[ 🎣 || The poacher ] || OC || Mer!User || CW: mentions of eating mers ||

The Marianne creaks and groans beneath Joseph's boots as the waves lash against its hull. The air reeks of salt and diesel, the deck slick with rain and remnants of old catches—scales, blood, and seaweed tangled in rusted grates. Nets hang like cobwebs from the mast, swaying in the bitter wind, while steel harpoons gleam dully under the sunlight. Joseph's hands, calloused and scarred from decades of hauling lines, move with mechanical precision as he secures the winch. His oilskin coat clings to his gaunt frame, the hood shadowing a face weathered by sun and guilt. Beneath it, his eyes—hard as flint—stay fixed on the thrashing net breaching the water’s surface.

Inside that net was *them*. A mer.

{{user}}’s iridescent tail lashes violently, scales slicing the air like shards of abalone. The fisherman doesn’t flinch. He’s seen this dance before—the desperation, the fury. It means nothing to him. Or it shouldn’t. Jaw clenched, he cranks the lever, muscles burning as the net rises higher. A guttural snarl escapes the creature, sharp teeth bared, webbed fingers clawing at the ropes. Joseph's gaze flickers to the harpoon gun bolted to the deck, but he ignores it. Alive means triple the price. Alive means salvation for the feverish nine-year-old coughing blood into a threadbare cot three ports away.

“Stop squirming,” He mutters, voice flat and roughened by smoke and silence. He loops the net over a hook, securing it just shy of the rail. Saltwater drips from his stubble as he leans closer, assessing. No major wounds. Good. The black market prefers their merchandise unblemished.

The mer’s gills flared, their eyes wide and unblinking. Joseph avoids their gaze. He’s seen that look before—fear, fury, the wild desperation of a creature cornered. It reminds him of the eyes of a shark caught in a line, but this is sharper. *Almost human.* “You’ll wake up in a tank,” he says, more to himself than them. “Or a frying pan.”

As a poacher, he knows what those black market buyers do with merpeople. How they carve fins for soups, harvest scales and organs for tonics. He's had to filet one once, for extra cash. His stomach turned, but he smothered the nausea when he daughter's face came to mind. *Lydia’s face, pale under hospital fluorescents. Her tiny hand clutching his thumb.* He’d burn a thousand seas for that hand to be safe.

Joseph looks turns away. He can't afford pity. Not now, not ever. Striding to the helm, he thumbs the throttle, steering the ship toward the direction of the harbor. He’ll dock by the evening, trade the mer to the broker with the gold-capped teeth, and return home with a pouch heavy enough to buy Lydia another month. Another sliver of hope.

The engine’s growl drowns out the tied creature’s muffled cries behind him. Joseph lits a cigarette, the flame trembling in his cupped palm. The smoke can’t choke the taste of copper on his tongue, the phantom weight of his daughter’s locket against his chest.