Elliot's POV

"The world does not change because we wish it to, but because we force it to."

—Elliot Starfall

I sit in a cell. For weeks, I have been swallowed by complete darkness. My fingers, drained of warmth and circulation, are only visible when I hold them mere inches from my face. My clothes were stripped from me the first day. Merchandise is merchandise. Pigs don't wear trousers. That's what the blue-skinned one kept saying. His stench—stale breath, rotting gums—clings to my senses like a curse. I want to spit, but my saliva is thick, clinging to my chin in slow, sickly dribbles. My mouth hangs open. Breathing in this suffocating stench, heavy with the stink of fish and sweat, is worse than standing in a crowded bus at the height of summer.

I lean my head back, my greasy hair pressing against the old man behind me. Splinters dig into my skin. They pricked at first—kept me awake for nearly two days—but eventually, the body shuts down. The air would be more bearable if we were above deck. Every few hours, they open the hatch, letting in slivers of fresh air. There are thousands of us, crammed into the lowest levels of the ship. They call us Reds. I hate the sight of their blueberry-colored gums when they grin down at us. Hilarious, isn't it?

They took their time today. I counted in my head, out of sheer boredom. When you're locked in a cage with dozens of others, and those cages are stacked upon more, there isn't much else to do. Especially when we're forced to lie back-to-back, knees drawn tight. Some tried to pry the iron bars apart. Fools. Save your strength.

At the thought, my expression darkens. Some of them were fathers. Others, mothers—fighting to free their children, clinging to them even as they convulsed under electric shocks.

My gaze drifts to Ren. He lies in the farthest corner, eyes closed, his hands caked in blood. Two days ago, he had to fight someone. The stains on his skin look like rust.

I click my tongue, glancing at the others in our cell. I keep my mouth shut, yet someone still grumbles at me.

"Cry somewhere else. We're all going to die anyway."

Yeah, yeah I don't even looking his way. My focus remains on the harsh blue light spilling through the hatch, silhouetting a shadow descending the steps.

We huddle close, bodies pressing against each other. A thickset man in wide trousers, a plain white shirt, and a blue cap moves down the creaking steps, snuffing out his cigar against the bars of a neighboring cell.

"Who, who, who?" he calls out, a mocking echo of himself.

Silence.

The blue light gleams against the splintered stairs, painting them like a stairway to heaven. But everyone who climbs them never returns.

A child next to me clutches her mother's naked frame. They, like me, are stripped bare, shivering.

An old man behind me shifts, his withered foot pressing into my lower back. A large splinter embeds itself in my skin.

I inhale sharply but stifle the sound, pressing a trembling hand over my lips—not from shame, but survival.

I glance sideways. The massive, blue-skinned man, maybe a sailor, maybe something else, looms in front of our cage. But I fall silent.

My blood simmers as he approaches. The air is thick, suffocating. Every eye in the cell turns to me.

Ren stares, his shoulders slumped, his bruised hands still stained with rust-colored blood. The man he fought watches him, then shifts his gaze to me.

He smirks, his chin grotesquely split, forming an unnatural cleft.

Everything happens too fast.

In the dim light, the world feels slow and hazy. I look left, then right. A shove. My balance falters.

I fall forward, my cheek slamming against an iron shoulder. Another push, and suddenly, I'm no longer pressed among the unwashed bodies in our cell.

I'm against the charged iron bars.

Rust-red stains mar the metal, and beside me, two corpses slump—once a man and woman, now empty husks.

Their daughter sits to my left, head bowed. She stares—not at her parents, but at the floor. At her own bloodied hands, fingers curled around the bars.

No one else dares to get this close.

Except me. And her.

The blue-skinned man sticks out his tongue, sluggish and thick, drooling red. A grotesque mockery of a grin stretches across his face.

He stares at the girl. She must be—what, eleven? Twelve? Barely old enough to be called a teenager.

Everyone else stares at me.

Not with lust, like the blue tongue. But with relief.

They know it will be me.

They know they've bought themselves a few more hours—perhaps a day.

I lower my head.

I curse the old bastard behind me.

At first, I even pitied him. I used to massage his neck when he complained about the pains of old age. You wouldn't understand, he said. You're too young.

I force myself to stay silent. No sigh, no tear, no scream of rage.

I'd bash his skull in if it meant staying down here.

But it wouldn't matter.

They'd still drag me up.

Will they carve out my spine and throw me to the fish?

No.

They will eat me themselves.

The fresh red blood dripping from the blue-skinned man's lips—it must be from the one who went up yesterday. A boy my age.

He sacrificed himself for his little sister.

He was shaking when he climbed the stairs. Crying.

What must have been running through his mind?

My fingers tremble, numbed from disuse. Dried blood clings to my nails, grating against my skin like the friction of Styrofoam.

I lower my chin, pressing it against my collarbone. My neck aches, a sharp pain digging into my lungs like an open wound. My breath stutters.

In my mind, I punch the old man behind me again. Pain I wouldn't understand?

The child trembles beside me, her hands shaking as if afflicted by Parkinson's while she struggles to bring a spoonful of soup to her lips.

"Little one..." The Blue Tongue inquires playfully, exhaling a thick, tobacco-laced cloud of smoke into her face.

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I click my tongue in disgust. A girl so young, naked and vulnerable should not be subjected to the breath of such a fat bastard. She sobs, her delicate fingers momentarily brushing over her legs, her thin arms shielding her chest.

"No, you shouldn't die. You could be useful elsewhere." The Blue Tongue eyes her hungrily.

Disgusting. Not just him, but the others in the adjacent cell who leer at her with the same twisted interest.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, my brows furrowing in rage as I kneel before the rusted bars. I say nothing, but I would smash every one of their skulls if given the chance.

"Tell me, sweet thing, who was the culprit?"

The girl swallows, tears streaming down her face, her head bowed. Guilt, perhaps. Or the sight of her parents' lifeless, unblinking eyes staring back at her.

She raises her hand. Points. At me.

Her finger is barely half the size of mine. Maybe she's no older than nine.

I exhale, losing everything. Breaking.

I want to lift my head. My greasy, dark blond hair slides along my ears as I do. Just once—I want to spit in his face. Just once—I want to land a punch, to shatter his teeth, to bash in the back of his skull. The thought even makes me smile.

But my cracked lips absorb the salt of my own tears.

I am afraid.

They will bleed me dry.

My toes curl into the cold floor. Into the piss we've all been lying in for weeks. Into the filth some have resorted to eating because they've barely fed us.

I am dehydrated. Weak. How will I even move against a colossus? Without a weapon?

More tears slip down my cheeks as I stare at the translucent silhouette of the Blue Tongue. The light catches his edges, and beyond him, I see the sun.

The sky looks cold, but it feels warm against my skin.

"You fat bastard!" A hoarse voice erupts from the distance.

My eyelids hover over my eyes, and for a fleeting moment, hope ignites within me.

The blue light seems almost divine, as if someone has answered my silent prayers.

I wait, my smirk growing, as the Blue Tongue turns, as he stomps a heavy boot against the bars in frustration.

"A maggot like you dares—"

I don't hear the rest.

He has turned away. He is walking. Slowly.

With closed eyes, I reach out, wanting to press my palm against the trembling girl's shoulder. To tell her it's not her fault. That it's okay.

But I stop mid-motion.

My already pale eyes grow paler. Shadows deepen under them.

Suddenly, I feel my entire body again. My raw knees scrape against the splintered wooden floor.

I strike the bars once, an electric shock ripping through me, reminding me of the little girl's parents.

I break. My heart breaks.

It was Ren.

Ren was the one who screamed.

My little brother, standing atop a corpse, dehydrated, with a sneering grimace aimed at the Blue Tongue.

His fist is weak, trembling, stopping just short of the bars.

"You fat, disgusting blue gorilla!" He roars, his hoarse voice crackling.

I didn't recognize him. His voice.

How could I not?

"No!" I scream.

"You blues are nothing but a pile of rancid shit!" Ren yells, while I claw for the Blue Tongue's attention.

"You fat, blue motherfucker, you'd even eat your own children!" I bellow, but my voice is weaker than Ren's.

I swallow, and it burns. My throat is dry, but I keep screaming.

I slam my hand against the bars again, harder this time. More painful.

The Blue Tongue is already halfway to Ren. His steps are thunderous, furious.

My little brother.

He yells louder, though the veins in my throat and forehead feel as if they'll burst.

My face is as red as his.

Everyone is silent.

Darkness washes over me. My screams are no louder than whispers.

I clutch my burning, bloodied throat, desperate to cry out, to scream.

Scream!

But nothing comes.

Tears spill down my face. The agony of helplessness crushes me.

How selfish you are, I think, my reddened eyes locking onto the Blue Tongue's back.

I should die. Then you would live.

I am dying.

You are the younger one.

Not me.

I scream again, but only hot air escapes.

It hurts. More than my fists, which are numb with adrenaline, but I cannot stop.

I slam against the bars, over and over, my knuckles turning redder, my hands raw.

My body quakes. I don't stop. My fists pound faster than my heartbeat.

My senses fade.

Why don't I die like the girl's parents?

Why am I not taken?

Then I feel it. A small hand.

A tiny poke against my arm.

As if trying to grip my sleeve—except none of us have clothes.

I exhale shakily, the world spinning.

Everything moves so slowly.

I feel the filth caking my shin, the piss soaking my feet.

The others stare at me, heads bowed.

Why?

Why did it have to be me?

Now Ren.

I look down at my mangled hands. They tremble, fingers refusing to spread.

I see my own bone. Flesh torn.

I lift my gaze. Sweat and tears splatter the floor.

The Blue Tongue drags my brother.

Ren's muscles are frail, his body gaunt.

My vision blurs.

The Blue Tongue unsheathes a knife. A long one, strapped to his belt. He twirls it between his fingers as he opens the gate.

Ren looks at me from afar. Smiling.

My shoulders slump as everything speeds up.

The Blue Tongue hurls Ren to the ground.

He slams him against the bars, pressing his flesh to the metal. A sizzling sound fills the dungeon.

The others in Ren's cell either gag from the stench or from the sight.

Ren groans, his small fists battering the Blue Tongue's thick arm like a helpless insect.

He looks so weak.

My little brother.

I remember when he feared the dark, how I would always check under the bed with him for monsters.

And now the monster is here.

And I can do nothing.

Ren's hair shakes over his forehead. His feet kick at the Blue Tongue's knee.

The Blue Tongue stumbles slightly—Ren strikes upward, his fist hammering the forearm vertically while his other hand twists it sideways.

A sickening crack echoes through the dungeon.

The Blue Tongue screams, his bloated beer gut collapsing under its own weight as he crumples.

His knife slips from his grasp.

"Jud, let us have some fun too!" a voice shouts from above deck. It rings out like the majestic voice of an angel descending with the light, but it is likely just another Blue.

"S-stop!" Jud yells as Ren rushes toward him, eyes flicking to the knife in his hand. He strikes first at the throat, then the chest, then the stomach. Three stabs. Then five. The Blue collapses to the ground. Silence falls. The only sound that remains is Ren's ragged breathing as he looks at me—smiling. He looks so innocent when he kills.

My world is still shimmering, blurred by tears.

"Elliot." My little brother rises from the thick-bodied Blue, Jud, and takes a step toward me. "Survive." His voice is calm, as if these were his final words to me. My lips quiver, torn between a smile and a sob.

"Jud?" The same majestic voice calls out again, but when he sees the lifeless body on the ground, his tone shifts into a desperate cry. Thick, blue blood seeps across the wooden planks, pooling into the darkness. Ren stands there, bathed in the dim light, his face cast in eerie blue shadows.

His eyes narrow as he looks up. Another Blue stands there—a dark one. He stares down in horror at his fallen comrade before turning to call the others. "Jud is dead!"

More Blues gather, their presence suffocating. My gaze returns to Ren. He stands firm, a knife still gripped in his right hand. He is so small, yet he looks so brave.

The Blue with the angelic voice steps forward first, singing a hymn in a language unknown to me. He cuts his palm, letting azure blood drip onto the deck. Ren sinks to his knees, waiting. But the Blue with his proud, upturned nose and golden curls stops just before the last step, looking down at my brother as if he were an insect.

Ren is gasping for air now, his shoulders burning, his back aching. He is drenched in both red and blue blood. My heart stops. My vision wavers.

The hymn ceases. Ren's long knife has vanished. A longer blade now pierces through his thigh.

Ren kneels, his entire body trembling like mine. No sound. No breath. I break inside.

The curly-haired Blue rips the knife free, dragging it through the muscle. And for the first time, I hear Ren scream. A scream of agony. A scream of grief. A scream of terror.

My eyes land on his back, covered in deep, charred welts. It looks as if his skin has been peeled away. I want to look away, but I cannot. My little brother.

He gasps. The fight leaves his body. His shoulder, like mine, slumps forward. He is going to die.

I try to scream, but no sound escapes. Only a wire around my throat, tightening, suffocating me. I am the elder. He is the younger. Yet I watch as he is taken above, when it should have been me.

I look up, catching a final glimpse of his heels, his body encased in light—

—and then nothing.

Eternal emptiness.

A void that wraps around my heart like a noose, squeezing until I cannot breathe. I want to go back. Back to how it used to be.

I lower my gaze, staring at my trembling hands, filthy with my own filth. My hair hangs over my tear-streaked face. My breath is thick and heavy in my lungs.

It is over.

My brother will be dead.

And without him… what reason do I have to be here?

I want to slam my fists against the bars. I do not. Instead, I bite down on my inner cheeks so hard that I taste blood. I bite harder. Until I shear off the tip of my own tongue.

"You bastard!" I try to scream, but only hot air escapes my lips. My brows knot so tightly that my vision darkens.

My eyes land on the old man.

I lunge.

My right arm tenses. My fist collides with his jaw. Weak, yet it breaks him.

My left follows, slamming into his eye, then his temple. Everyone around me recoils. For the first time, I have a single step of space in every direction. And the old man lies beneath me, his wrinkled face crushed under my bloodied fists.

He groans, pleads for mercy.

I keep hitting him.

Once is not enough. Twice does not satisfy. My rage is a bottomless abyss.

I strike again. And again. First his eye and cheek turn blue, then red. Within a handful of heartbeats, his face swells beyond recognition. Within thirty seconds, he is motionless.

Like a beast, I lift my head, scanning the room. My eyes drag behind, delayed in their movement. They all back away from me. They flinch. The one who had sneered at me earlier cowers behind a frail woman.

I look down. Pitiful.

The old man beneath me—his face is nothing but a ruined mass of flesh.

He is as old as my father would be now.

A fleeting sorrow passes through me. Then I spit on his face. My split chin deflects most of it, sending it dribbling down my throat. I do not care.

I breathe heavily. They all watch me in silence.

Tears spill from my eyes, and I roll off the corpse, curling in on myself, my heart shattered beyond repair.

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