The choppy ocean waves tilted the grimy room Redael woke up in. He'd been conscious for a while now, but his limbs refused to move—paralysed by worry. His own body had decided it wasn't safe to rise.
But he couldn't lie there forever. Not here. One mistake could leave you bleeding out on cold steel, your body dragged away only when it blocked access to the cargo. Blood was cheaper than oil.
Redael forced himself upright, ribs whining with protest. His eyes scanned the room. Derrick? Gone. Nowhere in sight.
Am I late?
Panic seized his chest like a vice. His breath quickened. No way could he risk angering the Captain—not with broken ribs still fresh from the last warning. He scrambled to his feet, pulling on his chef's coveralls with the speed of a man escaping death row.
The corridors were empty. The stairs silent. Time was his only opponent now.
"Alright you silly lot, service begins in four hours and if I see ANY pissing about I'll be informing the Cap—"
The screech of metal on ceramic cut through the head chef's sentence like a blade. Redael flinched.
Mark White.
A man with a presence sharper than his cleavers. The other chefs stood in line like military cadets, their spines straightened by fear. Not just fear of losing work—or life—but that silent, aching fear of disappointing someone they respected.
Didn't matter. Not right now.
Redael kept his gaze low as he joined the line. But even without eye contact, he could feel the white-hot stare of the head chef piercing through him.
"You usually come early?" White asked. Sarcasm thick as batter.
"I'm sorry, I ermmm—" Redael stammered, eyes darting for an excuse.
White didn't even blink. "Do you always look to your left when you lie?"
Redael winced. He'd been read like an open book. Lying was never his strong suit—too much lag between thought and tongue. That hesitation cost him dearly.
"Get in line, Boy Scout. I don't have time to repeat myself. This is your first service—I suggest one of your fellow chefs help you out. But if I see even one fish scale wasted, I'll drag you to the Captain myself."
He tightened his belt. A declaration of war.
"SERVICE!" he barked.
The kitchen exploded into motion. Like an engine roaring to life, the crew scattered to their stations with frightening precision. Pantry, prep, heat, plating—each man a cog in White's merciless machine.
Redael stood still, stunned by the chaos. A minute passed before he realised he'd become a bystander. If White caught him loitering, he'd be the mystery meat in today's stew.
He lunged forward, darting between workstations. "Hey—can someone—what should I—" Brushed off. Ignored. The sous chef waved him away. The saucier didn't even glance at him. Even the damn busboy refused to help.
His breathing quickened.
Captain's coming. What if White tells him? What if this is all a setup? What if the Doctor's a plant? Where's Derrick? Where's—
WHERE'S DERRICK?!
His thoughts spiralled. Redael felt the edges of panic close in, like invisible walls squeezing tighter around his chest.
And then—
"Hey buddy, picked a helluva time ta come late didn't ya?"
That voice. Irish. Calm. Familiar.
He turned. Derrick stood there with a smirk, always arriving at the perfect moment. Redael's lungs filled again, just enough to keep standing.
"C-can you help?" he asked, eyes darting to check if White was watching. Then he added, more honestly, "I don't have a clue what I'm doing, and the chef's got a bullet with my name on it."
He cracked a smile. That practiced, charming smile he used back in New USA to get a bit of food, a warm look, a second chance. But this time, he used it on purpose. A human tool—shaped and sharpened by hunger.
Derrick chuckled. That same damned grin still plastered on his face. It seemed he was bent on helping Redael anyway, whether he liked it or not. Redaels, tactical smile, thankfully redundant.
"Someone ta show ya the ropes, huh? No problem, buddy. Stick with me and you'll be grand."
Derrick made a beeline for his station, cutting through the chaos of the kitchen.
"Here?", Redael nervously asked.
Derrick nodded.
"We got 5 hours, 5 hours is all we got."
"That's a long time," Redael commented as he swung his head round. The entire kitchen floor emanated sounds and spells, seducing his senses. "Why is everybody moving so fast? Shouldn't we -"
"Tomatoes. Dice." Derrick commanded, although his tone was still relaxed. The THUMP with which he dunked the box on the station was enough to get the attention of a large black male, more of an ox than a man.
Another box, then another. Onions, shallots, the whole lot.
"Julienne the shallots and slice up the onions."
"Wha-"
"Julienne - like fine straight lines, go go! No time"
Redael scanned his worktop. A cold damascan steel knife, two boxes full of vegetables. I've done this before. But the new setting was unnerving him. Start slowly, I can do this.
One shallot. Then the next. A small hill of herbage formed and then placed in machine-like fashion to Derrick's station. Redael looked over past Derrick - the Ox man was preparing lobster. Lobster? Must be for the captain....he certainly has an advanced palate. The ox-man returned his gaze, and looked way in an aloof manner, seemingly focussed, and yet uninterested.
"Not much of a talker this one, been with him for 5 months and not a word. They say he sings to himself in the hallways and that's about it", Derrick informed Redael.
Redael raised his eyebrows in relief. One less idiot to worry about. OUCH. Lost in thought, he'd poked his left index finger. Focus! One wrong move and I could lose a tip. Back to work, the mountain of vegetables disappeared, only to be replenished with a new wave of their brothers.
Redael's eyes looked to the clock. Minutes passed but it seemed like the clock was playing tricks on him. He'd been there 2 hours cutting the same vegetables, not a break in between, barely holding up. Sea sickness had started to take its toll now. Crying due to onions and now nausea? No thanks, he thought.
The kitchen was like a hive, workers buzzing around, unaware of each other's presence, with Mr White the only voice speaking direct to them, but individually. It was clear he was the glue, the nexus that binded them into one working machine. All the cogs were in his hand, his reputation on the line.
THUNK. The sound cracked across the kitchen like a cleaver on bone. Even White looked up from his station.
Redael staggered back. The Bull loomed over him—arms like butchered shoulders, scars crawling over his skin. Tall enough to fold under any doorframe. Not a drop of blood on him. Strange, for a man who lived in knives.
Their eyes locked. Redael searched for something—friendship, warning, anything. But The Bull's face was a wall. Blank. Impenetrable.
"Careful," he rumbled, voice low and rough as gravel.
Redael flicked a glance at Derrick. Curiosity flashed across the Irishman's grin. Then The Bull moved on, turning with the weight of a glacier, his bulk making the floor groan.
Was that... a smile? Redael blinked. Maybe. Or maybe the ship's light was playing tricks.
"You've done well," Derrick muttered, leaning in. "He usually don't speak at all."
Redael kept his silence, dumping the herbs onto the right station. But the thought clung to him. Who was this man? Another broken soul like the Doctor? Or just another brute waiting to rot in a bilge pipe?
"Would you look at that!" White's voice cut through, sharp and holy. "We're ahead of time. Fifteen minutes break. THEN chickens, then fish. Amoudine! Where the hell are the tweels?!"
He stormed off, a priest-king hunting for a sacrifice. His crew scattered like temple servants, every move choreographed to his wrath.
Derrick grabbed Redael's arm, yanking him toward a narrow passage on the northern side.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6PZthtk2iG
"Smoking break, mate. Come on. You won't get another for seven hours."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw3OvWvoqR5
"I—I don't smo—"92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbMG6jSku2I
"Don't matter," Derrick said, already pulling him along.
And just like that, Redael's body obeyed fate. Again. A divine current, ever pulling him along, like beads on a string.
A narrow corridor held two benches facing each other, the wood moaning under the weight of tired men. Besides Redael, three others sat in the claustrophobic den. Derrick slouched on the left, one leg perched on the bench, a cigarillo burning between his claws. Across from him, two Europeans smoked in silence.
"Sit here, lad," Derrick said, patting the space beside him. He held out a half-empty pack of Cohibas. "Smoke?"92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUUTA7KZ1w5
"Uhhh—no thanks. Hate the smell. Always gave me headaches," Redael replied.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡep9W3NLcbd
"Then better step outside, virgin lungs," one of the men laughed, voice warm and playful, a heavy Slavic accent cutting through the haze. His tag read Yaro. His overalls were caked in sauces and stock, his receding hair streaked with grey, his laugh hearty enough to rattle the corridor.
"He's fine, aren't ya lad?" Derrick chimed in. "Might look young, but I've seen him handle worse than a smoke."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhg8Lgfh0Nw
"Yeah, yeah, I'll manage. My dad used to smoke all the time," Redael answered, trying to be agreeable. He needed allies here.
The other man stayed silent, older, face creased with exhaustion. His white hair glowed against the metal walls, a gold-trimmed pipe clenched between his teeth. He looked more suited to a plantation veranda than a greasy ship corridor. His cough broke the silence—long, wheezing, like a door hinge rusting off its frame.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFjfAoK7mZJ
"Worse smells in the trench," he croaked. "You wouldn't last, garçon."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeVd6aMeykm
"Easy, old frog!" Yaro barked. "Enough with the war stories."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvlIhOvNUjZ
"It's true," the Frenchman rasped, smoke curling from his pipe. "You'd both piss your pants."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJSgTPUr4FY
"Quiet. Smoke your pipe. Job's hard enough," Yaro grumbled back.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOZHNkp1KOu
"Everyday banter, nothing to worry about," Derrick said cheerfully, as if to dismiss the tension.
Redael studied the Frenchman again—Pasquale. The Legion tattoo gave him away. A man who'd seen too much blood, and spilled plenty more. No good could come from him.
Yaro slapped his knee. "But you—ha! You handle big black man very well. Strong like ox!"92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQwBp0doo7k
"Didn't he just?" Derrick added with a grin. "Held your own there, pal."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2nAplotlUV
"Speaking of him—where is The Bull anyway?" Redael asked.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhJNfdf8i4G
Yaro chuckled. "Boy's even given him a name!"92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVHy4rhUm6U
"He your pet now?" Pasquale sneered, puffing smoke. Even his mockery had bite.
A heavy shadow slipped past the door toward portside. Redael's heart leapt. He knew that shape. The Bull.
Before he could think, he was up and following, Pasquale's cackle echoing behind him. "The boy's in love! Hahaha!"
Down the hatch, boots echoing on iron grates. Eight corridors split before him—which way? Panic bit his chest. Back? No—too late. Forward. The sound of metal groaning under a giant's weight guided him through the dark, oil slicking the floor. Voices barked commands in the distance. Then, finally, light—
The Bull. Crouched in Engine Control. One hand buried deep in his coat. Redael froze. Knife? Gun? This is it.
Then—miaow.
A cat padded into the light, followed by kittens. The Bull's massive hand came out, not with steel, but dried fish. He lowered himself onto the cold floor, feeding them with surprising tenderness.
Redael's breath caught. Since boarding this ship, it had been nothing but cruelty and fear. And here, in the belly of the beast, something else: gentleness.
"I know," The Bull rumbled, turning his head. His eyes locked onto Redael—warning him to keep quiet.
Redael straightened, heart in his throat. Slowly, he crouched, peeled open a packet of anchovies, and laid them on the steel floor. The kittens padded over, their paws soft against the iron.
He forced a smile, glancing at the mountain of a man. "See? Friend."
The Bull didn't answer. His face stayed unreadable—except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCgyPyxEqY8
92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHxWnfaAShJ
The same twitch. Was it admiration? Or something else—something sharper, hidden under that silence?
"Can you speak English?!" Redael called.
No response. The Bull didn't move. He simply stood there, colossal, jaw cut in half by the red light spilling from a side fixture. His eyes stayed buried in shadow. A statue. But statues weren't supposed to look like they might spring forward and crush you at any moment.
Redael felt the silence press on him, like a weight. What has he gone through? What carved him into this? He wanted to hold the gaze but his nerves frayed. Enough. He wasn't budging. He was stealing food—for cats, not even people.
Back. Now.
He forced a weak smile and turned for the ladder. One step, then another—until something new caught his eye. Halfway up, a maintenance shaft, narrow and dust-choked, cut into the wall. From within: voices. Low. Foreign. African. The same language he'd heard in storage.
He hesitated. Then crawled in.
The shaft scraped his shoulders, dust clinging to his sweat-slick skin. His knees ached, arms cramped, but still he pushed forward. I shouldn't be here. I'm in too deep. Way too deep. And yet his body kept moving, even as his mind begged for retreat.
A fan blocked the way. Of course. He twisted himself sideways, fishing out the multitool. Four screws, trembling fingers, every second costly. At last it gave way, and he pulled himself through.
Then—relief.
Below lay storage. Vast. Silent. Rows of cages packed with the starved and the broken. Men, women, children—all shadows bent against the dark. The air was heavy with iron, sweat, despair.
Redael's chest tightened. Yet at the same time, something rose in him. Resolve. This is why I'm here. To help. To feed them. To matter. He let the feeling linger, fragile as it was.
But it didn't last.
A shout. Sharp, commanding, in a foreign tongue.
Torchlight slashed the dark.
The Captain.
Redael's breath hitched, his chest locked tight. Guards shifted their ponchos aside, rifles catching the beam. A group was herded from one of the cages—thirty, maybe forty souls—while the rest shrank back into the dark, wide eyes flashing. Fear. Pure, raw fear.
The Captain barked, and his hounds obeyed. Then—gone – the crowd of sorry souls gone. Silence fell as if nothing had happened.
Redael blinked. Not from the light, but from the reality of it all.
Back. I need to get back.
He scrambled through the shaft, scraped and coughing, until daylight blessed his eyes again. Hugging the wall, he crept back toward the smoking room and dared a glance inside.
Three faces looked back. Yaro. Pasquale. Derrick. All staring, confusion written plain.
Pasquale leaned forward, lips curling into something cruel.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyUc7yS8JwB
"So. You don't smoke... but you crawl through shit?"
The others roared with laughter, their voices filling the corridor.
"Go on, get cleaned up before Mr White calls us back, or there'll be trouble," Derrick added, grinning, more gentle than the others.
Trouble. They didn't know the half of it.
ns216.73.216.98da2
and then Add to home screen.