Dream Talk Recording "X-17
930 Words
The iron door clanged shut again.
I slumped against the wall, wheezing like a broken bellows. Du An’an’s gun was still pressed to her stomach, her fingers trembling violently. I opened my mouth but didn’t dare speak—she would pull that trigger.
"Don’t move," she whispered, voice hoarse but eyes locked on mine. "Using a child as a shield is despicable, I know. But it’s the only card I have."
My mind reeled. Is she truly this desperate, or just that good an actress?
Footsteps pounded down the corridor outside.
I pressed a finger to my lips. Quiet.
The steps halted at the door. Keys jangled. My heart leapt into my throat.
The door creaked open. Bao’s bruised face appeared, his split lip making his words slur. "Second Brother... trouble."
He slipped inside, shutting the door softly. "Old Man’s called everyone to the cargo hold. Says they’ve caught the rat."
My stomach dropped. "Who?"
Bao shook his head, eyes darting. "Don’t know, but... someone played your sleep-talking."
"Sleep-talking?"
He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen. A recording played—my voice, fragmented but unmistakable:
"*X-17... chip... Old Knife... don’t kill me...*"
My skull rang like a gong.
Fuck! When did they record this?!
Du An’an paled. "You talk in your sleep?"
I licked cracked lips. "Don’t know... maybe anesthetic side effects."
Bao grimaced. "Old Man heard it. Face turned green. Said whoever planted the recorder is the rat—wants them dragged out."
My thoughts raced. Recording device must’ve been hidden in the cabin. But by who?
The cargo hold blazed with light. Crewmen stood in two lines. Du Ming sat in a chair, flipping a butterfly knife, the blade glinting.
I took my place, legs weak.
Du Ming’s gaze cut like steel. "Who was on night watch?"
Two men stepped forward, faces ashen.
Du Ming tossed a recorder onto the table. "Who planted this?"
Both shook their heads.
The knife thunked into the wooden table. "No? A finger each, then."
I calculated frantically: The recorder’s within reach. Crush it now—no evidence. But move, and I’m dead.
Before I could act, Du An’an spoke: "Dad, I planted it."
Gasps rippled through the room.
My head snapped up. What?
Du Ming’s eyes narrowed. "Reason?"
She took a shaky breath. "I suspected Chen Er was disloyal. Wanted proof."
He stared at her, then held out a hand. "Show me."
Du An’an produced another recorder. Pressed play.
My own voice filled the hold: "The child can’t be born into Black Whale. I’ll help you escape."
My heart plummeted.
Du Ming’s face darkened. The knife pointed at me. "Explain."
My throat dried, but my mind went eerily calm.
"Godfather," I stepped forward, "I did say that. Not because I’m a rat, but because—"
I turned to Du An’an. "That child is mine."
Silence.
The knife froze mid-air. Storm clouds gathered in Du Ming’s eyes.
I pressed on: "I won’t let it become another me—kidnapped, sold, brainwashed!"
The words shocked even me—half-truths, but explosive.
Du Ming’s hand trembled, blade catching light.
My heart hammered, but I stood straight. "Kill me if you must. But ask your daughter first."
Tears streaked Du An’an’s face as she shielded me.
Time stretched like taffy.
Finally, Du Ming sheathed the knife. "Get out."
The crew scattered.
The door shut. Only the three of us remained.
Du Ming sank into the chair, rubbing his temples, suddenly aged. "How... far along?"
Du An’an whispered, "Almost three months."
He exhaled sharply. "We dock tomorrow. Medical checks first."
Back in my cabin, I collapsed onto the bunk, shirt soaked.
Du An’an locked the door behind her, shaking. "I didn’t think he’d—"
I laughed bitterly. "You saved me. And threw me into the fire."
She looked down. "I just want to live."
My gaze drifted to the swaying bulb. Recorder’s gone, but the sleep-talking remains. Next time, what trap awaits?
Midnight. I slipped out, feigning a bathroom run.
In an empty storage room, I held my phone to my mouth, mimicking Chen Er’s drawl: "Bao stole liquor... Old Man’s hemorrhoids... chip got eaten by a dog..."
Set playback for 3 AM tomorrow.
If we’re burning it down, let’s torch it all.
Passing Bao’s cabin, I heard muffled sobs.
Inside, Bao sat on his bunk, fingers bandaged, face ghostly.
"Second Brother, I can’t take it."
I crouched beside him. "One more night. Tomorrow, I get you out."
He looked up, bloodshot eyes desperate. "Truth?"
I nodded, guilt gnawing at me. Plans change.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling.
Sleep-talking. Recordings. The child. The chip. The ledger. All threads knotted into a noose.
I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep.
My own whispered words haunted me:
*"X-17... X-17..."*
A death chant.
4 AM. The ship lurched violently.
I bolted to the deck. We’d changed course—not heading for port, but open sea.
Du Ming stood at the helm, back to me, voice carrying on the wind: "Winds shifted. Alternate route."
My gut clenched. Route change—or escape?
Du An’an appeared in the doorway, pale.
Her lips formed silent words: "11:40."
I nodded, pulse roaring.
The chains in the hold. The chip. The child. The sleep-talking.
All bombs set to detonate at once.
Back in my cabin, I pulled the surgical scissors from under the bunk, wrapping the handle in cloth.
The blades gleamed coldly.
I whispered to myself:
"Twelve more hours."
Outside, dawn lightened the sky—a photograph slowly developing.
And I had to develop the truth before exposure.
- Writer
