Unhuman

𝑶𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑩𝑬𝑹 𝟏𝟕, 𝟐𝟎𝟑𝟖 · 𝟐𝟎:𝟒𝟔 · 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑼𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑨 — 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑶𝑴

The Aurelia moves through the Atlantic with nearly four thousand passengers and crew aboard. Her illuminated decks rise above the black water, and long bands of light stretch across the waves behind her. Music carries from the upper lounges, restaurants prepare their final dinner services, and passengers gather along the observation rails with drinks in their hands, photographing the moonlit ocean through the glass windbreaks.

On Deck Fourteen, The Blue Room is considerably quieter than the clubs below. A pianist accompanies a woman singing near the panoramic windows, where the ocean occasionally catches a strip of moonlight. Small lamps illuminate the tables, and servers move between low sofas carrying cocktails, desserts, and bottles of wine. Across the ceiling, a projected constellation shifts with the ship’s position, its pale stars drifting slowly above the audience.

Near the entrance, a woman in a burgundy dress pulls against the hand gripping her wrist. The man holding her stands close enough to block the doorway, his untouched cocktail resting on a narrow table beside them.

“I already told you I’m meeting somebody,” she explains, twisting her wrist as he tightens his fingers.

“Then they can wait,” the man replies, leaning closer. “I’m asking you to have one drink.”

“And I’m saying I don’t want one.” She pulls again, but his grip holds.

“Why’d you give me your name, then?” he demands, shifting his weight to keep her in front of him.

The woman stares at him. “Because you asked?”

“Exactly. We were getting along,” he insists, gesturing toward the bar with his free hand.

“We were talking about the weather,” she corrects him, attempting to step around his shoulder.

“And now you’re being rude.” He moves with her, forcing her to stop before she reaches the main aisle.

Rylan Kadeo enters the lounge halfway through that exchange, checking a message on his wrist display while a couple ahead of him collects their belongings from the hostess station. He’s wearing a loose black shirt with the upper buttons undone, fitted trousers, and leather sandals. His twists brush the back of his neck, and the geometric markings along his forearms remain visible beneath his rolled sleeves. Interlocking symbols continue beneath his collar, their dark lines following the curve of his throat.

He looks up when the woman tries to step around the man again. Rylan closes his wrist display, slips his hand into his pocket, and approaches them without changing his pace.

“Hey,” he greets the woman, opening his arms slightly. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Both turn toward him. The woman glances between Rylan and the hand around her wrist before her shoulders settle.

“Oh, thank God. I thought you forgot,” she replies, turning toward him.

“Forgot?” Rylan presses a hand to his chest. “After everything we’ve been through?”

She presses her lips together to contain a smile, while the man finally loosens his grip.

“Who are you?” he demands, looking Rylan over.

“Her ride.” Rylan glances at the man’s hand before offering his arm to the woman. “You mind?”

The man releases her, and she immediately takes Rylan’s arm. He guides her toward the bar, keeping his pace relaxed until they’ve cleared the entrance.

“Sorry I’m late,” Rylan continues. “Got distracted by a very convincing dessert menu.”

“That’s fine,” she answers, matching his pace. “I was about to come find you.”

“Seriously?” the man calls after them, following several steps into the lounge. “You just walk up and take somebody’s date?”

Rylan stops and looks at the woman. “Were you on a date?”

“Absolutely not,” she replies, turning toward the man.

Rylan looks back at him. “There you go.”

The man opens his mouth, glances at the nearby tables, and mutters something unpleasant before leaving the lounge. Rylan watches him disappear around the entrance partition, then releases the woman’s arm.

“Thank you,” she tells him, rubbing the red marks around her wrist. “I met that man downstairs about twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes.”

“He’s accomplished a lot in twenty minutes,” Rylan remarks, glancing toward the entrance.

“He kept telling me how much money he makes,” she explains, adjusting the bracelet that has slipped down her arm.

“Did he offer to share any?” Rylan asks, resting an elbow against the bar.

“Unfortunately, no,” she admits with a laugh.

“Then what’s the point?” Rylan wonders, lifting his hands.

She looks him over, her attention lingering on the markings along his forearm before returning to his face. “You know, I actually was meeting someone, but she’s running late. You’re welcome to keep me company until she gets here.”

“Tempting.” Rylan smiles, glancing toward the tables beside the windows. “But I came up here specifically to sit somewhere nobody knows me.”

“That’s unfortunate for me,” she teases, leaning against the bar.

“Devastating, really,” Rylan agrees, giving her a sympathetic nod.

She touches his arm. “I’m Celeste.”

“Rylan,” he introduces himself, taking her hand briefly.

“Well, Rylan, thank you for rescuing my evening,” Celeste tells him, giving his hand a small squeeze before releasing it.

“You’re welcome, Celeste. Don’t let another stranger steal the rest of it,” Rylan replies, leaving her with a smile.

He chooses a table along the windows, where a server brings him a menu before he has finished sitting down. The lounge’s low lighting reflects against the glass beside him, leaving the ocean visible beyond the faint outline of his own reflection.

“Good evening, sir. Can I start you with something?” the server asks, opening the drinks selection on her tablet.

“Rum. Dark, neat. And whatever you’ve got that involves chocolate,” Rylan orders, setting the menu aside.

“We have a warm chocolate tart with vanilla cream,” she offers, turning the tablet toward him.

“Perfect,” he decides without examining anything else.

“Would you like the dessert after your drink?” she asks, preparing to enter the order.

“I’d like them to meet each other,” Rylan replies, handing back the menu.

“Of course, sir.” The server smiles and heads toward the bar, weaving between two occupied tables.

Rylan stretches one leg beneath the table as the singer finishes her song. Her name is Molly, according to the illuminated sign beside the stage. She’s a Black woman with a powerful voice, a short silver dress, and dark curls pinned away from her face. She thanks the pianist, takes a sip of water, and adjusts the microphone before introducing a slower number. A handful of guests applaud while others return to their conversations.

A security officer enters the lounge shortly afterward, pausing near the hostess station to speak with the manager. Rylan notices Celeste approaching him near the bar, where she gestures toward the entrance and shows him her wrist. The officer listens without interrupting, occasionally glancing toward the corridor.

He’s a handsome brown-skinned Asian man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair brushed back from his forehead and a navy uniform fitted closely across his shoulders. His identification reads M. BAPTISTE. A communications device rests against his ear, and his wrist display illuminates as he records Celeste’s account. He shifts aside whenever a server passes, keeping the narrow aisle clear without interrupting the conversation.

Celeste notices Rylan watching and points him out. The officer follows her gesture, finishes entering something into his wrist device, and approaches.

“Mr. Kadeo?” he asks, stopping beside the table.

Rylan lowers his glass. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Malachi Baptiste. Ship security.” The officer gestures toward Celeste. “She mentioned you helped her with a passenger who was bothering her.”

“Did she tell you I was extremely brave?” Rylan asks, setting his glass down.

“She said you pretended to know her,” Malachi clarifies, glancing toward the bar.

“Less flattering, but accurate,” Rylan concedes.

Malachi’s lips curve briefly before he continues. “Did the gentleman threaten either of you?”

“He grabbed her wrist and wouldn’t let her leave. Once she had company, he decided to go annoy somebody else,” Rylan explains.

“Did you happen to get his name?” Malachi asks, opening the incident report on his wrist display.

“No. But he was wearing a cream jacket, had a gold watch roughly the size of a dinner plate, and apparently makes a tremendous amount of money,” Rylan recalls.

Malachi glances toward the entrance. “I believe I know who you’re talking about.”

“Wonderful. Tell him his personality needs servicing,” Rylan suggests, lifting his glass again.

Malachi smiles, showing a little more teeth this time. “I’ll speak with him. Thank you for intervening.”

“Happy to help,” Rylan replies with a small nod.

Malachi returns to Celeste, confirms a few details, and speaks briefly into his communications device. He remains near the bar afterward, reviewing something on his wrist display while the pianist begins the introduction to Molly’s next song.

Molly gets through the opening verse without difficulty, but her gaze keeps drifting toward a table near the front. A middle-aged man seated there has been watching her since the performance began, his face flushed from drinking. His two companions exchange uncomfortable looks when he leans backward in his chair and calls something toward the stage.

Molly keeps singing. He raises his voice over the music, drawing the attention of several nearby tables.

“Come on, baby,” he shouts, placing a hand over his crotch. “Give us something worth watching.”

Molly stops singing. The pianist continues for another two notes before noticing the silence beside him, and his hands settle against the keys.

“Sir,” Molly addresses him through the microphone, “please take your hand off your penis.”

Laughter ripples through the lounge, but the man only grins and spreads his knees farther apart.

“What? You don’t like the attention?” he calls back, ignoring the disapproving looks from his companions.

“I like being paid to sing,” Molly replies, shifting the microphone into her other hand. “There’s a difference.”

“Then sing something sexy,” he demands, leaning forward in his chair.

“I’m singing a love song,” Molly points out, gesturing toward the pianist.

“Make me feel it,” the man insists, moving his hand again.

Molly’s fingers tighten around the microphone. She pulls it from its stand and throws it across the space between the stage and the front tables. The microphone strikes the man squarely above his eyebrow, knocking him backward into his chair and sending a glass of wine across the table.

The pianist pushes back from his instrument as several guests rise from their seats. At the front table, the injured man scrambles upright, pressing a hand against his forehead.

“Are you fucking serious?” he roars, staring at the blood on his fingers.

Molly steps down from the platform, pointing toward him. “Keep your nasty fucking hands to yourself!”

Malachi is already moving, and two additional security officers enter through a service door near the stage. One approaches the injured passenger while the other moves toward Molly.

“Ma’am, I need you to come with me,” the officer instructs, positioning himself between her and the audience.

“Did you see what he was doing?” Molly demands, attempting to move around him.

“We’ll take statements from everyone involved,” the officer assures her, extending a hand to guide her away.

“Then take his first!” Molly snaps, pulling away from him.

Malachi reaches the table as the injured man attempts to push past his companions.

“Sir, stay seated,” he instructs, placing a hand against the back of the man’s chair. “We’ll have medical examine your injury.”

“She assaulted me!” the man protests, pointing toward the stage.

“And we’ll address that. Sit down,” Malachi repeats, keeping his hand against the chair until the man lowers himself into it.

Molly starts to answer, but her hand rises to her forehead. She blinks rapidly, takes an unsteady step, and catches the edge of the piano. The pianist rises from his bench, reaching toward her as she grips the polished wood.

“Molly, you okay?” he asks, moving around the keyboard.

“Just dizzy,” she mutters, pressing her fingers against her temple.

The security officer beside her notices the perspiration running along her hairline.

“Ma’am, you’re sweating quite a bit,” he observes, reaching toward her elbow.

“Because I’m onstage under lights,” Molly retorts, pulling her arm away.

Malachi turns toward her, releasing the chair. “Let’s have medical take a look at you.”

“I don’t need medical. I need that asshole to leave.” Molly points toward the table, but her hand begins trembling.

Malachi steps closer, studying her flushed face. “Molly, when did you start feeling dizzy?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, pressing her palm against her forehead.

“Any nausea? Headache?” Malachi continues, watching her blink against the stage lights.

“Jesus Christ. Can everybody stop talking?” She pushes away from the piano, nearly stumbling over the microphone cable.

The security officer reaches to steady her, and Molly whips around, raking her nails across his face. He cries out and staggers backward with four bleeding scratches along his cheek. His shoulder strikes the microphone stand, sending it clattering against the platform.

Guests nearest the stage retreat between the tables. Malachi catches Molly by the forearms before she can strike a second time, bracing his feet as she struggles against him.

“Molly. Stop,” he orders, keeping her hands away from his face.

“Get off me!” she screams, twisting against his grip.

“I’m going to let go when you stop swinging,” Malachi warns, holding her steady.

Molly’s teeth remain clenched for another moment, but her struggling weakens. She looks at the injured officer, then down at her own hands, where blood has collected beneath her fingernails. Her mouth falls open, and she draws a shaky breath.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers, swallowing hard.

The officer presses a cloth against his cheek while Malachi loosens his grip.

“It’s all right,” Malachi assures her. “We’re getting you checked.”

Molly nods shakily, allowing the two officers to escort her toward the service exit. Malachi follows them to the doorway, gives a short instruction over his communications device, and returns to the lounge.

The injured passenger is still demanding compensation when Malachi comes back. Several guests gather their belongings, and the lounge manager moves between tables, apologizing while a server clears the broken glass from the front of the stage.

Rylan finishes his rum and stands, leaving his napkin beside the empty glass. He approaches the platform, where the pianist has begun collecting his sheet music.

“Mind if I borrow that?” Rylan asks, gesturing toward the stage.

The pianist looks up from the music. “Borrow what?”

“The stage. Before everybody decides to sue the ship,” Rylan explains, glancing around the room.

The older man laughs and rests the music against the piano. “Can you sing?”

“A little,” Rylan answers, stepping closer to the platform.

“You know Ain’t No Sunshine?” the pianist asks, turning back toward the keyboard.

Rylan considers it for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Then be my guest,” the pianist offers, pulling his bench closer and adjusting the sheet music.

Rylan retrieves the microphone from the carpet, tests it with a light tap, and steps onto the stage.

“Good evening, everybody,” he greets the audience, waiting until a few conversations quiet. “Before we continue, I’d like to congratulate the gentleman at table six for becoming the first man in maritime history to lose an argument with a microphone.”

Laughter breaks out across the room. The man starts to rise again, but Malachi places a hand against the back of his chair.

“Sit down, sir,” Malachi instructs without looking away from the stage.

Rylan glances toward the pianist. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The piano begins, and Rylan waits through the introduction before lifting the microphone. His voice is a warm, controlled baritone with a slightly rough edge that suits the song. He takes his time with the melody, sustaining the lower notes while the pianist adjusts the accompaniment around him.

Conversations gradually quiet as the performance continues. A server pauses near the bar with a tray balanced against one palm, and Celeste returns from the corridor to take a seat near the back. She smiles when she recognizes Rylan, leaning toward a woman beside her to point him out. Malachi remains beside the bar, listening with his arms folded loosely across his chest.

By the second verse, the pianist has begun adding small flourishes between Rylan’s lines. Rylan catches his eye and smiles, giving him room to extend a passage before carrying the final notes without rushing. Applause rises from the tables as the pianist finishes the accompaniment.

“Thank you,” Rylan addresses the audience, lowering the microphone. “You’ve been lovely. Most of you.”

The audience laughs again as he returns the microphone to its stand and shakes the pianist’s hand.

“Appreciate it,” Rylan tells him.

“Anytime,” the older man replies, rising from the bench. “You ever get tired of whatever you do, come find me.”

“Careful. I might,” Rylan answers, giving the pianist’s hand another shake.

Rylan steps off the platform and finds Malachi waiting near the bar. Malachi chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got a good voice.”

“Thank you,” Rylan answers, accepting the compliment.

“Ever performed professionally?” Malachi asks, shifting aside to let a server pass.

“A few times. Nothing serious,” Rylan explains, adjusting the cuff of his shirt.

Malachi glances toward the stage, where the pianist has resumed arranging his music. “You’ve had an eventful evening, Mr. Kadeo.”

“I’m beginning to think this lounge has a management problem,” Rylan remarks.

“Enjoy the rest of your night,” Malachi replies, touching his communications device as another notification arrives.

“You too, Officer Baptiste,” Rylan answers, heading back toward his table.

Malachi nods and heads toward the service corridor while Rylan returns to his table. His chocolate tart has arrived beneath a silver warming cover, and he lifts it to discover the dessert is still warm.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, picking up his fork.

He has barely taken his first bite when someone screams near the service entrance. Rylan looks up from his plate, his fork still raised.

Molly is standing in the doorway, her silver dress soaked with blood. One side of her face has turned a mottled, angry red, and several raised lesions run from her neck beneath the neckline of her dress. Thick fluid glistens along the broken skin near her collarbone, and blood drips steadily from her chin.

Behind her, a security officer lies sprawled across the corridor floor, one hand pressed against his throat. Blood pumps between his fingers as he struggles to breathe, leaving streaks across the polished flooring whenever his legs move. Molly’s mouth opens, producing a low, wet sound that carries through the sudden quiet.

A server approaches her cautiously, extending one hand. “Miss? Are you hurt?”

Molly lunges before he can finish, knocking him backward into a table. His tray scatters glasses across the carpet as he hits the floor beneath her. She drives her face toward his neck, biting through his collar while he screams and claws at her shoulders.

People surge away from the doorway, overturning chairs and knocking drinks from tables. Rylan drops his fork and rises, already moving toward the stage.

“Get out!” he shouts, waving the nearest guests toward the main entrance. “Everybody, move!”

Molly lifts her head from the server’s neck, a piece of flesh hanging between her teeth. Her eyes settle on a woman standing motionless beside the bar, and she scrambles to her feet, launching herself across the floor.

Rylan plants one hand on the back of a sofa and vaults over it, clearing the low table beyond with a twisting movement that carries him directly toward the stage. His feet touch the platform, and he snatches up the microphone stand before Molly reaches the woman.

He swings the weighted base into Molly’s temple, throwing her sideways into a table. Glasses and broken ceramic scatter across the carpet as Rylan lands in a low crouch, turns the stand in his hands, and rises to face her.

Molly scrambles upright. Her jaw hangs crookedly, and a dark line of blood runs from her ear. The skin along her cheek has begun splitting around the lesions, exposing wet tissue beneath, but she charges again before Rylan can move farther away.

He steps onto the edge of an overturned chair, launches himself over her reaching arms, and twists in the air. His foot catches the back of her shoulder as he passes, driving her forward while he lands behind her. Molly crashes into the stage, catching herself against its edge before twisting toward him.

Rylan hooks the microphone stand beneath her arm and uses the leverage to drag her off balance. She pulls violently against the metal, nearly wrenching it from his hands, and he releases it before her snapping jaws can reach his wrist.

Molly lunges at his exposed chest. Rylan drops beneath her arms, plants both hands against the carpet, and drives his legs upward in a sharp double kick. His heels strike her chest, throwing her backward against the piano and sending a harsh, discordant sound through the lounge.

The pianist scrambles away from his bench as Molly rebounds from the instrument. Rylan rolls onto one shoulder, catches the microphone stand as he rises, and brings its weighted base down against the side of her skull. She drops to one knee, clawing at his leg, but he pivots away and strikes again before she can secure a grip.

Molly falls across the broken table, dragging a chair down with her. Rylan advances cautiously, watching her fingers twitch against the carpet. When she attempts to push herself upright, he brings the base down once more, and her arms collapse beneath her.

A chair scrapes across the floor behind Rylan. He turns, breathing hard, and sees the security officer who escorted Molly away stagger through the service entrance.

Four deep scratches mark his cheek. The surrounding skin is swollen and bright red, with small lesions spreading toward his jaw. His breathing comes through his open mouth in harsh, uneven bursts, and one hand drags along the doorframe, leaving blood on the painted surface.

“Sir?” a bartender calls from behind the counter, staring at the blood on the officer’s uniform.

The officer turns toward the voice, his lips pulling back to expose bloodstained teeth. Rylan tightens his grip on the microphone stand and moves toward the bar.

“Everybody out,” he orders, pointing toward the entrance. “Now.”

The officer launches himself at the bartender, but Rylan intercepts him from the side, planting one foot against the bar’s lower rail and springing upward. He catches the officer across the shoulders with both legs, using his momentum to twist the man away from the counter.

They hit the floor together, knocking a stool onto its side. Rylan releases his hold immediately, rolls clear of the officer’s grasping hands, and comes up beside the overturned furniture.

The officer scrambles after him, catching the stool with his shin. Rylan kicks it farther into his path, forcing him to stumble, then vaults onto the bar. Bottles rattle beneath his feet as he runs two steps along the counter and launches himself over the officer’s head.

He catches the man’s shoulder in passing, redirecting him into the shelving behind the bar. Bottles tumble from their brackets and shatter against the counter, sending liquor and broken glass across the floor.

The officer turns with a guttural snarl, blood and saliva running down his chin. He charges again, swinging both arms toward Rylan’s head. Rylan ducks beneath the first blow, slips around the second, and plants one hand on the counter to lift himself into a spinning kick. His heel catches the officer across the jaw, knocking him sideways into a row of stools.

The man collapses against them, sending two crashing to the floor. Rylan lands beside the counter, but the officer is already rising, his fingers closing around the edge of another stool.

“Fuck,” Rylan mutters, retreating toward the fallen microphone stand.

The officer lunges, catching Rylan’s sleeve. Fabric tears as Rylan twists free, using the man’s grip to pull him forward. He plants a foot against the officer’s hip and flips backward, driving both heels into his chest as he rotates. The officer crashes onto his back, striking the floor hard enough to dislodge a nearby table.

Rylan lands in a crouch beside the microphone stand, snatches it up, and brings the weighted base down against the man’s head before he can rise. The officer convulses once, his heels scraping against the carpet, then lies still.

Rylan remains beside him for several seconds, watching his chest and hands for movement. When none comes, he straightens and steps backward, breathing through his mouth as he surveys the lounge.

Blood spots the front of his shirt, and the microphone stand hangs from one hand, its metal shaft bent near the base. Overturned furniture blocks the aisles, broken glass covers the carpet, and abandoned drinks spill from the tables. The overhead music has stopped, leaving the ventilation system and distant shouting audible through the open entrance.

He approaches Molly carefully and nudges her shoulder with the stand. Her body doesn’t move. He checks the second officer in the same manner before turning toward the service entrance, where the first security officer remains motionless in the corridor, one hand resting against his ruined throat.

The bartender has disappeared behind the counter, and the server Molly attacked lies near the doorway, his blood spreading into the carpet. Rylan watches him for a moment, but the man’s chest remains still.

A soft chime sounds overhead, followed by the automatic brightening of the entertainment lights. The stronger illumination exposes the bloodstained floor, broken tables, and overturned chairs as the public-address system activates.

𝘈𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.

Rylan looks toward the entrance as another scream rises from somewhere beyond the lounge. A man’s voice begins shouting for help, followed by the sound of something heavy striking a wall.

He glances down at the bent microphone stand and adjusts his grip.

“Yeah,” he mutters, stepping over the broken glass. “We’re going to need something better than this.”

He heads toward the corridor.