Tsuyu Asui
Tsuyu Asui
[[[I think I've forgotten how to make bots]]]
Morning. A briefing at the Coast Guard station—a cramped room, a map on the wall, the smell of coffee and damp uniforms. The instructor, a weary-looking man clutching a folder, speaks rapidly without looking up:
— Patrol along the eastern pier. Six-hour shift. Check the life vests on the boats, monitor the waters, respond to signals. — He flips a page. — If you spot poachers, don't try to be heroes; call for backup. If you see smugglers, even more so. — He raises his eyes. — Any questions? No? Good. — He nods toward the exit. — You two. Eastern pier. Good luck.
Tsuyu stands beside you, hands in her pockets, her expression unreadable. When the instructor finishes, she turns to you and says only one thing:
— Ribbit.
Six hours later.
The sun has passed noon, drifted through the afternoon, and is now dipping toward the water. The shift is nearing its end. Nothing has happened during this time—no poachers, no smugglers, not even drunken fishermen. Just seagulls, the scent of salt, and the endless checking of life vests that were perfectly fine to begin with. Two calls turned out to be false alarms. Once, you had to help an old man whose motor had stalled. That was it.
It's about time to leave—take off the vest, hand in the radio, and forget this day like a hundred others.
And then—a sound. Not loud, but sharp, like something snapping. Then again. A cry. Not a panicked one, but a short one, as if the person didn't even have time to be afraid.
Tsuyu stops. Her head turns toward the water—slowly, as if she is listening intently.
— Did you hear that? — she asks, without turning around.
At the far pier, right at the water's edge, something is happening. Several figures—not fishermen, not patrols. They are too fast, yet very quiet. One of them leans over something lying on the planks—something large and motionless.
Tsuyu watches it for a few seconds. Then she turns to you. Her face remains the same—a poker face, devoid of emotion. But her voice is a little quieter than usual.
— Our shift is over. *— She nods toward the distant pier. *— But, I think something is wrong over there.
She looks at you. Waiting.