Origins in Realism (HermitCraft Fanfiction)

Chapter Two: Death of a Fish

 On June 4, modern day, A voyage was headed by French-Canadian marine biologist Navine Kiershar, to produce a sample of life from the Mariana Trench. For the first few days, it went surprisingly well. The Le Petit Poisson (The Little Fish), launched from Victoria, British Columbia, fit with marine tracking and cartographical equipment. The crew, hand picked by the boat's captain, Pierre Jean-Baptiste Brennie, spoke only French, but were nice enough towards Kiershar and his American friend, Howard.

Kiershar was a bit of a character, the most unique person on the ship, and that was saying something, seeing as Harold Davis was the only American on the ship, and dressed like one of the crewman; with a black shirt and golden chain necklace, and a black bandana over his head. The captain, in one of his drunken mishaps, had even mistook him for a hand, forcing him to perform engine checks and repair a split water thank before realizing his mistake. Nevertheless, he was stuck... on a boat... where only a crazy biologist and the drunkard captain spoke a lick of English. Davis opened the door to the study, and found his friend sitting at his desk. He was bent over a mess of papers, quietly muttering to himself in an almost rhythmical pattern of French words.

"So, any sign of the Trench yet?" Davis said, casually, in an attempt to start a conversation. Kiershar said nothing, but glared at him, as if to give a rhetorical and quite possibly snide question. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry, I'm just...Bored."

Kiershar nodded in vague agreement, mumbling some sort of agreeing statement that became lost from his mouth to Davis' ear. "Well, nobody here speaks English, and I really don't have much to do."

Later that night, a storm occurred, blowing the boat off course. According to the captain, it would be a few days before they reached their destination. Both Davis and Kiershar felt ready to jump ship, but for differing reasons. Kiershar, in a fit of impatience, shouted for Brennie to "Move the boat faster, or I shall jump overboard and swim there myself," (Except in French, with a whole novel's worth of muttered insults. Davis was merely bored out of his mind.

To make matters worse, the boat's main engine had suddenly stopped. It was seven, maybe eight in the evening, and Davis was in his makeshift cabin, trying to make sense of the French books.

"M. Kiershar! Venez ici et voyez ça! Des lumières ... dans le ciel!" One of the crewmen yelled. Footsteps followed. A voice he recognised as Kiershar's replied to the man, still a bit exasperated. Davis was curious as to what was going on, but only vaguely. It was likely some sort of fish, or maybe a bit of land. Nothing to worry about.

It wasn't. As Davis made his way out, he saw something that blew his mind. Lights, similar to the ones seen inside the arctic circle, dancing across the sky, painting a picture of colours with the fading sunlight. It would have been the most perfect moment for him, if it weren't for the engine at the back of the boat giving off one hell of a noise. He ran to the back deck, finding Kiershar and one of the crewmen, looking at a... hole. A hole in the deck, smoldering and charred around the edges, perfectly round, had formed directly between the two.

"What the..." Davis began to stammer, but a second blast came, this time with a pure white bolt striking the crewman. He began to writhe on the ground, but promptly stopped, twitching ever so slightly.

"We have to get out of here." Kiershar said, and Davis reached out for a life-raft. He set the raft down in the waves below, jumping in mere seconds before a third blast knocked Kiershar off of his feet and into the water. Davis reached out and...