but I can see it, lit by the glow of my eyes. White like porcelain, or bone. It's too smooth, lacking any hairs or pores.

Every detail reminds me of this body's inhumanity.

The fingers are too thin. This isn't right.

I shove my hand under the duvet and out of sight. I can't think about this. I close my eyes, but that only makes me focus on what I can feel.

Breathing in feeds oxygen to my boilers, eight of them burning away inside me.

I can't feel my pulse, I don't have a pulse, I don't have a heart. Oh god.

Incongruence, everywhere, throughout my hull, body, both, they're the same thing. No. I… I can feel my crew inside me. Some asleep, some awake, moving through me. I'm hyperventilating.

I open my eyes. I need a distraction; I reach for my phone. My hand is visible again, but looking at it is better than the alternative.

What's that on the screen? I shift to get a better look, and the shapes move too. Oh, those are my eyes, the reflected glare.

I turn off adaptive brightness and raise the slider to max, drowning out the reflection. It's uncomfortably bright to look at, but better than the alternative.

I scroll through reddit. The ongoing articles about the ferry dominate the front page of /r/unitedkingdom. Articles about the defence minister promising more protection for Orkney and the Shetlands on /r/ukpolitics.

I while away the hours in my usual spots, then even venture into the cesspool of /r/all for lack of content. Half the posters here are probably bots with even less humanity than me.

Four in the morning. It'll be dawn soon and I'm still not sleepy, can Abyssals sleep? Is even this respite denied to me?

---

A/N: Research for this chapter involved finding out what was being broadcast at on BBC 1 at 21:50, 31/08/2024, lying down on floors, sofas, and beds to find the positions most uncomfortable for breasts, and walking around my house with the lights off whilst holding a phone on my forehead to see how much glowing eyes would illuminate the place.

 

[Kojivsleo]

Guy needs to contact family or friends, someone to keep him grounded.

 

[Aurora Raven]

I can't sleep. I'm still hungry. I'm no closer to fixing anything. All my problems have followed me home.

Come home.​

"Shut up."

And so have the whispers. I can understand them now, and now I'm talking to them.

I'd go make myself a cup of tea, the quintessentially British first step to problem solving, but I very much doubt milk has magically materialised in my fridge since I checked last night.

Unless I plan to just eat copious amounts of rice for the foreseeable future, I'm also out of food.

I'm no more capable of entering a supermarket now than I was before. I suppose I could order food delivery. No, they always want to hand it to you.

A deserted supermarket with a self-checkout would be ideal.

The petrol station a couple of roads away has an attached mini market and is open twenty four hours. Who on earth is going shopping at four AM?

I can't remember if they have self-checkout, but even if they don't, dealing with one cashier is better than dealing with a load of shoppers.

If I'm going to do this, I'd better go now, before day comes.

I re-dress myself in all the layers I need to conceal myself. My preferred pair of gloves are at the bottom of the sea, but I have another pair here. I don't like gloves, the lack of dexterity, but I think I'm becoming a fan. They fit even worse now, but I can tolerate it. It's better than the alternative.

I put on my shoes and am reminded that they no longer fit. I return to my room and rummage through my clothes drawer, putting on another four pairs of socks. Even then, my shoes don't really fit, but there's less empty space. I can walk like this.

Honestly, I should probably just put on the heels, but I'm nothing if not stubborn. Every small act of resistance is–

Meaningless.​

Not to me.

Stubbornness and spite can take you far.

I don't encounter anyone on the short walk, but there is someone manning the store.

I probably look suspicious wearing sunglasses at night, but better than the alternative. Is that the motto of my life now?

I keep out of his line of sight as I empty shelves of freezable meals into my shopping bag. The bag is filled to the brim by the time I add the milk jug.

I consider buying alcohol too. Being in a drunken stupor sounds nice right now, but that would probably require human interaction in the form of an ID check, and I look nothing like my ID besides.

The cashier looks half dead. Who wouldn't be, working a dead end job at this hour? He'd probably thank me if I put him out of his misery.

Kill him.​

At least I can tell apart my thoughts from the foreign urges now. Also, no, are you stupid? There's a camera right there and this is less than a mile from my home.

Actually, you'd love it if I had to leave, wouldn't you? Chased away, straight into your arms.

Hopefully he's too tired to pay much attention to me, to notice anything amiss, or anything Abyss, heh.

I finish scanning my items, paying, and leave the store.

In and out, objective secured, no detection, no kills. Definitely an S rank mission, Snake would be proud.

I return home and finally make that cup of tea.

Come on youtube algorithm, feed me a four hour video essay on something I have no reason to care about to distract me till dawn.

If I can't sleep, ever, I'm going to need to find a long TV series to watch.

--------

Three talking heads discussing which countries have the best food doesn't help my hunger, but it does distract me for two hours.

Cooking and eating five boxes of food does though. I normally only ever use my second oven to preheat plates, now I'm running out of oven space.

Over fifty quid of food, gone in one go. Who knew being an Abyssal was this expensive?

I'm not even full. I'll no doubt be cooking more later. I thought the two dozen food items I bought would last me weeks, I already put them in the freezer, now I feel like I'm going to be making another shopping trip in the next few days.

Six AM is such an empty time. What does one do at this time? People are either waking up to go to work, or fast asleep from a late night. I'd be asleep too if I could.

No one I know is online, the various discord server Looking-For-Group channels are quiet, no multiplayer lobbies are open. All the usual things I do to pass time aren't options. My steam library is massive, there's got to be something single player in here that I can sink hours into.

Another three hours pass in the state of 'Just One More Turn', something I'm more than happy to indulge. I'm more of a Paradox player than a Civilisation one though.

I'm roused from my grand strategy fugue by a notification.

Holly: I'm back in London today, anyone want to go do something?

I don't need to answer. Maybe Phoebe will take the hit for me.

Holly: Vic?

Holly: I can see the read receipt.

Why are you like this?

Victor: Sorry, don't feel like going out today.

Holly: Np, I could come over?

You're supposed to take the hint and stop asking, not threaten to come here, you infuriating extrovert. Sometimes I want to kill you.

If you come here I will kill you.

You can't come here.

Victor: I came down with something, got a really bad cough, I'm probably contagious. I don't want to infect you.

Holly: That sucks. Tell me when you get better.

When I get better. When I get better. When.

Who am I kidding? I can't even convince myself it's an 'If' anymore, let alone a 'when'.

Victor: Wilco.

Holly: Hope it's soon.

Victor: Me too.

I hang my head down, my hair intrudes into my vision from three sides.

I go to the bathroom, confront my image, and grab my scissors. I hold a lock of the offending hair and close the scissors around them. They won't cut. I apply more force. The scissors break.

I can't even fix this.

I can't change anything.

I leave the broken scissors on the window sill and leave the room.

--------

Time passes. Eating ravenously, working through steam achievements, catching up on podcasts, not sleeping.

Monday morning, I hear children laughing. The school term has started again.

Monday evening, my calendar reminds me to put the bins out for collection.

Tuesday morning, I bring them back in, carefully checking no one is outside when I do. Later, peeking through closed blinds, I see my neighbour bringing several in for all flats next door. He's the groundskeeper, the other residents leave it to him. He's over eighty. He had a heart attack last year. The other residents are younger, but they don't lift a finger to help him. Despicable.

Tuesday evening, I play some online games and am reminded that humans are scum.

Tuesday night, I go out to buy more food.

Wednesday afternoon, I try to play piano. My hands are too small to make the chords like I used to. I stop trying.

Thursday morning, one of my neighbours is in her garden. She's seventy and still trying to do gardening work. She fell and broke her hip last year. I called the ambulance, I stayed with her for the six hours it took for them to arrive, and for the fire crew to carry her fat arse up the stairs when the paramedics couldn't lift her. And here she is, doing the same thing, making the same mistakes. Humans don't learn.

Thursday evening, who even cares? I did nothing, nothing got better.

I'm standing still, and reality keeps moving, keeps chasing me. It will catch me. What am I doing? Hiding inside, hearing the world outside, this isn't life.

My distractions wear thin. Why can I not sleep? Why do I have to be awake?

I lie down on my bed.

In the absence of anything better to do, I turn inwards for answers, despite how distressing it is.

I slept through many of my mindfulness lessons in school, I seek that outcome now. I remember my teacher telling us to focus on the sensations from each part of our bodies.

I have more than one body. Each and every crew member inside me, over two thousand of them, I feel them. My consciousness inhabits each one, those that are awake, and those that are asleep.

I am asleep, or at least, parts of me are.

It's not enough. I need all of me to be asleep for me to sleep, but I can't. The ship cannot run without crew. The engines must be watched and tended to. If the crew stop their work, I'll die. I want to stop being conscious, but I don't want that.

Still, even if I can't achieve true sleep, maybe I can be a little less aware.

Stop. Sleep. Rest.

I direct the thought at all the crew who aren't essential in keeping me alive. The watchmen, the gunners, the mechanics, the electricians, the artificers, the cooks, the quartermasters. Everyone that isn't directly involved in keeping me breathing.

I have no frame of reference for this. A human can't order their cells to do things, or stop doing things, but as I'm oft reminded, I'm not human.

Stop your work, rest, and let me rest with you.

Numbness and lethargy spread through me. I can't move my fingers, or my arms. I've just told my nerves to go off duty. Even so, I'm still aware.

All of the crew make up me, but if any part is my brain, it's the bridge crew. They are not coaxed from their stations so easily.

Leave. Please leave.

One by one, they acquiesce, all but one. She refuses. The bridge cannot be left unattended. The officer of the watch cannot leave unless relieved.

So be it, stand watch throughout the night, just don't alert me about it.

--------

Dawn's light shines through the window. I register it, and do nothing else.

I spend most of Friday lying still, existing with as little awareness as I can manage, till hunger bids me to move.

My body is stiff, and slow to respond. Forcing my crew to neglect their duties has not done my body any good.

… I'm still going to do it again come tonight.

I recognise the symptoms of depression. This is textbook.

I dig around in my medicine drawer and find boxes of sertraline and escitalopram. The escitalopram is years expired and never worked that well for me in the first place.

I take two hundred milligrams of sertraline. I don't expect it to work. I eat without enthusiasm, then return to my bed.

Saturday morning, I drink an entire bottle of rum. It doesn't do anything.

Saturday night, when did I last feel alive?

Faroe. The man I killed. There are so many people around me, and each one calls.

You could feel alive again.​

Hello again, come to lead me to sin.

The sea, when I fought those shipgirls. I had purpose. All of me working in concert. I feel… confined. My body is too small.

Ships are meant for the sea.​

I'm not going back. I don't care what I'm meant for.

I'm not going back to the sea, but, maybe I could feel whole again without going back.

There's a reservoir not far from here. It's big, big enough for a ship. I search it, find a wikipedia page, it's deep too, deep enough for a ship.

I check the time, it's late enough. There's a sailing club that operates on that reservoir, but no one will be there at this time.

This is a bad idea. I don't need to go out. I could keep hiding, it would be safer, but… I want it.

Before I reason myself out of it, I leave my house, mount my stolen bicycle, and head for the reservoir.

A chainlink fence blocks my path. It tears like tissue paper in my hands. I climb up the embankment, and through another fence.

The water is before me. It's too calm to be the sea, but I can pretend. I step onto it, and every step further from the edge feels better than the last. I break into a run, my footsteps leaving ripples across the gentle surface. At some point, my shoes and clothes were replaced with my Abyssal attire. They fit me better. I'm far enough from the edge, open water in every direction, I let go and let myself out.

This is what I am.

Who I'm meant to be.

All of me, without repression, without hiding. Complete.

The sky isn't right. Too busy, too polluted, I can't see the stars, not like I could at sea.

I don't miss it. I was scared, lost, alone, a pretty sky doesn't make up for that.

I'm still scared. I'm still alone.

You don't have to be.​

I'd rather be alone than with you.

It doesn't reply with words, just a feeling of doubt.

I'm not able to manoeuvre here, the reservoir is only a little over a kilometre across. If I actually used my engines I'd quickly be hitting the other side.

Still, even if I can't move, I can relax into the sensations of my hull made manifest. I don't need the sea. I don't need the Abyss.

I can see further and in all directions. I can feel airliners in the sky, flying to Heathrow to the north-west, or maybe Stansted to the north-east. They don't do departures this early in the morning, but they still do landings. My radars track them, my directors follow and offer firing solutions.

Aerial contact, bearing 50°, range 2000 yards, altitude 18,000 feet, speed 320 knots, receding.

All batteries load HE, VT fuse, prepare for high angle engagement.

Don't bother, you know you won't hit them.

In engagement range.

Yeah, for the next few seconds. They'll be gone long before you can score a hit. Too far, too fast, too high; safe from you. All you'll do is tell everyone where we are.

My gunners are bloodthirsty, but not stupid. They accept my reasoning easily.

Aerial contact, bearing 220°, range 4600 yards, altitude 5000 feet, speed 240 knots, closing.

That's low. That's too low.

My turrets are already rotating.

I can't stay here, not with the flight frequency increasing as the morning progresses. If not this plane, then the next.

Reluctantly, I pull in my hull, and the weapons with it.

Disappointment fills me, and I'm not sure if it's me, or my crew, or the Abyss. Well, if we're all unhappy, that means it's a good compromise, right?

I step off the water, onto the grass. I change clothes and return to my house.

Home, I mean home, it's still home.

---

A/N: My house, and the reservoir, are underneath the flight paths for London Heathrow and London Stansted. Anyway, partial soundtrack to this whole "being at home and resisting the call" arc is RJ Lake - Dear Diary.

They claim you as their own
They won't leave you alone
The weapons are theirs
But this is your home

 

[Aurora Raven]

Another two weeks pass, much the same as the first. Devoid of… anything really. This is enough, right? One day at a time, living is a victory in and of itself. It has to be enough.

I've become a regular in the 24 hour petrol station Marks & Spencers. I'm probably a significant portion of their revenue now. I wish their selection was larger, but all the good stuff is in real supermarkets. I miss the cookies from Waitrose.

My appetite has lessened somewhat. I must have burnt whatever reserves I had in my sprints at sea, and that's now been replenished. It's still a lot larger than a human's though. I've never counted calories before, but I have now, and I must be eating close to ten thousand calories a day.

It's expensive and so time consuming: The buying, the cooking, even the eating.

I'm not over not having a heart. Literally not having one is ridiculously on the nose for my state of being. I'm not sure I ever will be over it, or used to it. You don't normally notice it, quietly pulsing in the background, the ambient soundtrack to every moment of your life, but you notice when it stops. When absolute quiet isn't broken by an organic beat, but a steady hum of machinery. Whirring turbines keeping the lights on.

In my adult life, I've tried to keep something resembling a balanced and healthy diet. Not too much sugar, not too much processed food, not too many nitrites, enough fruit and vegetables. It's important to keep your body healthy, minimise carcinogens, keep the blood vessels clear of cholesterol, and the blood sugar controlled. The British Heart Foundation campaigns against bacon, red meat, and fried foods.

I think about this as I lay a dozen strips of bacon onto my largest frying pan and watch them start to sizzle. Whilst this happens, I munch through the previous dozen strips that I had just fried.

In the second frying pan, I keep twelve sausages rolling over, evenly cooking.

As a kid, I liked to have a whole half a teaspoon of sugar in my tea, but cut that back to less than a quarter when I saw my HbA1c was nearly in the pre-diabetic range.

I pour an entire teaspoon full of sugar into my tea.

I haven't quite managed to check off every self-destructive and indulgent behaviour this morning because I'm not drinking liquor first thing. That's not for any care of my non-existent liver or matter of principle, I just don't like alcohol that much. Previously, I drank it to help with my nerves when socialising, not because I liked the taste. The entire bottle of rum that I forced down completely failed at achieving this. Enough alcohol to send a human to hospital and it did literally nothing.

Being drunk would be nice. Maybe my tolerance is just higher now, inhumanly high, and it can be solved with even more alcohol. It's worth a try.

I go to the drinks cabinet and retrieve a bottle of whiskey. The taste makes me wince, I don't know how people drink this stuff. An acquired taste just means that you've gaslit yourself into believing you like it. Still, it's a decently high ABV and might be worth a shot, or several in this instance. Like I'm going to bother with a glass.

"Bottom's up."

The last gulp doesn't taste any better than the first. Clearly I need more if I'm going to acquire this taste. I'm out of whisky. I do have vodka though. I'll give the whisky a chance to have an effect first.

I keep televisions and radios on in every room I enter, lights and sounds, essential distractions. Distractions from the voice that has been increasing in clarity, frequency, and volume.

North. North. North. North.​

I heard you the first time, droning on and on isn't making you any more convincing. The first week, it was barely noticeable, then I started understanding it, then it came more and more often. Maybe it was being patient earlier, only trying to influence me occasionally, but now it won't shut up.

Why do I even pay for a TV license, this programming is vacuous trash. These presenters should be shot, and for once, I know that's not the Abyss influencing me. Their inane yapping makes the whispers sound good in comparison.

Come home. Come back.​

That wasn't an invitation!

I had hoped that by the time I finished cooking, I might see some results from my continuing adventure into alcoholism, but alas, I still feel nothing. Fantastic.

Breakfast isn't particularly filling, despite the size. At least it tastes good. My long-held theory about the inverse correlation between how good something tastes and how healthy it is has yet to be proven wrong.

I take a meandering walk around the back garden, checking to make sure all the plants are alive. I'm not much of a gardener, I don't enjoy it or take an interest in it, I mostly let the plants do what they want, but I do enough to keep them alive. Now I do it just to leave my house for a little while and walk outside where I won't encounter any humans.

I try to force activity and life into my day, lest I sink back into the miasma of depression. Every time I stop moving, it's harder to start again.

When I'm idle, I find myself looking north. No, not quite north, a little to the left. If I trace that line on a map, I know what I'll find on the other end, waiting for me.

It's sunny outside: Bright blue skies, no clouds or rain, birds chirping. It doesn't seem right; a funeral should have rain and a creature like me should live under overcast skies, hiding from the sun, hunting at night.

This is not my place. This is not my home. I don't belong here.

I've been home for three weeks now. One more week and I'll have made it a month, the first month of the rest of my life. Then after that, I'll make it another month. Day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year. This is what I wanted, to get out alive. Why does it feel so hollow?

The melancholy always sneaks up on me. It finds me more often than not nowadays.

I physically shake it off. Motion, always in motion. I finish my inspection and return indoors, in search of another distraction.

I've played through plenty of single player games in the past few weeks, completed many campaigns, but they don't interest me like they used to. It all feels empty. I pretty much just play competitive multiplayer games now, where there are winners and losers. I enjoy winning, well, that's the nice way to put it. To be more accurate, I enjoy seeing people lose, seeing their anger, their bitterness. It's not much, but it's something.

To be honest, I don't even play to win anymore, I play to enrage and infuriate.

I keep multiple, large chocolate bars beside my desk now, and despite refilling the pile every time I go shopping, it continues to dwindle. The dustbin in my room is filled almost entirely with chocolate wrappers now.

North. North. North. North.​

It's incessant. Endless whispers. I rub my face and try to ignore them. They're getting louder. I'll drown them out like they're tinnitus.

I keep my headphones on quite a bit now, both to avoid silence, and as a hairband, keeping most of the white out of my vision. I normally play music at 16%. I bump it up to 24%, then to 32%.

Pick a playlist, number five maybe?

So tell me how it felt when you walked on water? Did you get your wish?

No, I didn't, and being reminded of… all of this, is the exact opposite effect I'm trying to achieve. Next track.

My rusted parts inside…

Too close to home. I switch to a different playlist.

When the daylight comes for me, I see what I am. My soul is in ashes, but metal won't burn.

Oh, it can get worse.

When the voices make my choices and I can't ignore the sound. So conflicted, I've resisted, tried to fix it, now I can't. None can mend what I am.

Christ, was my music library always this depressing, or am I just reading too much into things?

Take me back to before, this isn't human anymore.

"Ok you're just fucking with me now."

Something without lyrics then, I'm not going to read into an instrumental.

It works for a while, I sink into wordless music for a couple dozen tracks before vocals creep their way back in, but it's fine, nothing taunts me.

Ocean you're calling me

I rip the headphones off. The whispers return. They never left. They're too loud to be just whispers now.

North. North. North.​

"Shut up! For fucks sake, shut up! I'm not going! I'm not!" I catch my hand before it hits the desk, breaking my furniture isn't going to make anything better. I shouldn't validate the voices in my head by talking to them, but they won't leave me alone.

Come back. Back to us.​

"You can't make me, or you wouldn't have let me go in the first place. I'm stronger than this, stronger than you." I'm having a conversation with my own mental illness. Or is it the devil? "I can be strong enough."

You don't have to be. Aren't you tired of being strong?​

Yes. God damn you. "I won't go."

Why did you come here?​

"To get away from you!"

Did it work?​

No. It's louder than ever. As close as ever.

You'll never be happy here.​

Maybe not, but "I'm not giving you what you want."

What you want.​

For a moment: warmth, touch, love, acceptance. Then it's gone. Just a brush of it, a hint of what I could have, if only I…

Come home.​

"I am home! This is my home!"

Does it feel like home?​

Yes.

No.

No.​

Was that me or it? The walls I've lived in for twenty five years suddenly feel alien.

Stop this.

Or am I the alien, intruding on a human place.

No! My father placed these bricks. My mother painted these walls. My family is buried here!

You have a family. Waiting for you.​

I already have a family. Blood

What blood?​

is thicker than seawater.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.​

"Stop."

Our covenant.​

"Shut up!"

Your promise.​

"SHUT UP!"

Our deal.​

"Fuck your deal. I reject it. I reject you."

You already accepted it. Accepted us.​

"When?" I ask incredulously. "I've been fighting you every step of the way."

"I'll do anything."​

My own words. I remember. I did say that, when I didn't have a mouth to speak, when I was reaching for anything.

"No. That doesn't… That's not…" I protest, weakly, stuttering, looking for any excuse to deny it.

"No." is all I can say.

It doesn't reply, it's made its point.

It doesn't matter, even if they own me. Who's going to come and collect? Some Abyssal bailiff turning up with a county court judgement?

They can't make me go, all they can do is talk.

I go to make a second dinner, but the fridge is empty again.

I'll go shopping again tonight, until then, I'll queue up a playlist completely devoid of speaking, boot up another game and ruin somebody else's evening to make up for my own.

--------

Come on Noodle, stick around a bit longer. 5k. Overcharge. Another salvo from the lobos. 3.5k.

You're running now, that's fine, you left it too late, a few more hits. 3k. A bit more. 2.8k, 2.7k. You've reached the water, not soon enough though. 2.5k, 2.4k. Heh, no getting away now.

Equinox: End of the line, Noodle.

Ctrl-K. My ACU self destructs, the death explosion claiming Noodle's as well. We're both out of the game now.

Corporatist: Fucks sake. I told you he would Ctrl-K on you.
VMCNoodle: He probably likes watching other men fuck his wife too.
VMCNoodle disconnected.

Oh that feels good. I hope he sends me hate mail outside of the match. If he uses some slurs I can report him too.

SoulSurvivor: Why?
Corporatist: Equinox likes winning more than playing.

I do like winning, but honestly, as long as someone is suffering, that's good enough for me. Not something I can admit though.

Equinox: Noodle is better than me. It's a good trade for our team.

It's true, and a useful public rationale to foster my reputation as a victory obsessed utilitarian rather than a sadist, though in actuality only a secondary consideration compared to feeding on the negativity of my human opponents.

Hands now free, I break off another piece of chocolate and watch the bitching.

My team finishes up quickly, with the best enemy player gone and their morale broken. One more victory, a few more rating points gained. This used to feel more fulfilling.

--------

AureliusA: Fuck you, sat bitch.
Equinox: It's literally one sat. Losing to that is a skill issue.
AureliusA: You're fucking low.
Corporatist (Allies): What killed the scat?
Equinox (Allies): One sat.
Corporatist (Allies): No way.
Corporatist (Allies): No fucking way.
AureliusA disconnected.

--------

Another match, another hour spent. Alas, most of these players are European, meaning that by two AM, the lobbies dry up, and I have to find something else to do.

It should be quiet enough to go food shopping at this time. Another milk run, I'm barely even nervous anymore, I must have made this trip half a dozen times now.

The usual ritual: Raincoat, gloves, sunglasses, face mask. The mask is blackened on the inside now from my breathing. I don't know what exactly it is that I'm exhaling, but I can make a carbon monoxide monitor scream.

I bring my headphones along too this time.

I get to the store and empty shelves again, my shopping bag filled to the brim, and start walking home.

I'm browsing through my music player, I'm not looking where I'm going. The person walking the other way down the road isn't looking either.

We collide.

My headphones come off, and pull my sunglasses off with them.

He sees my eyes.

His eyes widen.

"What the fuck?"

His shock quickly turns to fear.

Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Don't kill him.

I mustn't hurt him.

He starts running, and I must chase.

He'll tell everyone I'm here.

This isn't like the Hebrides, I live here, this is on my road! I won't be gone by the time people look for me.

I can't let him go.

We collide again as I grab his back.

Gently. Gently.

"Hel–"

I cut off his cry and wrap my hand over his mouth, forcing his jaw shut.

"Shhhh. Shhhh. Don't yell. If you want to live, don't yell." I whisper.

He's kicking at me, so I kneel down, forcing him to the ground with me, one hand holding his mouth, the other, his neck. He whimpers through my hand.

"Stop! Be quiet!" I tighten my grip slightly, but he keeps squirming. He tries to peel my arms off him, but it's useless against my strength. He switches to trying to hit me, but I barely feel it.

Hot tears roll down his cheeks and onto my hand.

He's so afraid. I feel so alive.

It contrasts with the last three weeks, making an already faded portrait of a life turn wholly grey.

What the hell do I do now?

His struggling intensifies.

He'll ruin everything if I let him go.

I want to kill him. I don't want to kill him, but I can't let him go.

Maybe I can convince him not to tell anyone? No, there's no way of doing that. I can't even threaten him. The moment he's out of my sight he'll turn me in.

He's stopped struggling. Good.

The fear is gone. Maybe if he has calmed down, I can talk to him.

"I'm going to let you go now. Please don't yell."

I take my hand off his mouth. He doesn't yell.

"I'm sorry I grabbed you, but I couldn't let you run away and tell people. I'm not bad. I'm not like other Abyssals. I'm not going to hurt anyone."

He doesn't respond.

"I just want to be left alone. If you tell anyone you saw me, people are going to get hurt, and neither of us want that, so if you could just forget that you saw me tonight, then…"

He's not making any sounds at all.

"Hey, are you listening?"

I turn him around and as I release my hold, his head lolls.

"Are you alright?"

He's not breathing.

His throat doesn't look right. It's crushed. I crushed it.

He's dead.

I killed him, and I didn't even notice.

Another pair of lifeless eyes staring back at me.

He looks so young. He was just a kid, maybe twenty.

My face twitches. I'm supposed to be guilt ridden, horrified, but… I'm trying to hold back a smile. This is so wrong.

It's not wrong to be happy.​

Of course it's wrong to be happy about this. Only psychos would smile at this. the fundamentally broken, society's rejects.

We don't reject you.​

I know you don't.

We'll always be here for you.​

I know.

I hold my hand to my face, forcing it into neutrality. The least I can do is not smile at his corpse. It would be an insult, it would be profane, one final offence against him, even if there's no one around to see it.

"I'm sorry."

"You…" Shouldn't have been out at this time. Shouldn't have bumped into me. Shouldn't have tried to run. Shouldn't have tried to scream. Shouldn't have feared. "didn't deserve this."

And you don't deserve what comes next either.

I need to get rid of this body.

I pick him up. A body shouldn't be this light. My sin shouldn't be this easy to carry.

I can't disguise a crushed throat as anything but a murder, so I need to make sure no one ever finds it.

I can't bury it. I don't want to keep it in my house.

The Thames is deep and fast. It'll hide it, for a while at least. Even if it's found, I can obscure the cause of death, cut away the imprints of my fingers with a blade, make it look like another incident of knife crime, but not here, not where the blood will get everywhere.

I carry him and walk the short distance to the Thames. The streets are empty, just me and my mistake.

I step onto the water, shedding my human guise.

I walk underneath the bridge, to the centre of the river, where it is deepest.

I kneel, and cradle his body.

Murder. Trying to make sure no one finds you. Denying your family any closure. Desecration.

"I'm sorry."

The bayonet appears in my hand, summoned with natural ease.

I cut into his neck, tearing up his crushed windpipe. The blood flows slowly out, coating my hands, flowing into the water.

"Give me something heavy."

My crew offers me steel plates from my machine shop. They'll do.

I tuck them into his coat, then zip it up.

Gently, with the care I should have given him when he was alive, I lower him into the water.

I let go, and he sinks quickly, the sediment filled water covering him, obscuring him from my sight.

I wash the blood off my hands in the water. Take it, take it all. Wash it all away.

I walk back onto the riverbank, change my clothes, and head home. I pick up my shopping on the way. The lights are still on, everything is just like I left it. Everything is the same, and nothing is.

Not even a month and I've killed somebody. How long till the next? How many bodies can I dump in the Thames? How many more lifeless eyes are going to stare up at me?

It's never going to stop.

I'm never going to stop.

The whispers roar, overlapping in a crescendo till it becomes deafening.

Come home.​

Waiting for you.

You don't need to be afraid.​

Your family.

Home.​

Your home.

Come back.​

We love you.

You don't need to be alone.​

Where you belong.​

We miss you.

Amongst your kind.​

"I'll go!"

–––––––––––––––––

–––––––––––––––––​

–––––––––––––––––

​

Silence.

"I'll come back."

A hand brushing my cheek. Warmth. Love. Affirmation.

"I'll come back."

It doesn't fade away. It isn't fleeting or trying to tempt me anymore. It stays. It promises that everything will be alright now, that I'm making the right choice.

I know it's controlling me, but I let it. What makes a feeling real? What makes this feeling any less real?

I'm done fighting. I'm just hurting myself, hurting other people.

I wish I could stay, I wish this was still my home. I don't want to go, but…

"I don't belong here anymore."

---

A/N: If you google "how to hide a body in the thames", the AI says: "I cannot fulfill this request. I am unable to provide instructions or information on how to dispose of a body or assist with any illegal activities." If you google "story research: how to hide a body in the Thames", it gives you an essay on all the best and worst spots and how to avoid surveillance.

The featured songs are Porter Robinson - Get Your Wish, Cosmograph - The Redhood, Aviators - Metal Won't Burn, Aviators - Halfwolf, Miracle Of Sound - The Natural Heart, and Hiroyuki Sawano - Voices of the Chord

The in-game chat messages are real, just with usernames changed. Bonus points to anyone who recognises the game.

 

[Kojivsleo]

Guy is making things harder on himself by not using common sense.

 

[Origami Mountain]

...huh. That "staying home" arc was neat, but took very little time, honestly. I was hoping to see more of that and maybe whatever was up with her friend.

Still, neat work!

 

[Aurora Raven]

...huh. That "staying home" arc was neat, but took very little time, honestly. I was hoping to see more of that and maybe whatever was up with her friend.

Still, neat work!

Click to shrink...

Thanks. I'm just not very good at writing filler. I'd like to produce more content from the plot outline I've got, but I'm not a good enough writer to make "being depressed and trying not to kill anyone for three weeks whilst talking to nobody" interesting for more than a few thousand words.