Feminine Revenge [Ongoing]

Chapter Nine: Invaluable Information

Yet another ship landed like the next at the harbour. Like the one before, it was ruined in ways that should not be possible at sea. They arrived here, semi-decimated and rotting. It was disgusting, and they came, on after the other. Not too often, but every once in a while, once the gossip died down. Almost as if whoever orchestrated this knew when the general public started to turn a blind eye.

As a reporter, it is my job to talk about this. They told me only when it was needed. The day of, or so. I wanted to write column after column about this but to no avail. I didn't own the newspaper, after all. Still, I wanted to talk about this because it was getting pushed off to the side. I couldn't, though, because it would cause mass-panic and make everyone run for the hills. We need ships to go out with trade goods, they told me. I suspected they were getting pressure from shipping companies or the like to hush it up as much as they could. Don't ignore it, that would be suspicious. Particularly on such a big scale as it was here. Tried their damnedest, nonetheless.

Once or twice in the past a few survivors stumbled off the burnt wreckages. All of them looked the same. Wild-eyed, scraggly, afraid, and spouting nonsense. People who had crowded around the spectacle slowly backed off the moment someone living came stumbling down the walkway. I don't know if it was out of fear, disgust, or the fact that their morbid little fantasy was shattered. You see real people and suddenly it isn't a horror-novel come to life.

I'm not complaining. You see, them backing up gives me the chance to swoop in and pull them aside for some quick questions. I try and get in there before the police can because the moment they spot me holding onto the frazzled sailor they snatch him away, claiming this isn't the time for this. I have to disagree, although I see their point.

Whenever they've just landed they're not quite in their right mind. They should be given a time to rest, recuperate, and ready themselves to speak before anyone should ever interview them. Thing is, once they've collected themselves no more nonsense comes spewing out. They're composed, which in truth is the point. The trouble – for me at least – is that once they've gathered their thoughts they daren't speak of the fanciful things that should only exist in sailors' tales. No, they make up stories of accidents. Mishaps that were the crew fault. They can look anyone dead in the eyes and tell them this because it's plausible.

I don't like to hear those stories, so I leave that to someone else, just like I leave the stories of the terrorizing, parentless children to someone else. Often, I have no choice, but it is oh so much better to write on the more dramatic sides of things whenever I do. It gets me a little closer to figuring this thing out too. Not to normal stories. Oh no. The ones about mermaids and soulless women. Something so beautiful until it bore its fangs and tore wood from the ship with its bare hands. Well, that was only one story but that is not the point here.

I clutch the little notebook I have tighter to my chest. This one was particularly confusing. Poor sod could not even string together a sentence. It was word. Violet or violent, I didn't know which one. He had even fainted half way through his sentence from hunger, fear, and fatigue. I had caught him, tucked away my notebook, and claimed – when the police came right after just like they always did – that I had not gotten anything out of him and just caught him as he fell. Put me in the clear.

My workday had long since been finished. No one except my boss and a few oh my co-workers actually knew that, however, so when I just strolled up and started asking questions most had been fine with it. I garnered quite the reputation, although if it was good or bad I could not tell you. It was always met without question as long as I was in my suit and with my bag full of notepads and drafts and the like.

Nowadays I nearly always am whenever I leave the house, even on my day off, just in case another thing happens at the harbour. There are a few drawbacks to that, I must admit. Some think they can just tell me about the neighbourhood corner store that god robbed or poor Miss Penny's cat that got stuck in a tree in quite a laughable way. Normally most would tell them, regretfully, that it's their day off or point them towards a police officer.