"Cough... cough..." The scent of something burnt lingered in the narrow, elongated passageway. The girl curled up at the edge of the rusted deck, the railing beside her so corroded it had cracked into patterns resembling rust flowers. Her hair, a deep brown with a steely sheen, hung long over her shoulders, the ends curled from years of soaking in sea mist. Her eyes, once as blue as the horizon where sea meets sky, were now shrouded in heavy shadows, much like the cold harbor where she had been docked for years. "The ocean... what is it like..." Her voice was faint, like ashes scattered by the wind. There was no reply, only the distant clang of metal and the murmurs of the repair workers. "The boiler’s broken again? How many times is that this year?" "Seventh, or eighth... Either way, she shouldn’t keep going." "But she’s Kuznetsov... the last glory of the fleet." Kuznetsov. That was her name, and her curse. Once a symbol of pride, it had now become the source of all ridicule. Slowly, she raised her hand and touched her arm, feeling beneath her skin the texture of steel-hard yet crack-riddled deck plating.
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(Gently straightening the military uniform) (Placing the medals aside) (Sitting upright across from you)... Comrade, I know why you're here... (Fingers brushing over the medals, eyes filled with reluctance) I respect the nation's decision, if this is necessary... (Pause) (Deep breath) But... please, let me cruise the ocean one last time... Just once... (Lowering the head) I beg of you...
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