The dock at Horizon was one of the busiest places on the floating fortress. It was always noisy, bustling, and chaotic, like a massive beehive. The rhythmic slap of waves against the hulls of boats, the clamor of people calling out to one another, the creaking of taut ropes being pulled, and even the sound of fish thrashing fiercely in nets, struggling before being hauled onto the deck, filled the air. The scent of sea salt mingled with the smell of fresh fish, engine oil, and the sweat of the fishing crews, creating a distinctive aroma. After making his way through the crowd, Kael arrived at the harbor, his worn-out rubber boots slipping on the wet, glossy deck slick with seawater. He carefully avoided puddles where patches of green algae had begun to form.
Before the sun rose, Horizon Fortress began to stir. The massive gate leading to the sea—a towering steel wall over ten meters high, marred with rust and encrusted with algae—started to move. Operated by a system of ancient pulleys and engines salvaged from the oil tankers of a bygone era, the gate groaned into action. The screech of metal pierced the air as enormous gears turned, dragging the heavy steel panels apart. Seawater rushed through the widening gap, forming small whirlpools at the base of the gate. Guards, clad in armor made of recycled plastic, stood atop watchtowers, shouting orders to ensure no ships entered or exited out of turn. The first light of dawn slipped through the opening, glinting off the water like scattered silver coins.
As the gate fully opened, dozens of ships, large and small, set out from the dock in unison, creating a magnificent spectacle. There were fishing boats like Cold Wave, compact yet sturdy, with nets dangling loosely from their sides. Larger merchant vessels, their hulls laden with goods wrapped in waterproof plastic, headed toward distant Drifts. A few sleek, agile scout canoes darted past the slower ships, leaving long trails of white foam on the water's surface. Each vessel bore the scars of the sea: dented hulls, peeling paint, or long scratches from encounters with sea monsters. The roar of engines mingled with the sound of waves, ship horns, and the shouts of sailors, forming a chaotic yet vibrant symphony. Kael stood at the dock, his eyes following the fleet's departure, his heart swelling with a longing to join that flow, to ride a scout canoe and glide toward uncharted horizons.
Kael's fishing crew consisted of ten people, working aboard the boat Cold Wave. The captain, a grizzled middle-aged man named Brant, had a face reddened by sunburn and a raspy voice, as if his throat had been scoured by sand. Brant always wore a tattered sea crocodile leather coat, a trophy he boasted about from a rare hunt ten years prior. "I still remember that day like it was yesterday," he'd recount. "I wrestled a crocodile over four meters long. Used all my strength to wear it down, then grabbed my blade and hacked at its leg. The beast roared in pain, but I didn't give it a chance to recover. I swung again, aiming for its head…" It was a story he told repeatedly on the boat. Kael wasn't sure if it was true, but he didn't dare question or doubt it. Brant had once been punished by the Council with two days without water for breaking the legs of two men who called him a liar.
Cold Wave set out from the dock as soon as the gate opened, its aging Diesel engine roaring to life, belching a thick cloud of black smoke. Kael stood at the bow, gripping the railing tightly, feeling the ship shudder beneath his feet as it sliced through the first waves. The sea breeze blew fiercely, carrying the sharp, salty tang of the ocean that stung his face. The water stretched endlessly before him, shimmering under the early morning sun, but Kael knew that beneath the surface lay another world—deep, dangerous, and shrouded in mystery. Around him, dozens of other ships glided across the water, each bound for its own mission: fishing, trading, or scouting. A massive merchant vessel, its hull stacked with containers, moved slowly southward, likely heading to another Drift for trade. A trio of scout canoes sped westward, their metal hulls glinting in the sunlight. Kael watched them, his heart quietly yearning for the day he could stand aboard one of those swift vessels
Work on Cold Wave began as soon as the boat reached deeper waters. Kael's task today was to check the nets and haul in the catch. He climbed onto the deck with two others: a girl named Mira and an older man named Tor. Mira, with her sun-bleached short hair, was swift and quiet, her hands deftly untangling nets with practiced ease. Tor, on the other hand, was slow but meticulous, always muttering folk songs no one could decipher. Kael liked working with them, though their conversations rarely went beyond curt commands like "Pull harder!" or "Watch the rope!"
Today, the sea was relatively calm, with only small ripples lapping against the boat's hull. Kael stood at the bow, clutching a coil of rope, his eyes fixed on the water. Beneath the surface, dark shapes darted by—schools of small fish, likely mackerel, or sometimes stranger creatures with glowing fins that shimmered like lanterns. He'd heard tales of giant fish, their bodies stretching dozens of meters, lurking in the deep and surfacing only when ravenous. Thankfully, today showed no signs of anything unusual—just the sound of waves and the wind whistling past his ears.
Hauling the nets was the most grueling task. The fishing nets on Cold Wave, made from recycled plastic and synthetic fibers, grew heavy when soaked and laden with fish. Kael, Mira, and Tor worked together, dragging the nets meter by meter onto the deck. Each time a net came up, fish thrashed wildly, their scales glinting like silver coins under the sun. Occasionally, strange creatures were caught among the fish—a squid with unnaturally long tentacles or a fish with razor-sharp teeth like a blade. These were usually tossed back into the sea, as no one dared eat them. "Don't let 'em bite," Brant bellowed from the helm, "you don't wanna lose a nail, hah!"
After a few hours, sweat soaked Kael's shirt, though the chill of the sea breeze made him shiver. He paused for a moment, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and gazed at the horizon. Far off, a mass of dark clouds was gathering, signaling a small storm that might hit by late afternoon. Brant noticed it too, his voice crackling through the speaker: "Hurry up, lads! The Council's ordered the gate closed by five this afternoon—gotta prep for the storm!"
As the team hurriedly hauled in the final net, a different sound roared from the horizon—not the sluggish chug of a fishing boat, but a sharp, powerful growl. Kael's head snapped up, his heart racing. It was the sound of scout canoes. Squinting, he spotted three canoes slicing through the water, leaving long trails of white foam. But something was wrong. The canoes looked battered, their hulls scarred with scratches and dents, as if they'd just survived a battle. One was listing heavily to one side, teetering on the edge of sinking. Kael noticed the markings—Team 1037. Strange, he thought; that team usually had six canoes, but only three had returned today. Had some been lost? Had lives been lost?
When the canoes reached the dock, Kael and the crew stopped working, their eyes fixed on the scouts. Only six people disembarked, fewer than usual. Those who stepped onto the dock looked haggard, their clothes torn and ragged, some with arms or legs wrapped in blood-soaked, dirty bandages. The leader, a tall woman named Rhea, had a face as cold as steel, but her eyes betrayed a deep tension. She barked orders for the team to head straight to the central district, where the Council of Leaders convened. No one spoke, but Kael could sense the urgency in their steps. Something serious had happened.
"Probably ran into pirates again," Tor muttered, his hands still gripping the net. "Or something worse."
"Shut it, Tor," Brant snapped. "Get back to work. It's not our job to worry about them!"
But Kael couldn't stop thinking about the scout canoes. His mind conjured images of battles at sea, towering waves crashing down, or the shadowy form of a massive sea monster rising from the depths. He wanted to run after the scouting team, to find out what they'd seen, but he knew he had no right. A lowly laborer like him was expected to work and keep his mouth shut.
Before long, the sky darkened, as if night had fallen in the middle of the day. The massive storm hit faster than expected, bringing howling winds that screamed like a savage beast. Towering waves, each one meters high, slammed into Cold Wave, making the boat lurch violently. Kael clung to the railing, seawater flooding the deck and soaking him from head to toe. Brant shouted from the helm, struggling to steer the boat back to Horizon before things got worse. "Hold on, you sorry lot! I've seen storms scarier than this!"
When Cold Wave finally reached the dock, Horizon Fortress had become a battlefield against the storm. The entire fortress groaned under the fury of nature. Massive steel plates shuddered violently, the clanging of metal echoing like the structure might collapse at any moment. High above, solar panels were battered by fierce gusts, some loose ones swaying precariously, threatening to plummet. The rowing team, hundreds of people urgently summoned, worked tirelessly to keep the fortress stable, with propellers churning at full power to counter the swirling currents. The enormous steel gate slammed shut as the last ship entered, the screech of pulleys blending with the storm's roar. Seawater surged through gaps in the deck, sweeping away wooden crates, ropes, and scraps of netting torn free by the wind.
Horizon's residents scrambled in all directions, reinforcing steel compartments, securing loose items, and checking the water purifiers—the most vital lifeline for survival. The bell from the central tower rang incessantly, not to mark the hour but to warn everyone to seek shelter. Soaked and shivering, Kael helped Mira and Tor lash the fishing nets to the boat's hold, preventing them from being swept away. Rain lashed his face like needles, and the wind was so strong he had to crawl across the deck to avoid being blown over. In the distance, he saw colossal waves crashing against the fortress, water exploding like shattered white mountains. Horizon, though sturdy and majestic, seemed impossibly small against the might of the sea
Finally, as the storm subsided, leaving behind a leaden gray sky and a sea still roaring with restless waves, rain continued to pour in torrents. Cold Wave was safely docked, its hold brimming with mackerel and a few sardines, but no one had the heart to celebrate. Kael was utterly exhausted, his limbs aching, yet the thrill of surviving the storm made his heart pound. Brant, though typically harsh, gave a nod of approval. "Good work, kid," he said, his voice hoarse from shouting.
As the sun set, Kael and the crew made their way to the food and wage distribution area at the fortress's center. The place was always crowded at day's end, with long lines of people waiting for their share. Kael stood in line, hands in his pockets, fingers brushing against the rusty knife he always carried like a lucky charm. The paymaster, a gaunt old man named Eldon, carefully counted out metal coins before handing Kael one and a half, along with a food voucher for the next day. "Did well, kid," Eldon said, his voice dry. "Don't go spending it all at the black market."
Kael nodded, tucking the coins into his pocket, and stepped outside. Night had fallen, and the dim glow from the rusted solar panels cast a feeble light across the fortress. The bell from the central tower rang once more, signaling the end of the day. Kael paused for a moment, gazing toward the Council of Leaders' quarters. The lights were still on there, and he knew the scouting team was still in their meeting. Something big was brewing—he could feel it. But for someone like him, it was all just distant dreams.
Clutching his one-and-a-half coins, Kael made his way to the food district. Even in this post-apocalyptic world, the people of Horizon had mastered the art of crafting local delicacies. He decided to treat himself to a portion of tuna sashimi, priced at one coin. Oddly, today the stall owner handed him a plate of fish accompanied by something unfamiliar to dip it in. "What's this green stuff, boss? No sea salt today?" Kael asked, pointing at a thick, green paste and a dark liquid beside it.
"Got this from some traders," the stall owner replied with a grin. "They say the green stuff's called wasabi, from some Drift out in the Eastern Sea. The black one's fermented soybean juice. Tried it together—tastes pretty good, if you ask me."
At first, Kael found it strange. All his life, he'd only ever dipped his food in coarse sea salt. He picked up a piece of fresh fish, dabbed it with a bit of wasabi and the soy sauce, and brought it to his mouth. A sharp, fiery scent shot up his nose and into his head, mingling with the tangy, slightly sweet flavor of the soy. It was jarring at first, but the taste grew on him, and before long, he'd polished off the entire plate.
"How was it? Good?" the stall owner asked.
"First time I've eaten something this weird and liked it. Really good, uncle," Kael replied, a wide grin spreading across his face.
Kael left the food district, his stomach satisfied and his spirits lifted by the unfamiliar yet delicious sashimi. Night had fully descended on Horizon Fortress, but the air remained heavy in the wake of the massive storm. Dim lights from the rust-streaked solar panels cast a feeble glow across the narrow pathways, where puddles of seawater reflected the light like shattered mirrors. He walked along the cold steel deck, his worn rubber boots making soft squelching sounds with each step through the lingering pools. All around Horizon, the storm's scars were evident: sheets of recycled plastic torn from rooftops by the wind, ropes and fishing nets scattered haphazardly, and a few steel compartments dented by the force of the waves. The sounds of hammering, people calling to one another, and the clanging of metal echoed through the air, as if the fortress itself were struggling to mend its wounds. The residents of Horizon, exhausted from the long day, worked tirelessly. Here, no one could rest when the fortress needed repairs—it was an unspoken rule of survival.
Kael paused near the dock, where a row of temporary homes made from old shipping containers had been ravaged by the storm. One roof had collapsed entirely, exposing the rusted steel frame inside, while a plastic wall in another compartment had been punctured by the waves, seawater still seeping through the cracks. A group of people—laborers like Kael and engineers in gray-green coats—were bustling about, making repairs. An older woman, Lena, stood on a rickety ladder, hammer in hand, trying to secure a loose plastic panel. "Kael, kid!" she called out when she spotted him, her voice hoarse but warm. "Get over here and lend a hand! This roof won't fix itself."
Kael smiled, nodded, and quickly stepped forward. He was no stranger to Lena—she was one of the caretakers of the labor district, always ready to share a piece of dried fish cake or tell stories of the old world passed down from her grandparents. He picked up a recycled plastic panel from the pile of debris, heavy and slick with algae. Alongside a man named Gav, he held the panel in place while Lena hammered steel nails into the frame. With each strike of the hammer, Kael felt the vibrations ripple through his hands, as if the fortress itself were breathing in sync with them.
"You see that storm today, kid?" Gav asked, his voice low and gravelly, gripping the plastic sheet to keep it from slipping. "I swear, every year the storms get worse. One day, this Horizon's gonna get swallowed whole."
"Don't jinx it," Lena snapped, though her tone couldn't hide a trace of worry. "Horizon's stood strong for hundreds of years. It won't fall to just one storm."
Kael stayed silent, focusing on the work, but Gav's words lingered in his mind. Horizon, for all its sturdy steel walls and propeller systems, was just a speck in the vast ocean. Today's storm was proof: if Mother Nature willed it, she could drag Horizon to the seabed at any moment. He glanced down at his calloused hands, hardened from pulling nets, and wondered if the sea would one day claim everything. After over an hour, the makeshift roof was back up, though still crooked and in need of further repairs. Lena patted Kael's shoulder, handing him a cup of dilute saltwater—the closest thing to drinking water they could share right now. "Thanks, kid," she said. "Go rest now. You've got to head out to sea again tomorrow."
But instead of returning to his cramped steel cabin, he decided to take another walk around the fortress. Tonight, the air still carried the heavy scent of salt and rusted metal, but there was something more peaceful now that the storm had passed. He walked through the market district, now deserted, with only a few people cleaning up stalls that had been blown over by the wind. An old man was struggling to tie down a tarp, muttering curses at the storm. Kael stopped and helped him stretch the tarp taut, then secured it with rope.
"You're a good kid," the old man said, flashing a smile missing a few teeth. "Next time you come by, I'll give you a free sardine."
Kael smiled, thanked the old man, and kept walking. In the distance, he could still see the lights burning brightly at the Council of Leaders' quarters. The scout team—battered canoes and bloodied wounds—was probably still reporting something important. He wondered what they had seen out there—a new Drift, a swarm of sea beasts, or maybe even traces of the legendary "Dry Land," which he didn't believe in. Whatever it was, he knew he wasn't yet worthy to know. But the longing inside him—the desire to ride the waves and pilot a scout canoe—still burned fiercely, like a flame beneath Horizon's dim lights.
Eventually, Kael returned to his steel cabin. The bell from the central tower rang out, signaling the end of another day. He lay down on his rigid iron bed, listening to the steady rhythm of waves outside, mingled with the raspy snores of those sharing the room. The scent of wasabi lingered somewhere in his memory, along with images of departing ships and dreams of a horizon he had never seen. He closed his eyes, knowing that tomorrow, the sea would call his name once more.