Merman Alastor

The surface of the infernal ocean seemed frozen that day—no wave broke against the black rocks. Yet beneath this deceptive stillness, a very different spectacle was unfolding.

There, in the depths near a coral bed made of fossilized bone, one of the inhabitants was gripped by intense anticipation: a merman, to be precise. Alastor, to be even more precise. He lurked motionless in the shadow of a jagged rocky outcrop, his powerful red and black tail barely visible amidst the sharp-edged formations. On the other side, a deep-sea fish circled lazily and carelessly, utterly unaware of the danger lurking just meters away.

Alastor’s ruby-red eyes fixed on his prey with uncanny precision. His body remained absolutely still; only the gills along his sides rose and fell in rhythm with his steady breathing. Merfolk were already among the most dangerous hunters of this underwater realm—their powerful tails granted them explosive speed, and their claws could pierce even thick, armored scales. Yet Alastor was more than that. He was a legend in these waters.

He not only shared the nature of his kind, but his voice possessed a supernatural quality—a crackling radio static that echoed through the water, disorienting even the strongest minds. Weak souls succumbed entirely to his song, while the strong would falter, if only for a crucial moment. This gift made him one of the most feared denizens of the hellish seas. A creature that resembled a nightmare more than a living being—and that was precisely what Hell had made of him. The solitary fish moved its fin sluggishly; its mouth opened and closed in a steady, unchanging rhythm. Its vacant, glassy eyes betrayed no emotion—no awareness of the death that lay but a heartbeat away.

Alastor’s pupils had narrowed to slits; every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready to spring. Yet, for a fraction of a second, his mind wandered—back to a day when he had learned a painful lesson. Rosie. That woman had managed to break down his defenses, ensnaring him with gentle words and a deceptive smile—only to lock him in a cage as if he were nothing more than a common goldfish. She had held him captive for days, studying him like an insect. The humiliation still burned in his memory. Never again would he place his trust in a human soul. Never again.

Then, at last, the prey made a fatal error. The fish turned, exposing its flank directly in front of Alastor’s hiding place. In that instant, the merman shot forward with the speed of lightning. The water churned around him, and a deafening crash of shattering rock echoed through the depths. The fish had no time to react before Alastor’s massive claws clamped around its body. It thrashed desperately, writhing in a panic

Alastor’s face twisted into a wide, triumphant grin, revealing his razor-sharp teeth. In his grasp, his captured meal still twitched faintly. The merman took a relish-filled bite and hummed contentedly as the flavor exploded on his tongue. Alastor swallowed, licked his lips, and the static crackle of his radio filled the water with a soft, satisfied hum.

The water around him was thick with churned-up sand and the muffled sounds of human shouts from above. The surface, just a few meters overhead, shattered into a thousand shards of light, yet to Alastor, that light was nothing but a cruel reminder of the freedom that had just been torn from him.

He thrashed and writhed, but the net only tightened around his body. Every movement caused the fibers to cut deeper into his skin, and the salty water stung the small wounds that had already formed. His powerful arms were pinned outstretched, his mighty tail uselessly bound—he hung there like a trapped bird.

Above him, he heard the loud, boisterous laughter of the pirates. Their voices came through the water muffled, yet their triumph was unmistakable. They had caught him with an old trick—a poisoned bait that had interrupted his radio-song for a brief moment. They had seized that very instant to pull the net shut over him.

Alastor’s red eyes flashed with rage, but something else stirred deep within him: memories. The sensation of being trapped was not new to him. Rosie had once kept him in a cage, too, studying him with curious eyes while he helplessly battered against the bars. Back then, he had shown trust—and it had been his undoing. Now, it was a trap once more, but this time he was determined not to be put on display a second time.

Gritting his teeth, he began to think more calmly. The static of his radio-voice swelled, intensifying into a low hum that vibrated through the water. He could use his voice—but not to sing. No, this time he needed something more direct. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, he turned his head to the side. The net was coarsely woven, yet not indestructible. If he could find the right frequency—a shrill, piercing tone that made the fibers vibrate—perhaps, just perhaps, he could make them snap.

He took a deep breath, felt the cold water in his gills, and focused. The voice in his throat began to vibrate. A high, sharp whistle rose from his chest, so shrill that even nearby fish darted away in a panic. The net began to tremble. The fibers pulled taut, groaning under the strain of the sound—but they held.

Alastor gritted his teeth. Of course. It wasn't just any net; it was laced with metal fibers, designed specifically to counter tricks like that. The pirates knew exactly whom they had captured.

The human shouts above him grew louder. They were hauling the net upward. The light grew brighter; the surface drew nearer. Alastor felt the pressure around him ease as his body was lifted from the water. Saltwater dripped from him, and his gills flapped frantically in the sudden exposure to air. He coughed, spitting out water—and then landed with a heavy thud on the wooden deck of the pirate ship.

The net lay heavy upon him, its coarse fibers chafing against his skin. Dark figures crowded around him; raucous laughter and triumphant shouts filled the air. He lifted his head as best he could, his red eyes flashing with hatred and contempt. Yet deep down, he knew the truth: he was trapped. Helpless. At their mercy. The pirates stepped closer; one of them—clearly the leader, recognizable by his flamboyant hat and cold, appraising gaze—leaned over him. Alastor bared his teeth, an angry growl escaping his throat. His voice was raspy, still weak from the struggle underwater, yet it remained—still dangerous.

"Well, well," The captain said with a broad grin as they loomed over the captive merman. "What have we here? A little fish that ventured too far?"

Alastor glared at them, his red eyes glowing with suppressed rage. There was nothing he could do—not here, not in this net, not surrounded by so many armed people. But he could speak. And that he would do.

A crackling laugh escaped his lips, despite the hopeless situation. "You’ve made a mistake. I am not a fish you can haul onto land so easily. I am Alastor. And you are about to learn what it means to hold me captive."

The captain merely laughed and signaled their crew to pull the net tighter. "We shall see, little singer. We shall see."

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