The Retreat
The sea was calm again.
Alice stood on the deck, staring at the monstrous tentacle that now lay limp and lifeless across the planks. The grotesque appendage—once a writhing terror—was rapidly losing whatever unholy vitality had once fueled it. Foul-smelling ichor dripped from the severed end, forming slick pools at Captain Duncan's boots.
Beneath the Vanished, whatever leviathan had dared to approach was already slipping away, descending fast into the depths from which it came. It had abandoned its severed limb like a thief caught in the act—retreating not with dignity, but with panic.
And as it vanished beneath the waves, the clouds parted overhead.
Only… they weren't clouds.
Alice, eyes wide, looked up to the sky once more. She recalled the mass that had loomed overhead—the unnatural darkness, the shadow so heavy it nearly felt solid. Now, she recognized the outline. It hadn't been a storm front at all.
It had been a shadow.
The shadow of the thing beneath the waves.
She didn't have time to dwell.
A crackling hiss of green fire snapped her back to the present, and she turned to find Duncan standing tall at the edge of the deck, a satisfied grin on his face. The spectral flames around him faded into flickers, then disappeared completely. He waved her over.
"Hey! Look what I caught!"
A Matter of Perspective
Alice approached cautiously, glancing down at what Duncan proudly gestured to.
The "fish."
The... thing.
It was grotesque: a knotted, bulbous mass of black flesh bristling with bone spurs and dotted with dozens of burst, twitching eyeballs. Its jagged teeth glittered like forged iron in the daylight. The flesh still spasmed faintly. Several smaller, similarly horrid "fish" lay scattered across the deck nearby, their bodies twitching in death.
Duncan kicked the main catch gently. A few of the lingering eyes blinked once, then went still.
"Pretty good, huh?" he said, hands on his hips. "Took a bit of work, but I got us a fresh one."
Alice's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"...Fish?" she finally managed.
"Sure," Duncan said cheerfully. "What else would it be?"
Alice stared down at the glistening horror. She stared long. So long, in fact, that she started to question everything she'd ever seen, thought, or known. That thing didn't look like a fish. It didn't even look like it belonged on this planet.
But Duncan said it was a fish.
And she remembered the rules.
If the Captain says it's a fish, then it's a fish.
Alice cleared her throat and forced a smile. "Yes. Of course, Captain. A very… large fish."
"Exactly!" Duncan beamed. "And I'm thinking of grilling part of it, maybe brining the rest for jerky. Mix things up a little."
"...You're going to eat it?"
"Why not?" Duncan looked genuinely baffled. "We've been living on salted leather and brick cheese for too long. It's time for an upgrade."
He looked down again at the "catch of the day," then at the smaller ones flopped nearby. "Little ones might be good for smoking. Wonder if we can hang 'em in the sail rigging..."
Alice stared, speechless.
He was serious.
The Taste of Risk
Duncan wasn't completely reckless. As excited as he was, he remained cautious. He crouched beside the monstrous haul and examined it again. The thing was bleeding out. Dying, definitely. Possibly toxic. Possibly cursed. Almost certainly not inspected by any maritime food authority.
But when was the last time he had a real meal?
He glanced toward the ship's interior, already calculating his options. His culinary skills were passable—at least when it came to basic survival. Could he butcher the beast? Could he cook it in a way that wouldn't melt the pan—or his intestines?
Best-case scenario: gourmet ghost-ship dinner.
Worst-case scenario: violently ill, hallucinating, or cursed by something ancient and aquatic.
He could mitigate that risk with a test subject.
First thought: the goat-headed figurehead in the captain's quarters.
He discarded that idea immediately. Not because it wasn't tempting, but because the thing didn't actually eat.
Next thought: Alice.
Also no. She didn't have a digestive tract.
That left one candidate.
He turned slowly to the bird perched smugly on his shoulder.
Ai tilted its head, catching Duncan's gaze. The captain raised an eyebrow.
The bird stared back.
Duncan reached into the bucket and plucked a tiny morsel from the smaller fish pile. Holding it up, he studied Ai carefully.
The pigeon fluffed up.
Then glared.
Then said, "I will not be your deep-sea guinea pig, thank you."
Duncan chuckled. "Worth a shot."
A few minutes later, he was hauling his bounty below deck, already thinking of pans and firewood and seasoning—if the Vanished even had seasoning. Probably not. Maybe there was some old spice rack behind a wall panel or something. Salt and ghost fire would have to do.
Lunch was coming.
Alice remained alone on the deck, paralyzed somewhere between awe and confusion. After a long pause, she turned toward the captain's quarters.
She didn't want to go in.
She really didn't.
The goat-headed "First Mate" wasn't exactly her favorite conversationalist. He never stopped talking. Ever. And what he talked about was rarely helpful.
But… something had to give.
What she'd seen—what she was still seeing—needed an explanation. Was this normal? Was the Vanished always this… strange?
She took a deep breath, hesitated for a good ten seconds, then finally shoved the door open.
To her shock, the goat head was already turned toward her.
Waiting.
"Something happened," it said, voice low and clipped—surprisingly serious.
Alice blinked. That was new.
She shut the door quietly and approached the navigation table. Quickly, she relayed everything—tentacles, eyes, the monstrous catch, and Duncan's triumphant declaration of lunch.
The goat head listened silently.
For a full minute after she finished, it said nothing.
That alone unnerved her more than the storm.
Finally, it spoke.
"The Vanished is functioning normally," the goat head said.
Alice squinted. "But you didn't say—"
"I said everything is normal," the First Mate repeated quickly. "Absolutely. Captain Duncan is as stable and magnificent as ever. Nothing is wrong. At all."
"That's not what your silence said a minute ago—"
"My silence was me recalibrating my expectations," the goat head replied hastily. "It was not disbelief. Just awe."
It straightened—or gave the distinct impression of straightening. "Listen well, Miss Alice. Everything that happens on this ship is part of a grander pattern. We are privileged witnesses to the glory of Captain Duncan. What you saw? That was just… an advanced fishing technique. And from this day forward, you must internalize a single, immutable truth."
The goat's voice deepened dramatically.
"There is fish in the galley.And fish is a delicacy."
Alice blinked.
"…Okay," she said slowly. "I think I understand."
She didn't.
But she was learning to adapt.
And above all, she was learning that on the Vanished, reality bent to the will of the Captain—and the rules of common sense were just guidelines... best ignored.