The screams came first.
Dylan stood paralyzed in a cloud of smoke and blood, helpless to do anything but watch as the reanimated flesh attacked Carlo's chest—bone snapping, flesh tearing. His brother's eyes met his, frozen with fear, begging.
"NOOOO!", he bellowed in agony and pain.
The dream changed. His dad was now on the ground, a machete falling from his grip as a horde of zombies pulled him down. Dylan attempted to flee, but his legs wouldn't budge. He stretched out, his voice raw, "NO!" But it was already too late. The ripping of flesh rang like thunder.
"DAAAAAD!", twisted in anguish and rage as he couldn't save his dad.
Yet another change.
His mother—alive, screaming—cornered by survivors with mad eyes and bloodied weapons. One of them smiled before shooting her through the chest. She fell, reaching out for him.
He dropped to his knees, the room spinning, the guilt suffocating. "I should've defended them. I should've rescued them. I failed them all."
Then—
He collapsed. As if the earth had given way beneath him, his body dropped through blackness. Wind howled in his ears. His heart pounded against his chest.
And then—
He jolted awake. Panting. Wide-eyed. Chest laboring.
The dock beneath him groaned, sunlight leaked through patchy clouds, ocean air caressed his dampened skin, waves lapped softly against the wooden pilings, teasing the tempest within him.
He slowly stood up, hands shaking, the sound of his own screams still echoing in his head. But the dead were all gone. There was only the sea left. Dylan remained motionless for a moment, the lapping waves anchoring him. He let out a sharp breath, attempting to shake the dream off his body. His hands continued to shake. He swept a hand across his face, wiping away the sweat, then stood up.
He bent and picked up his tomahawk—its blade still dirty from the hunt the day before. Then the sack: a canvas bag that was scuffed and faded, containing a handful of dented tin cans, some dried plants, and two rabbits he'd caught that morning. Not a great deal, but it was enough to survive.
Time to return.
The VIRA Complex (Viral Intelligence Research Authority) wasn't so far—an hour of walk down the overgrown streets and rusting gates, or minutes if he could discover a working vehicle. But Dylan walked. It helped him think. Or forget.
He slung the bag across his back, shifted the tomahawk at his hip, and cast one final glance at the ocean. Then he turned away from it—and began walking.
The walk was quiet—too quiet. Dylan walked down the grown path with trained nonchalance, boots crunching gravel and desiccated leaves. His hold on the tomahawk never relaxed. He walked by rusted vehicles, their windows blown out, vines worming through the steering wheels as nature retaken what had been left. A weathered road sign indicated toward the VIRA Complex, letters scrawled barely visible under grime and bullet holes.
As he topped the last hill, the building was visible, VIRA Complex. Once a shining research center, now a survival fortress. Its high perimeter fences were gated with scrap metal and wire with barbs. The main building—once white and sterile—now had its surfaces stained with time, smoke, and blood.
As he arrived, the group sat up, their eyes dropping to the haul. Lucas smiled silently in approval while Taylor managed a weak smile, her fatigue evident. "Dinner's lookin' good tonight," Ethan teased lightly, though his voice gave away his own tiredness.
Little was said by Dylan, as always, passing on the supplies before withdrawing to the edge of the room. The others grumbled between themselves, appreciative of the supplies, but Dylan hardly noticed. His mind was already elsewhere, thinking back on the tranquility of the dock.
A couple of days later, midmorning, the call of isolation beckoned Dylan once more. The group was engrossed in one routine or another—sorting out their intentions—and no one asked him anything when he snatched up his tomahawk and left unnoticed.
By the time he had arrived at the dock, the sun was rising higher, he sat down on the weathered planks, stretching out his legs as he took his familiar place. He exhaled, allowing the burden of his world to leave him, if only for a moment.
At the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement—a shadow, or the reflection of something otherworldly. His body tightened reflexively, but he scolded himself and shook his head. The apocalypse had a tendency to get inside one's head, so that one began to see threats in every shadow.
The dock groaned softly behind him, and before he could move, a figure launched at him, his movements slow and predatory. Dylan spun about, his hand snapping toward his tomahawk, but the stranger dived, sending it flying from reach. The battle erupted into a savage slapping of fists, each impact delivered with raw, uncontrolled power. The man was powerful, his movements deliberate, but Dylan struggled with the desperation of a man who had endured too much to let go now.
They struggled, the dock creaking under their combined weight as they punched and kicked. Dylan's knuckles landed against the man's jaw, sending him reeling backward, but the stranger regained his footing in a hurry, his eyes blazing with greed. He coveted the food Dylan had gone to such trouble to gather, the product of his labor, and he was ready to kil for it.
Dylan was able to grab a throwing knife from his pocket and hold it tightly in his hand as the man withdrew a dagger from his back pocket. The atmosphere was charged with tension as they moved around in a circle, both injured but not ready to give up. The man attacked, his dagger slicing through the air, but Dylan dodged to the side, thrusting the knife into the man's neck with a strength that was born of sheer determination.
The man choked, his eyes wide in shock as blood poured from the wound. He staggered, his movements weakening, until he fell onto the dock, dead. Dylan took a step back, his side on fire with pain where the dagger had struck home. His vision confused, the world spinning around him as he slipped and fell into the water below.
The cold embrace of the ocean was a shock and a relief, stinging away the pain and hosing down the blood. He battled to remain awake, his body heavy as he tried to break through to the surface. The dock towered over him, a testament to the struggle that had come so close to killing him. But Dylan was a survivor, and even in death, he would not release his hold.
The icy water numbed and stung the burning pain in his side, draining what little energy he had remaining. His muscles weighed heavy as lead, his body slipping further down, he attempted to kick, to thrust himself up towards the top, but fatigue and the merciless cost of effort left him helpless. His lungs seared, crying for oxygen, and his vision began to blur.
As the darkness closed in on him, a flash of movement caught his waning eye. A form, shapeless and vague, moved toward him with speed and agility that seemed bordering on unnatural. His addled brain whirled with possibilities. A zombie? A hallucination? Something else? He didn't know.
The figure reached him, firm hands clasping his arms and drawing him in. There was an odd warmth in the touch. Dylan's awareness faded further, the world around him blurring into nothingness.
When he opened his eyes once more, he was on the beach. The soothing sound of waves against the shore echoed in his ears, and the salty flavor of the sea still clung to his lips. He blinked, confused, his body throbbing with pain and weakness. A few meters away, the dock remained quiet, and beyond that, the dead body of the man who had assaulted him lay prostrate, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him.
Dylan's hand went automatically to his side, where the stab wound pulsed with agony. He looked out over the beach for a glimpse of the figure that had rescued him, but nothing was there—only the seemingly endless width of ocean in front of him.
His breathing shallow as he struggled to cinch the improvised bandage around his flank. A strip of cloth ripped from his shirt. With every movement, sudden, stabbing pain coursed through him, but he ground his teeth and bore it.
Slumping back against the rough sand, he let his head fall back toward the heavens. His mind was reeling. How did he find himself here, on the beach, still breathing? The ocean had pulled him beneath; he had felt the cold smothering closing in. Someone—something—had pulled him free, but whom? Or what? The questions stacked up but no solutions presented themselves.
Summoning his strength, he pushed himself upright, leaning precariously for a moment as dizziness swept over him. He closed his eyes tightly, clamping a hand over the improvised bandage to stop the searing pain. Just as the weak noises began to settle into their familiar pattern, a resounding splash cut through the stillness.
His eyes flicked open, his eyes scanning the beach and the water beyond. He spun around in the direction of the dock, his eyes flicking to where the man's body had landed—except it wasn't there now. The red splash on the planks was still there, a grotesque reminder of the struggle, but the body had vanished. His breath came faster. Had it slipped into the sea? Had someone moved it? The idea sent a chill through him.
Pulling his weakened frame, Dylan hobbled to the dock, every step punctuated by the aching throb in his side. When he arrived at the location, he bent down, clenching his tomahawk with shaky hands. The solid weight brought some solace, but it wasn't sufficient to calm his jittery nerves. He quickly gathered the loot the man attempted to steal—canned goods and materials he had struggled so much to defend.
He lingered there, looking around once more, his eyes squinting with distrust. There was nobody. No hero. No corpse. Only the biting wind on his skin and the open expanse of the sea.
He was alone. Completely, and utterly alone.
Peripherally, a subtle ripple in the water was detected by Dylan. His senses prickled, a surge of adrenaline slicing through the fog of pain and fatigue. Squinting, he shook his head as if dispelling the encroaching dizziness, attributing the vision to what he imagined he saw. Something—no, someone—was paddling just beneath the surface.
Blinking hard, he struggled to bring it into focus, but before he could make anything of it, a head materialized out of the water a few feet away. He sprang into motion at once, muscles cramping as he raised his tomahawk, the familiar weight settling him even as his body grumbled at the exertion. His eyes narrowed, every instinct in his body trained on the figure before him.
It was not a zombie—that was clear. The radiant radiance of her skin was a stark contrast to the rotting flesh of the dead. Water ran down her face and hair, which fell in long, wet waves, surrounding a fragile, almost ethereal loveliness. She didn't flinch or lunge to strike or even moved at the presence of the dagger held against her throat. She only regarded him, the glint of her eyes unwavering.
Dylan's mind raced, how the hell had she been underwater for so long? No one could survive like that—not without air. Yet, there she was, as calm as the still sea behind her. A zombie couldn't manage this, but what else could she be? His curiosity gnawed at him, but his wariness kept him frozen, tomahawk still aimed.
Her face reflected his own: wary, guarded, but unmistakably curious. She leaned forward, so slightly, as if observing him, her big eyes flashing with an intelligence that narrowed his hold on the tomahawk. She wasn't afraid—not of him, not of the tomahawk, not of anything.
Dylan's grip on the tomahawk faltered, the blade dipping almost imperceptibly as his body turned against him. His knees went out, his head spun, and then, like a marionette whose strings are cut, he fell. The tomahawk went from his hand as he fell backwards into the water, the splash ringing out in the quiet air before an oppressive silence reclaimed the dock.
The woman's eyes followed as his body went down to the water, his rippling movement herping her image in the surface. She stood there for a moment, staring at the man moving further out into the depths. He had pointed a gun at her, why should she save him?. But something in his face stayed with her—a momentary vulnerability under the layers of caution and exhaustion.
She blew softly, and then she was underwater. Her movements were strong but controlled as she swam towards him as his body still sank. She caught up to him easily, her fingers locking around his arms. She gazed at him for an instant, tracing the curves of his face, the creases carved by fatigue and adversity. Then, with no further consideration, she encircled his chest with an arm.
Breaking the surface of the water, she stroked towards the beach with careful precision, the dead weight of his body impeding her only slightly. The waves washed against her as she dragged him onto the sandy beach. She stood there for an instant, her loose hair dripping down her back as she gazed at him. He was out, defenseless, his breathing shallow but regular.
Content that he would live, the woman floated back into the water, she gave one last look back towards the shore before slipping beneath the waves, leaving no indication of her existence other than the weak ripples traveling across the ocean.
The world was fuzzy when Dylan opened his eyes, he was back on the beach, the sand scraping at his flesh. For an instant, confusion hazed his mind—he had slipped into the ocean, gone under the waves. He recalled the black emptiness, the cold weight, and… her. The woman from the sea. His chest caught as the recollection came flooding back.
As he shifted his head a little, he noticed his tomahawk resting just within reach. Next to it, the looted goods—the canned goods and provisions—were arranged neatly. His eyebrows were furrowed as he gazed at them. No one could have recovered them, not after it sunk into the sea. But he was on his own once more. The ominous quietness of the beach was left.
Sharp pain coursed through his side as he moved, recalling the long gash he bore. The bandage was damp. He knew he could not remain here. Through sheer force of will, he pushed himself upright, each movement causing a pang of agony. Fear and resolve warred within him, the memory of the woman still vivid. Friend or enemy, he could not remain to discover.
With quivering steps, he picked up his tomahawk and slung the booty over his shoulder. His shuddering body complained against each movement, but survival insisted he keep moving. Dragging himself along the route he knew by heart, he stumbled towards the VIRA COMPLEX.
The hour seemed like days as he eventually made it to the entrance. The people inside halted as they caught sight of him, their expressions a blur of horror and shock. Blood oozed from his side, forming a trail as he lurched through the doors. His pale face was framed by clammy skin, and the shaking became more intense. Lucas and Ethan were quick to offer their support as he fell into their arms.
"Jenkins!" Lucas shouted, a note of urgency in his voice. Dr. Jenkins appeared rapidly, his own face changing to a look of intense concentration as he examined Dylan's condition. "Put him down, now!"
They coordinated to ease Dylan down onto a table, Taylor and Elena collecting clean cloths and water as Jenkins readied his equipment. The wound was deep, but survivable, if the bleeding could be controlled. Jenkins's fingers moved confidently, stitching and cleaning as Dylan hovered on the brink of awareness.
Elena sat beside him, hand on his shoulder, her voice whispering soothing words as the surgery went on. Ethan paced, and Lucas stood guard, his jaw clenched in a hard line. They stuck by him, their worry tangible, their hope tenuous. And through them, Dylan continued to the next day, weak but alive. The scars would stay with him, an ever-present reminder of the battle and the enigmatic woman who had rescued him.
A few days following the accident, the sun rose in the morning through the cloud as Dylan tightened the strap of his tomahawk. His movements were intentional, his body firm even as it still ached from his rehabilitation. His determination was certain—he was going out again. The method of scavenging seemed like a lifeline, something to keep him anchored in the madness of their world.
Lucas intercepted him at the door, his expression firm but not confrontational. "You're not going out there alone," he said. His tone carried the weight of authority, but it was softened by concern. "Not after what happened last time. Take someone with you."
Dylan halted, swiveling about to face Lucas, his jaw flexing. "Don't need a babysitter," he growled, his tone harsh. "I'm quicker on my own. Less noise, less fuss."
Lucas exhaled, massaging the back of his neck. "Dylan, okay. You nearly didn't get back at all. Just… consider this. This isn't for holding you back. This is for saving your life.
Dylan's glare faltered not at all, his obstinacy carved into every feature of his face. Following a charged silence, Lucas nodded weakly. He knew once Dylan's mind was made up, nothing would turn him around. "Fine. Just… take care, okay?
Dylan grunted in assent, opening the door and stepping out into the warm light of morning. The world outside was thick, but he pressed on, his boots crunching gravel beneath him as he walked away from the VIRA COMPLEX. Rather than taking himself straight into the city to gather supplies, his feet took him towards a well-known trail.
He didn't know why he was returning. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was something else. At the dock's edge, he laid his tomahawk down carefully. Crouching, he ran his fingers over the weathered wood. The site felt different now, more weighed with the memory of what occurred. And yet, there was no hint of her, no indication that she'd been any more than a product of his abused mind.
Nonetheless, he lingered, his gaze locked on the horizon, scanning the rippling water for answers that would not materialize.
Hours crept by as Dylan sat on the dock's edge, he stood looking out at the water, waiting, willing the woman to appear once more. For anyone other than him, the uncertainty and the time spent would have driven them mad, but not him. For some reason he couldn't quite grasp, his normal restlessness surrendered to a soft resolve. He had to know whether she existed or was some figment born of his exhausted mind.
At last, just when he was about to admit defeat and resume scavenging, the water broke. A ripple, a change in the distance—and there she was. Her head broke out of the surface of the sea, dark, straight hair stuck to her face and shoulders, and bright with beads of water. Her gaze met his with an insistence that rooted him where he stood, piercing and unflinching.
Instinct took over, jolting him out of his daze. His hand went automatically to his tomahawk, lifting it as he struggled up to standing. The familiar balance calmed him, even though the pain in his side complained at the sudden motion. He kept his focus on her, but she did not bolt, did not take cover back in the water. Her face instead grew harder. The curiosity and serenity she'd exhibited were no longer present, replaced by something raw, something burning. Her eyes darkened, her lips set into a think line, and Dylan sensed the change in the air between them. Her rage was visible, and it wasn't difficult to second-guess why. He didn't have to hear her speak to recognize the accusation in her gaze: *I saved you, and this is how you repay me?*
Dylan slowed, her glare causing him to hesitate. He wasn't certain if it was guilt or doubt or something else, but he felt the crush of her eyes. If she had rescued him—and all his instincts screamed that she had—what did that make him, holding a gun on her like she was merely another threat?
His head was in conflict, years of survival had conditioned him to never let his guard down, to never trust anyone, to expect peril around every bend.
But this wasn't a zombie or another desperate survivor. She didn't lunge at him or try to attack him. She simply floated in the air, regarding him with an expression that was hurt and angry. The tension ate at him. Place the tomahawk down and risk it? Or stand his ground and risk alienating—or worse, inciting—someone who had already saved his life? His hand on the tomahawk clamped down tighter, his heart thudding in his chest. He didn't budge, stuck in the grip of a choice he wasn't certain he knew how to make.
Dylan's chest swelled and subsided in a slow, heavy beat as he remained rigid on the dock, his mind continuing to wrestle in a desperate tug-of-war. The pressure of survival and instinct crushed upon him…finally, with a deep sigh of resignation, he bent his knees and slowly set the tomahawk down on the wooden dock. His actions were slow, cautious, as though to make any quick move might anger the woman observing him.
His eyes never left hers, cautious but not able to look away. His hands relaxed their hold, allowing the tomahawk to rest, he straightened, his frame tense, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender—a silent recognition of the fragile trust he was extending.
The woman leaned her head a fraction to one side, her eyes never leaving his as she examined him. And then, to his astonishment, her lips lifted into a faint smile. It wasn't mocking or cruel; it was gentle, nearly playful, and Dylan was taken aback. His breath caught, a strange, unfamiliar sensation fluttering in his chest—neither fear nor comfort, but something undefined and disconcerting.
His muscles flexed as If buckling under the strange emotion, and he swept the thought aside. This was not the moment for vulnerability, for relaxing completely. Her smile had not dispelled the tension between them; it had merely redirected it. His hands remained up, and his heart thudded in his chest.
The woman's face remained calm, but her keen, intelligent eyes followed each fleeting motion he made, as if attempting to uncover the man who had aimed a gun at her mere seconds before. Dylan's heart pounded in his ears as he remained frozen, every intake of breath pulling him further into this otherworldly, precarious bond he would not acknowledge.
The woman moved slowly, methodically, as If gauging the depth of his response. She dipped down, her eyes alone remaining above water, staring at him with a ferocity that made Dylan's flesh creep. Then, with a swift movement of her body, she closed the distance, the water rippling gently around her. Dylan involuntarily retreated, his boots scraping on the wooden slats of the dock. His chest heaved in his chest, but he couldn't seem to avert his eyes.
She halted a few feet away from him, her eyes never wavering from his. Then, with a swift change, she reached out and grasped the dock's edge. Her fingers wrapped around the worn wood, and she started to hoist herself up. Dylan's breath hitched as he stood there and watched her fight, the slippery surface not allowing her to get a hold. That's when he saw it—her lower body, glinting just below the surface. It wasn't human. It was a tail, slender and shiny, its dark green skin shining in the sunlight in a manner that seemed almost mythical. Like out of a book, a children's fairytale come to life.
His head spun, attempting to put what he was witnessing Into perspective. Was this real? Was it a dream? The fatigue, the loss of blood—perhaps it had all just finally caught up to him. But no matter how much his brain attempted to rationalize the situation, the image in front of him would not vanish.
The woman persisted in trying to lift herself up onto the dock, her movements becoming increasingly frustrated as the smooth surface foiled her attempts. Dylan remained immobile, his muscles taut, his thoughts a maelstrom of confusion and disbelief. Then, as if breaking out of a trance, he took a slow step forward.
The woman's head jerked around to face him, eyes in alarm narrowing. She stood frozen, her hold on the dock growing tighter as she stared at him, her face a combination of caution and interest. Dylan hesitated in his steps, lifting his hands slightly to indicate he meant no harm. His actions were slow, measured, as he attempted to communicate he wasn't a threat. But her eyes stayed sharp, her body tense and ready to pull back at the first indication of threat.
Neither of them moved for a minute, the tension between them dense with unspoken questions and unyielding tension. Dylan's brain spun, but his gut instructed him to remain motionless, to allow her to make the next step. Whatever she was, whoever she was, he wasn't going to drive her away.
"I just wanna help," he finally spoke, his voice low and raspy, breaking the silence. The words sounded strange on his lips, uncertain, but he intended to say them.
The woman's head canted to one side, her intelligent, piercing eyes narrowing as she regarded him. Her face softened ever so slightly, enough to show a flicker of comprehension. She reached out slowly, deliberately, her hand offering his the caution but also the hesitant trust.
Dylan's shoulders tightened, his breath snagged in his throat. He didn't know if he could even trust his own movements at this point. Slow and step by step, he moved to the dock's edge. His boots scraped against the wood lightly as he bent down, his eyes never leaving hers. Stretching out, his hard, calloused hand wrapped around hers. Cool, smooth, her skin sent a shiver through him, a reminder of just how odd this moment truly was.
Their fingers touched for a moment before Dylan moved his weight to provide more pressure. Together, her other hand clutched the dock tightly, and they worked in tandem. The dock groaned under their weight as she hauled herself up. At last, she collapsed onto the dock, her upper body leaning against it slightly as she gasped for air.
Her tail dangled above the water, its faintly shimmering surface seeming to ripple with every tiny movement. Dylan released her hand hastily and stepped back a pace as he straightened. His heart was pounding in his chest as he looked at her—no longer merely a shape half-concealed in the waves but someone… something… unmistakably alive.
The woman's eyes rose to meet his again, her eyes no longer cautious but contemplative, as if she were re-evaluating him. For an instant, the tension between them relaxed, replaced by something more subdued.
The woman sat hunched forward on the edge of the dock, Dylan a few paces away, his face inscrutable, though his thoughts went into overdrive trying to keep up with what was happening in front of him. She leaned her head to one side, the water stuck to her skin, refracting the light so she appeared almost otherworldly. Dylan couldn't make up his mind if she was dangerous or merely lost and misplaced in this life like he was. Either way, the instant was something he'd never known—and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
He cleared his throat, the grating sound shattering the oppressive silence. "So, uh… what are you?" The tone was rough, unrefined, but they were the best he could manage. He cringed inwardly at how silly he must be.
Her lips twitched into a weak smile, as if she was mocking his clumsy attempt at conversation. He shook his head hard, "Yeah, sure, that was a stupid question," he growled, his voice harsher than before. His gaze darted to her tail, then back up to her face. "You ain't no zombie, that's for sure. But whatever you are… why the hell'd you save me?"
Her voice as sweet melody on the wind. "Celestia Yve," she spoke, syllable by syllable smooth and measured. Her eyes remained fastened on him as her lips curled into a subtle smile. "Or you can call me Yve.".
Dylan blinked, his forehead creasing slightly with the jarring noise. Her voice was something he'd never heard before, gentle but authoritative, with a weight he couldn't identify. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, struggling to come up with something to say. "Dylan," he came out with finally, his tone rough and unsteady. He awkwardly cleared his throat, readjusting his stance. "Dylan Pierce.
Yve leaned in slightly, her smile broadening. "Dylan," she said again, as if to taste the name on her lips. Her eyes relaxed, and for the first time, she showed a flicker of real warmth in her face.
Dylan paused, then sat down on the dock slowly, maintaining a few feet of wary distance between them. He flinched, his side pulling a little on the still-tender healing process, but he pushed aside the pain. His hands drummed against his knees, no idea where else to put them. The tension was still there, but no longer crushing—it had eased into something quieter, something that had the strange feeling of… safety.
So…" he started, his voice dying away. He looked at her, and then hastily back away, "Y-you, uh." He paused, clenching his jaw in annoyance at his own stammering. "You got a. tail." The words spewed out jerkily, and he instantly wished he'd never said them.
Yve released a gentle laugh, a sound that was musical yet surprisingly unsettling. She cocked her head as she regarded him with a blend of humor and interest. "I do," she answered softly, smiling more deeply. There was no teasing in her voice, only a simple pleasure at his clumsiness.
Dylan's ears blazed, and he wriggled uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "Didn't mean it like that," he growled, running the back of his neck. "It's just… I never seen nothin' like you before." He looked at her again, his blue eyes meeting hers for a fleeting instant before looking away.
Yve's smile relaxed as she regarded him, her amusement replaced by something softer. She enjoyed his rough words, the way he struggled through the dialogue a stark contrast to the tough façade that he wore.
Dylan shifted uncomfortably, his fingers drumming against the edge of the wooden dock as he glanced over at Yve. The silence was thick between them, the weight of unasked questions bearing down on him. His jaw clenched as he struggled to untangle the confused jumble of words in his mind. He was not a talker, and certainly not when it came to speaking of… whatever it was that he had to say.
At last, he cleared his throat, the grating sound cutting into the stillness. "So, uh…" He paused, looking out over the water as if perhaps it could provide him with the courage he required. "Back there. In the water."
Yve tilted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his, brow slightly arched as she waited for him to speak. Her silence was not cold, nor was it precisely encouraging. It was patient, waiting.
Dylan swallowed hard, scrubbing the back of his neck. His speech came out stilted, uneven. "I mean… you—how'd you…" He cut off again, annoyed with himself, his fingers drumming on the planks. He blew out sharply, making himself concentrate. "You pulled me out. Saved me. Twice." He finally looked into hers, the question clear in his face even if he couldn't quite put it into words.
Yve looked at him for a moment, her look softening. There was no humor in her face this time, only a respectful understanding of how hard it would have been for him to ask. "Yes," she said quietly, her voice even and steady, as if she was waiting for him to go on.
He mouth compressing into a thin line. "Why?" The word spilled out before he could censor it. His blue eyes searched hers, his confusion and curiosity exposed. "Why'd you do it? You didn't have to. Don't even know me. Hell, I probably ain't worth it."
Yve cocked her head, her hair spilling over one shoulder. "And yet, here you are," she murmured, her voice bearing a soft strength. Her tail flexed slightly, causing a ripple to flow through the water beneath. "Perhaps I thought differently."
Her reply surprised him, his brow creasing as he attempted to understand. "That don't answer much," he grumbled, his tone rough but not ungentle. "I mean. What in the world are you? How'd you even get me outta that place? Twice?
Yve's face grew softer still, and she leaned forward a bit, her hands on the dock. "I am what you see," she told him, her voice measured. "A sea Siren. And as for rescuing you…" She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the sea for an instant before refocusing on his. "I suppose it was just the right thing to do."
Dylan snorted softly, but it was without any real humor. "Right thing, huh? Don't seem like the world's full of folks thinkin' that way anymore."
Her smile came back again, weak but sincere. "Maybe not," she said, her voice soft. "But that does not mean we should get lost to the world's darkness."
Dylan went quiet, her words resonating somewhere within him. He wasn't sure he trusted all that cheer, but something in the way she phrased it made it sound less like a lecture and more like something he could still decide on. He looked at his tail again, still glowing softly in the sun. "And that?" he asked, waving vaguely. "That aspect of you. How is it even possible? You shouldn't—shouldn't even exist."
Yve smiled quietly, the voice a soft ringing of chimes. "And yet, here I am," she repeated his initial words, the twinkle in her eye a hint of mischief. "It's a long story, Dylan Pierce. One that I'm not sure you're ready to hear, that is."
He frowned lightly, not because he was angry but because he was irritated with her evasion. "Guess you ain't plannin' on makin' it easy, huh?"
Her smile widened, and for the very first time, there was a glimmer of something playful, nearly teasing in her face. "Where's the fun in that?" she answered, her tone filled with soft amusement.
Dylan let out a huff, shaking his head minutely as he rested back on his hands. "Figures," he growled, though even the slightest tug of a smile went through at the corner of his mouth. He still had no clue what he was dealing with, but for the first time, it didn't feel so much like a threat. And that, at least, was something.
The soothing quiet of the waves against the dock was shattered by the low, unmistakable rumble of Dylan's stomach. His face went tight, his lips drawing into a thin line as if willpower alone might stifle it. Yve, sitting serenely nearby, glanced in his direction, her brow rising slightly, though her face gave away her amusement.
"You're hungry," she said plainly, her voice soft yet certain, her sharp ears catching what he tried to deny.
Dylan shifted uncomfortably, his hand instinctively going to his stomach. "Ain't nothin'," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "Just… ain't eaten much, that's all."
Yve tilted her head, her smile both kind and teasing. "And that's not hunger?" She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "You need food."
"I'm fine," he shot back, more gruffly than he intended. He was already embarrassed enough without her pressing the matter. "Don't need no help."
But before he could complain more, Yve pushed herself suddenly off the dock and into the water with a flowing, perfect dive, her shining tail flashing fleetingly before she plunged beneath the waves. The splash rang through the air, leaving Dylan standing in its wake, agog and bewildered. "What the." He said, his eyes scanning the place where she had gone.
For an instant, he froze, not knowing what to do. The idea did cross his mind to grab his tomahawk, but he didn't. She wasn't dangerous—at least, she hadn't been so far. Nevertheless, her sudden vanishing left him uneasy.
Below the surface, Yve swam with intent, her tail working her through the water, she was in her element now—powerful, precise, and completely at home. Hunting came as second nature to her, an ability that had been refined over centuries as both hunter and guardian of the sea. She zigzagged deeper, her sharp eyes scanning her environment until she arrived at the colder, deeper waters where schools of tuna undulated in rhythmic harmony.
It didn't take long to locate her prey. A massive adult tuna swam at the periphery of the school, its lean, glistening body catching faint slivers of light that penetrated the water. In a swift, deliberate strike, Yve covered the distance, her tail snapping with precision. The fish struggled to get free, its body jerking in a desperate bid to escape, but she was quicker—stronger. Her arms clasped securely around it, her hold firm but soft as she turned and set off on the return.
Surfacing, Yve stroked smoothly towards the dock, her tail sending soft waves through the water in her wake. With a swift motion, she hurled the still-fluttering tuna onto the wooden boards. The fish thudded onto the dock with a sodden splat, its body struggling and thrashing as water sprang in all directions.
Dylan startled, his hand flying instantly to his tomahawk as he sprang back into the step. "What the—" His eyes went wide as he shifted his gaze from the fish to the water, then on to Yve as she broke the surface, her head bobbing up. She regarded him calmly, a look of smug satisfaction in her eyes, as though this was completely normal.
Dylan's bewilderment and suspicion were written across his face. "The hell's wrong with you?" he finally got out, his voice laced with an equal measure of frustration and incredulity. And even as he spoke, his stomach growled again, loud and protesting, betraying him once more.
Yve just smiled, her mouth curling into that subtle, knowing smile she possessed, as though to say, *You needed it, whether you want to admit it or not.*
The tuna thrashed about on the pier, its strong tail propelling sprays of water as it struggled against its destiny. Dylan backed away slowly, his hand going to his tomahawk automatically as he saw the fish edging perilously close to the edge. "Damn animal's gonna fling itself back into the water," he growled under his breath, his aggravation growing.
As the tuna thrashed one last time, struggling to slide into the sea, Dylan held up his tomahawk, moving with a speed that belied the lingering pain in his side. The shot was swift, the blade sinking into the fish and ending its thrashing immediately. He let go of the weapon, taking a sharp breath as he saw it cease to move, its slippery body lying still on the planks.
Yve resurfaced a second later, head out of the water, water drops streaming down her face as she gazed at Dylan with calm, watchful eyes. Her eyes darted to the now still tuna and back to him. "Impressive," she breathed softly, her voice barely hinting at approval.
Dylan let out a huff, his mouth curling into a soft grimace. "Wasn't gonna lose it after all that," he growled, his voice gruff but unshakeable.
Yve moved slightly through the water, her hands grasping the dock in an effort to heave herself up. Her tail waved behind her, sparkling in the sunlight, but the wet surface rendered her efforts useless. The water seeping from her skin made it harder still, rendering her powerless to find the grip to haul herself onto the dock.
Dylan observed her struggling for a moment, his own brow furrowing. He knew she required assistance—just like then—but the recollection of her tail still made him uncomfortable. With a disheartened sigh, he leaned forward, putting aside his tomahawk as he extended a hand to her. "C'mere," he told her, low but firm.
Yve paused, her keen eyes fastened on him as if measuring his intentions. Then, after an instant's hesitation, she reached up, delicate fingers catching against his thick, calloused ones. The touch imparted a faint shiver of discomfort, but he overlooked it, concentrating on the job to be done.
They all aided in getting her onto the dock. Her tail shone as it broke the surface, catching the sunlight in every subtle movement. Dylan grunted softly, his muscles rebelling at the exertion, but Yve finally got the leverage needed to haul herself up, her top half easing onto the planks.
She shifted slightly, pushing her wet hair out of her face as she gazed at him. "Thank you," she murmured, her tone soft but genuine.
Dylan relaxed back, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well," he grumbled, not looking at her. "Thought you weren't going to make it up otherwise."
Her lips twitched into a small smile, amusement dancing in her eyes. Dylan caught a glimpse of her and then looked away again, the fullness of the odd connection between them weighing heavily in his chest. It didn't make sense, but then again, little did these days. He just hoped he hadn't signed himself up to do something he couldn't deal with.
Dylan stood up from the dock, picking up his tomahawk as a reflex before slinging it over his shoulder. "Gonna find some firewood," he growled, more to himself than anything else, before looking over at Yve. She was still where she had stopped, leaning against the planks of the dock with a slight angle, her eyes fixed on the horizon's seemingly endless water. She did not move, did not answer, as if she were trapped in the silence of the waves and the horizon.
The surrounding woods provided what he required—dry wood, driftwood fragments, and anything else that would burn well. Picking up the fragments, he worked efficiently but systematically, his experienced hands putting together enough for a respectable fire. Having his fill, he returned to the dock, the quiet crunch of sand beneath his boots echoing through the stillness.
Yve stayed as he departed her, her tail glimmered softly as it floated slowly over the edge, reflecting the sunlight in soft, shimmering colors. She was at peace, her quiet merging with the sea's hush.
Dylan threw the wood in a tidy stack at the dock's edge, squatting to start building it for the fire. He struck his flint and steel with practiced care, and with gentle sparks, brought the fire to life. The fire crackled as the wood burned, and he gave a small, contented grunt as he stirred the fire with a stick to maintain its consistency.
Yve eventually turned her head, her eyes attracted by the dancing flame. Her eyes swept to Dylan, then the fish he had speared and laid aside by the fire. She leaned her head slightly, her interest apparent as she followed every move he made.
Dylan sensed her gaze on him and looked up for a moment. "What?" he asked, his tone rough but not unkind.
She did not reply, watching instead as he sliced the fish open gently, cleaning it with the practiced ease of one who had done it hundreds of times. "What are you going to do with it?" she asked at last, her voice tinged with awe.
"Cookin' it," Dylan said, furrowing his brow slightly as he glanced at her. "Ain't you ever—" He cut himself off, realization coming on. Of course, she hadn't. He let out a sigh, shaking his head, and turned back to what he was doing. "Guess y'all don't do much of that underwater, huh?"
Yve smiled weakly, her face amused but serious. "We don't," she conceded. "We eat as we hunt. Cooking… this is new." She hunched forward slightly, observing the fire with intense curiosity. The flames seemed to dance in her eyes, causing them to shine with the same otherworldly glow.
Dylan snorted gently, his lips curling upwards in what could have been the start of a smirk. "Ain't nothin' special. Just makes it easier to eat—and tastier too." He prodded the fish again, rolling it slowly over the fire.
Yve stood there, her eyes darting between the fire, the fish, and Dylan himself. There was a childlike quality in her interest, as if this ordinary act of cooking possessed some kind of magic within itself. Dylan, meanwhile, maintained his concentration on the task, though he couldn't help but feel a touch self-conscious in the face of her unflinching gaze.
The fire crackled softly, Dylan relaxed slightly, hands on knees, the mild scent of tuna remaining in the air. Yve sat across from him, tail thrown over the side, the tension dissipated, replaced by a soft sense of interest and bonding.
They spoke, at first in faltering beginnings and endings, their sentences tentative and wary. But with the passing of time, the tension dissolved, making way for something more frivolous—something more human. Dylan spoke of his life prior to the apocalypse, of the woods, hunting, and Carlo's incessant shenanigans. His speech was crude, unfinished, but Yve listened with rapt attention, her eyes unwavering, sometimes breaking into soft laughter or a concerned tilt to her head.
Then Yve spoke of her own world, a place underwater that was to Dylan's ears a mere dream. She described vividly in words—endless forests of coral reaching as far as the eye could see, schools of fish flashing silver in the currents, and the balance of life that her people struggled to preserve.
Dylan sat in silent amazement, his skepticism relieved by the intensity of her words. He couldn't help but wonder if it was sounding too good to be true or if he wanted to believe that beauty could still be found in a world that was broken down.
Back at VIRA COMPLEX, the sun had set below the horizon, the group huddled in the main room, their chattering less than normal. Dylan's absence hung over them, unsaid but apparent.
Ethan stood by the window, gazing out at the dying light. "It's too long," he stated, his tone tinged with concern. "Dylan's not the kind to be away this long, not without calling in. What if something occurred?"
Elena looked up from her seated position, her face strained with worry. "Perhaps we ought to have someone go search for him," she proposed, her tone softer but no less determined. "He's obstinate, certainly, but…"
Lucas, at the table, shook his head, his arms crossed stubbornly. "Dylan can take care of himself. He's just being slow out there—taking his time."
"But suppose he isn't?" Ethan insisted, his gaze locking with Lucas's. "Suppose he gets hurt again? We nearly lost him the last time, don't you remember?"
Lucas let out a sharp breath, his jaw clenching in tension as he battled the battle within him. He believed Dylan, knew the man's strength better than anyone, but the memory of his battered return still stayed in the back of his mind. "I don't know," he finally said. "But sending someone out there in the dark may be more destructive than helpful. Let's give it a little more time."
Ethan didn't seem content, but he nodded begrudgingly, returning to stare out the window. Elena looked worriedly at Taylor, while the others among them whispered softly to each other. The tension hung in the air, palpable and thick, as the minutes ticked by. In their hearts, even Lucas couldn't help but feel the nagging fear that deepened with each passing hour.
Dylan stretched his legs a little, his thoughts drifting back to the VIRA COMPLEX and all those hours he'd spent here with Yve. He adjusted his tomahawk on the dock, fidgeting with the strap as the burden of responsibility crept back in.
"Guess I should get going," he grunted, his words low and gravelly. "Still a few hours till dark to scavenge." He stood up, wincing ever so slightly as his side reminded him of its still-sensitive ache.
Yve, still sitting on the dock, tilted her head at him. "You don't have to," she told him, her voice holding an unusual firmness. "Go home directly."
Dylan scowled, his brows furrowed in puzzlement. "What? Ain't got enough food back there for everybody. Have to go find something."
Yve did not answer. Instead, she shot him a quick, understanding look before unexpectedly leaping into the water. Dylan stood still, his gaze scanning the place where she'd disappeared. "Damn it," he muttered, resting his tomahawk around his neck. "What's with her and leavin' me hangin'?"
By the time Yve returned, however, the sun had dipped further, and with a swish of her tail, she broke through the surface, slamming several medium sized, freshly caught tuna onto the wooden planks. The wet, solid thuds gave Dylan a start, and he leaped back, his tomahawk instantly at the ready.
"The hell—" he started, his words dying on his lips as he gazed at the catch before him. Three tiny tuna flopped lifeless, their scales shining in the faint light. He looked over at Yve, who had emerged mere feet away, her face serene and tranquil.
"They'll feed your group for the day," she stated, her voice full of irrefutable confidence.
Dylan hesitated, his fingers tightening on the tomahawk handle. He looked at the fish, then turned back to Yve, his instincts drawing him in opposite directions. Trust her? Or question why she'd even come along? But the truth was standing right there before him—more food than he'd been able to scrounge up on his own, and he couldn't ignore that the group would require it.
"Guess I owe you for this," he said gruffly, bending to pick up the tuna. As he packed them carefully, he rose and glanced at Yve once more. "You gonna be around? I mean—can we meet again?"
Yve smiled gently, her face contemplative. "If you want," she replied, the promise of a deal in her voice. They talked briefly, agreeing on when and on which days they would meet. With their plans made, Yve nodded to him one final time before slipping beneath the waves, her tail vanishing into the depths.
Back at the VIRA COMPLEX, the atmosphere had grown tense. The group's worry had mounted over the hours, filling the air with restless energy. David, pacing near the door, finally snapped. "Enough of this!" he barked, grabbing his shotgun. "I'm going out there. Can't sit here while he's God-knows-where!"
Elena and Ethan shared uneasy looks as David moved toward the door, his steps decisive with irritation. Lucas shouted back, his tone commanding but apprehensive. "David, wait! It's dark outside—you can't just—"
Before Lucas could get the words out, the door opened. The group stopped dead, their eyes widening at the appearance of Dylan in the doorway, tomahawk across his back and a sack of tuna dangling from his other hand. He was pale, exhausted, but alive—and the first glimpse of the fish made Ethan's jaw almost hit the floor.
Dylan looked at David, his eyebrow rising. "Where you headed?" he said, his voice relaxed but sharpened with tiredness.
David hesitated, his hold on the shotgun relaxing as he looked at Dylan. "We—" he started, his voice stuttering. "We thought somethin' was wrong. Gonna go find you."
Dylan snorted softly, his head jerking back and forth as he moved further into the room. "Was fishing," he grumbled. "Didn't see the time." He put the tuna on the table, nodding towards the shocked faces before him. "That'll feed us for the night.
The group burst into murmurs, relief washing over them even as questions remained. Lucas stepped up to him, his face a mixture of concern and reserved understanding. "Good to see you," he said, slapping a hand on Dylan's shoulder.
Dylan nodded, his eyes darting briefly to the tuna before he went to sit down. The room relaxed as the group tried to get the surprise catch ready, but Dylan's thoughts were elsewhere—back at the dock, back with Yve, back in the odd, inexplicable moment that had changed something within him.