((Mariko Whitney continued from Dude Fortifi(v)ed Gaiden: Heavenly Bottle Ships of Fortified Souls))
From a distance, the boat was like so many others: a nondescript piece of the rolling mass that made up the marina sprawl, a platform interchangeable with any other, its original identity long lost in favor of a new functional roll as filler. Come closer, however, and small pieces of that forgotten individuality came clearer.
It was a small sailboat, twenty-five feet or so in length, and its name was painted on the side: Alifie. The paint was white against blue over metal, scraped and grimy but still legible, and the rest of the vessel bore similar signs of wear. The mast stood tall and undamaged, but no sails remained, and the rigging was a mess.
The boat was fixed to those near it in various ways: to starboard, a plywood plank was attached to a similar sailboat in even worse repair, allowing for access if one was suitably unafraid of plummeting into the murky water. To port, ropes and chains lashed the Alifie to a section of jetty, creating a spider web effect; it would be possible to traverse, but even more perilous than the plank, with chain links ready to pinch and mash fingers, and precious little to grab in order to abort a sudden fall. Fore of the ship was a dinghy, bobbing relatively un-corralled; aft was another ship, its bowsprit protruding over the stern, nested almost like grocery trolleys.
The deck of the boat was a mess. One with an eye for scavenging—one, perhaps, here to seek treasure and loot abandoned places—would find more than just the usual maritime accoutrements with even a cursory examination.
The first sign of anything strange was the carcass of a fish lying in the middle of everything. While there was nothing particularly unusual about a dead fish on its own, not in this place in the middle of the ocean, it seemed a little too stale. The gulls had picked at it, like everything else, but halfheartedly. With an abundance of feeding opportunities, this one was deprioritized.
Behind the fish was a spread of boxes, tumbled haphazardly across the deck, as if someone had been pushed into them. There were small drops of now-dried blood on the deck, so faint you'd probably have to lean in close and squint to see them. The boxes were a mix, some wood and some plastic, and their contents were mostly still safely sealed within, and mostly boring enough not to rate mention—they seemed to be artificial obstacles and set dressing brought in because they looked like they belonged, even though they actually did not. A hazard to send someone to the deck and complicate a fight that might otherwise be quick and conclusive.
The specks of blood formed a trail towards the stern, where a small cabin gave cover from the dim morning light. Their placement was erratic, speaking to a scrambling, hasty retreat, but the direction suggested a desire to build distance more than an attempt at a full escape. After all, there was no other exit from the cabin, no further avenue of retreat.
The door stood ajar, faintly creaking now and then as the boat rocked with the movement of the water. The outside of the door sported a few small splatters of blood, varying sizes, but they seemed incidental; someone opened the door while bleeding, rather than getting bashed bloody against it.
Inside the door, the situation clarified.
The cabin was small and cramped, and a single step through the door lay the body of a girl in a faded yellow hat, who had been harpooned. She sprawled face-down on the floor, blood pooled and smeared around her, and in her hand was a ceramic lamp, badly cracked.
Two steps further, beyond a low table, was a bench, and on it was another girl, slumped and motionless. Her neck and face were crudely bandaged, but the job hadn't been finished; a roll of gauze partially wound around an absorbent pad pressed to her throat, but the trailing end was still gripped in her fingers. The harpoon gun, unloaded, was propped up beside the chair.
Both girls still had their packs on them, still with enough equipment to suggest they had not yet been looted. Neither seemed to be breathing.
SB01, JODI HUNTER: DECEASED
JL11, MARIKO WHITNEY: DECEASED
JL11, MARIKO WHITNEY: DECEASED
Someone with a knack for how injuries work, or an intent to thoroughly examine the environment, might be able to figure out more.