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Day 1 — Mediterranean Sea, Abandoned Dock Island
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The moon hung low above the shattered cargo cranes.
Waves licked at broken hulls.
Salt rusted every breath.
And the recruits?
Were screaming.
Shouting over each other.
Debating leadership.
Arguing over salvage rights.
Someone threw a tin can.
Someone else threw a frying pan.
Someone tried to quote naval protocol and got laughed at.
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It was less of a survival mission, more like an unfilmed comedy audition.
In the middle of it all —
Elias Jerkins lay under a makeshift tarp, trying to sleep.
He opened one eye.
Another argument about rope usage.
A fight over hammock space.
Someone throwing what might have been a preserved octopus.
He sat up.
Silently loaded a flare.
Turned.
Fired it into an empty wrecked ship.
BOOM.
Everyone froze.
Elias yawned.
Stood up.
Wiped sand off his jacket.
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"Calm down, everyone."
His voice was soft — too soft for the explosion behind him.
"But let's not kill each other before breakfast."
He rubbed his temples.
"It's warm. We're by the sea. We have scrap metal. We'll have more problems tomorrow. Let's sleep tonight."
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That was all.
And that was enough.
They agreed.
Grumbling.
Silent.
Settling like a circus after blackout.
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By the fire, Elias noticed a small girl — not crying, not talking.
Just humming Swan Lake, quietly.
She brewed something —
Using leaves, some bark, an old thermos.
It wasn't food.
It was tea.
Field-foraged.
Refined.
Elegant.
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"Are you lost from your field trip?" Elias asked dryly.
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A sudden iron bat flew past his head.
Clang! — straight into a shipping crate.
He didn't flinch.
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"You forgot who carried you during the last mission."
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Silence
Elias blinked.
"Ah, right. Santa Claus."
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The girl — furious — let loose a torrent of French curses so vicious, even the Mediterranean winds turned away in shame.
Words that were censored in five countries and outlawed in two.
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Minutes Later, after Elias got hit by iron bat.
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"You're a pianist, aren't you?" Elias said, calmly.
"That hand. The finger line. The Swan Lake humming. It gives you away."
She paused.
Surprised.
Then smirked.
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"My name is Dr. Lillian Fontaine. Call me Dr. Lilly."
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Elias walked over.
Sat by the fire.
"Sure. Lilly—I mean, Doctor. I'm Eli."
He gestured toward the flame.
"Let's talk. At least until I fall asleep."
She nodded.
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The island fell into quiet.
The sea rocked against the bones of forgotten ships.
And for the first time — the fleet-in-the-making slept.
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Next Morning
A shout broke the silence.
A loud, excitable voice near the stern of a split cargo hull.
"WE'RE BUILDING A SHIP!"
The engineer group had organized.
They stood tall on containers.
Holding blueprints drawn on sand and scrap plastic.
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"AYEEEEEE!" the others answered.
Unity.
Momentum.
Except—
One engineer sat cross-legged beside a microwave.
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Elias and Lilly walked over.
Elias, sipping bitter field tea.
He raised a brow.
"...Fish bake from a microwave? Not healthy."
The engineer didn't look up.
"I'm not baking fish."
She tapped the old machine.
"I'm building a phone."
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Silence.
Lilly blinked.
Elias rubbed his chin.
He turned to her.
"So, maîtresse, you said there was a friend nearby?"
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"It is depends"
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Behind them — a man in sunglasses (despite the overcast sky) pulled a grilled fish from a makeshift barbecue.
Rocco Volkov.
Smiling.
Sunglasses on.
Spices in hand.
He whistled.
"Fish is done!"
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On the fourth day —
The ship was nowhere near finished.
The engineers split again — half arguing rudder design, the other trying to build a sail out of tarp.
But unity came anyway.
Through fish.
Through fire.
And then—
through sound.
Dr. Lilly tested the microwave.
A beep.
A spark.
A crackle.
And suddenly—
a signal.
They had connected.
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A radar dish, fixed from an old destroyer hull, rotated for the first time.
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They weren't going home yet.
But they were no longer stranded.
They were becoming a crew.
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