Chapter 17 — The Fish That Speaks

Alex opened his eyes under a heavy, damp sky, where the air smelled of salt, machine oil, and something sickly sweet and rotting, like overripe fruit tossed into a gutter. The noise hit him instantly—dozens of voices overlapping in different languages, the screech of metal on concrete, the distant hum of cranes, and the hiss of steam from pipes. He was lying on the warm, slightly sticky surface of a pier. His left leg lay at an unnatural angle, his shin and thigh throbbing with a dull, crushed heat, and his chest felt so compressed that every breath had to be dragged through his teeth. The transition had not switched off the pain, nor had it restored his body to its former shape. Now the port was boiling: people in frayed overalls hauled crates, merchants shouted unintelligibly by stalls of fish and gleaming devices, and seagulls circled in the air, looking like gray drones with living eyes.

He tried to push himself up on his elbows, feeling his shoulder ache and the pain in his chest radiate into his neck—an old pain that had migrated from the previous world along with Ilsa's torn woolen shirt, now even more shredded and covered in tire tracks, blood, and jagged claw marks. His long chestnut hair was matted with sweat and condensation; his gray eyes squinted against the bright glare of searchlights. Alex ran his palm over the fabric and smirked to himself—in isekai, heroes usually got a clean slate and an interface, but he looked like a homeless man after four failed transitions.

The noise of the voices merged into a mash: sharp guttural phrases, melodic vowels, clicks, and whistles. He was almost glad for this familiar loneliness—in previous worlds, at least the silence had been understandable. But he realized immediately: there were too many ways for those around him to misinterpret his silence. One wrong gesture, and he would be taken for a spy, a madman, or simply a convenient target. Alex couldn't stand. He pulled his dragging leg toward him, crawled to a crate, and, leaning on it, tried that same gesture of open palms—palms up, shoulders slightly raised. No one paid attention. Something new stirred in his chest: not the usual fatigue of the loop, but a slight prickle of anxiety. How many more worlds where every sound is a barrier, and every glance a question without an answer?

He made his way along the pier on his elbows and healthy leg, trying not to get in anyone's way. He pulled himself with his hands toward the nearest canopy, where figures in uniforms were crowding. A customs post, Alex decided, by analogy with the airports of his world. But as he approached, an official—a sturdy man in a gray jacket with patches and a tablet in his hands—turned sharply. His gaze slid over Alex's tattered clothes, the tire tracks on his trouser leg, the hole from the stiletto, and his face instantly hardened.

The official barked something in his own language, but to Alex, it was just a set of sharp syllables. The man pointed a finger at him, then at the ground at his feet, clearly demanding he stop, and irritably jabbed at the empty pocket of his jacket. Alex understood the gesture, but not the reason for the anger.

Alex raised his empty hands, showing a gesture of disarmament, and tried to explain. He pointed a finger at himself, then at the sky—as if to say, I'm not from here, I'm just... But the gestures only made the situation worse. The official frowned and leaned closer, his hand reaching for his belt, where some device resembling a stun gun hung. Onlookers began to gather: some snickered, some muttered something mocking. Alex felt a chill run down his spine—social danger here was no less real than claws in the forest. One wrong step, and he would simply be thrown out the gates, or worse—locked in a cage, like the one with the chickens in the previous world. He pushed off with his palms and crawled back, but the official was already pulling him by the sleeve, muttering something about intruders and quarantine.

At that moment, a woman emerged from the crowd. Of medium height, with short dark hair under a frayed cap, wearing a practical jumpsuit with many pockets. Her bright green eyes quickly assessed Alex: the exhausted appearance, the strange damage to the clothes, the bewildered look of a man who had just been spat out of another world. To Alex, she was just a stranger, one of many figures in the port crowd.

The woman sharply raised her palm between him and the official, then pointed to Alex, to his clothes, and to the nearest kiosk. She spoke a few words, but to Alex, they remained noise—melodic, confident, and just as incomprehensible as the official's speech. From her gestures, he understood only one thing: she was suggesting they move away from the crowd and that he should not resist.

The official frowned but stepped back. The woman gave him a short nod, then supported Alex by the shoulder and helped him pull himself toward a small kiosk off to the side, where a transparent bowl of water stood on the counter with small silvery fish swimming in it. Alex looked at them, feeling his heart beat faster. He didn't understand what was happening, and therefore remained wary.

The woman took one small silvery fish from the bowl—no larger than a palm, with thin, almost transparent fins. She slowly raised it to the level of Alex's eyes and spoke in her language. To him, it was still noise, but the gestures helped: the woman pointed to her head, then to her ear, mimicking the touch of the fish. Alex frowned and crawled back half a step, bracing his palm against a crate. He didn't know exactly what was being offered to him, and he didn't intend to trust the first convenient solution just because he was tired of loneliness.

The fish slipped from her fingers and darted toward Alex. A cold, slippery touch behind the ear—like a drop of water that suddenly came to life. It pressed against the skin, and Alex felt a slight prick, as if a needle had entered a nerve. His body reacted with a shiver: the fish physically attached itself with tiny suction cups, maintaining its physical form and leaving only a light tingling and a strange warmth. He didn't consider this a salvation. A gift too convenient after four worlds without a single understandable word always looked suspicious. But the fish didn't provide a weapon, didn't promise power, and didn't change his body—it just lived, pressed against the skin, and trembled quietly along with his pulse. Alex decided to test it first, and only then give thanks.

Alex froze, waiting. His head was empty, save for the hum of the port and the cautious tingling behind his ear. Then, within that noise, a distinct voice appeared.

"Don't twitch, it doesn't bite," the woman said, and the words formed into a clear meaning. "I'm Mira. If the fish chose you, it means it has already decided for both of us."

The voice was female, with a touch of irony and tired care. Alex blinked: for the first time, someone else's speech did not dissolve into noise.

He slowly opened his mouth.

"I'm not twitching, I just really want to understand where I am," he exhaled in Russian through the pain, pausing after each short segment of the phrase, "and the fish worked both ways." Mira heard this in her own language—clear, without an accent, as if he had always spoken that way. Her eyes widened, then she smiled with the corner of her mouth.

"Wow, you've settled in quickly. You're in the port of Tal-Veira, fourth sector. And you, by all appearances, are from a far, far... place. Transporters are always like this—in shock and with a history written on their faces. Or their shirts. What are those marks? A truck and... claws?"

Alex felt the world shift slightly. Two-way translation. Not an interface, not a spell—just a fish stuck behind his ear, like a strange symbiont from an old anime. He could speak, and he was understood. For the first time in... how many worlds? He almost laughed with relief, but held back—his tone remained light, ironic, without pathos.

To test it, he turned to the customs official, who was still glancing at them from a distance.

"Hey, sorry for the trouble. I didn't mean to intrude. Just... new here," Alex said. The fish translated: the words came out in the local language, with his own intonation—slightly apologetic, but with a hint of sarcasm that Alex hadn't planned. The official snorted and scratched the back of his head.

"New, you say? Fine, Mira vouched for you. Just don't stand on the red lines—those are for cargo, not for your ass. And clean yourself up, you look like you've been through three wars."

Alex nodded, feeling the translation work. Then he pulled himself toward a random vendor at a neighboring stall—a thin man with a tray full of shiny gadgets and dried fish. The vendor was just cursing at someone, but Alex interrupted:

"How much for this thing?" He pointed to a small flashlight. The fish translated the meaning and intonation, but stumbled on the idiom: Alex had said "thing" in Russian aloud, and it came out as something like "this shiny piece of junk that glows." The vendor laughed, clearly catching the playful tone.

"Two credits, pal. And don't call it 'shiny junk': it'll get offended faster than I can jack up the price."

The conversation began to flow—with interruptions, with answers. The vendor poured out local gossip about port smugglers, Mira chipped in with comments, and Alex responded, feeling the words fall into place. The fish was literal sometimes: when he joked "I'm like a fish in water here," it translated literally, and everyone around snorted. For the first time in four worlds—or however many worlds?—a full dialogue had emerged. Not gestures, not silence. Real words, with mistakes, but alive.

Mira helped him pull himself to the edge of the pier, where the noise of the port quieted slightly. She leaned against the railing, looking at the water where the lights of reflections splashed.

"The fish will stay with you as long as you live," she said seriously, but with that same light irony. "It's not a weapon, not a power for fighting. Just... a bridge. It eats what you eat, breathes with you. Don't try to remove it—it'll grow on for good. And yes, it sometimes jokes out of place. You'll get used to it."

Alex nodded, touching the spot behind his ear. The tingling was gone, leaving only a sense of presence—living, warm, absurd. He decided not to seek immediate death, not to provoke the loop. To spend at least one day here, figuring out the rules of the new world. Not like in an anime, where the hero immediately rushes into adventures, but just... to stay. If only for a little while. The wind from the sea brought the smell of ozone, metal, and wet stone—familiar, like a reminder. But this time, Alex was in no hurry.