FSE

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~ The Shell ~

A transformation story

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CHAPTER 1

_ Thursday, April 25th_

Inhale.

Exhale.

Eyes closed.

Toes curled. Along the edge. Then

over it.

Into the spin and

swallowed.

Diamonds, all of it…

Ryan pierced the pool with a jackknife. Ice-cold fire bolts set his skin alight and burnt out his nerves like candles on a sinking ship. Adrenaline bubbled in his veins. Anxiety vaporized.

How could he be nervous if his nerve ends were fried?

Kick after kick, breaststroke after butterfly, he thrust through the competition lane with a Phelpsian determination. Twenty laps and his lean-muscled frame wouldn't tire. Twenty-five. Thirty. If only there was an audience to witness the feat. Any audience at all.

But no, there never was. Ryan swam end to end in isolation, not for the sake of sport, but to wash the worry out from between his ears. His final dash ended without ceremony. That was fine. He welcomed the calm decay of the water's stasis.

His dirty blonde hair shined a little brighter as he climbed up the poolside and shook sapphires from his mid-cut mane. Every falling drop carried the last of his doubts, his second-guessing whisked away. All that remained of his worries were two sheets of paper lying in his messenger bag -- stuffed away, far away, in the back of a cold changing room locker. A monster sleeping deep in a shallow cove. Maybe today, Ryan would slay the beast. Maybe today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pruned fingers clenched the straps slung over Ryan's right shoulder. One duffle for the pool. One satchel for class. The latter doubled as a cage for the razor-fanged beast. Two sharp pages ready to pierce his heart again.

Clinging to momentary peace, his free hand pushed out through the double doors.

He immediately recoiled. Morning sun stung his emerald eyes, forcing them into a desperate squint. First light burnt more than chlorine ever could, but this was the best time to swim. That's what he was taught.

Behind him, the campus aquatics center towered on its marble foundation. An honorable building with size and grandeur worthy of a championship swim team -- a team he'd long since left behind. Even if he wanted to, Ryan had no time for such activities. His work was too important. Well, not his work of course, but --

Time.

Time. Time. Time.

Ryan flicked on his phone:

[8:25 AM]

“Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot!"

His flip-flops pounded over to the bike rack and slapped down on pedals before he ever freed the wheel. This error cost him another ten seconds as he dismounted, fumbled with the combo lock, and yanked his ride out onto the road.

Ryan flung his gym bag onto the right-side handlebar and kicked off. His UC Santa Barbara tank top fluttered in the wind, its blue threads navy and damp on his chest. A new race began. Ryan chasing time down the California street. The morning tide roared just several feet away, cheering him on from the sidelines.

If only he could swim his way across campus. He'd always been faster in the water.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryan didn't bother securing his bike. The frame was rusted, and the left handlebar kept falling off. Any prospective thief would be doing themselves a disservice by swiping it. He shoved the wheel into a half-empty rack and rushed to the front door of the lecture hall, only to double back when he forgot his bag on the right handle -- the good one. Another five seconds lost.

His shaking legs sputtered across the lobby, where none of the traipsing underclassmen noticed his frantic footsteps. He took a hard left down the hall. Then a right towards the stairwell. One floor up, then two doors down. He tripped while ascending, the curse of constantly wearing cheap flip-flops.

At odyssey's end, his hands pushed through another double door. He rushed inside and, as usual, felt so terribly small in the band shell of a classroom.

“Sorry, everyone, so sorry!" Ryan said, his soft tenor voice as twitchy as his fingers. All ten now clutched his bag straps for support. He shuffled down the walkway and up to the podium, eyes glued firmly to the floor. The last thing he needed was to trip again, especially in front of the freshmen. It seemed all grace left his body when he stepped onto dry land.

As he took his spot at the front of the room, he pulled the laptop from his workbag before dumping everything else onto the podium. Mouse, check. Notepad, check. Those miserable, blood-curdling papers that threatened to slit his throat open…not important right now.

In went the HDMI cable. The computer booted, and a digital duplicate of the coastline filled his vision to the brim. Ryan's fingers jerked their way across the keyboard.

“So, how does everyone feel about the exam tomorrow?" He typed in his password and scribed a line of ******s in the sand.

A silent beat came and went. The lack of response made him squirm. He never enjoyed giving bad grades, but in a Gen Ed elective, that seemed commonplace. Apparently, not everyone shared his passion for oceanography.

“Okay, then. Let's review chapters --"

When Ryan finally looked up from the screen, his shoulders dropped and his little voice shriveled out of existence.

A tidal wave

of

empty

seats.

No audience. No one to witness his fumbling words or frantic gestures. He glanced down at the time:

[8:32 AM]

Of course. University policy. If a professor or teaching assistant doesn't arrive within thirty minutes, class is canceled. And Ryan was no professor.

Two minutes mattered. Ten seconds. Five seconds.

Ryan closed his laptop. His chest tightened as the clamshell snapped shut.

Anxiety festered once again, drilling needles into his cerebellum. Late. Absent. Failure.

Inhale.

Exhale.

No.

It wasn't working. There was no way around it.

He must face the consequences of his mistake.

Ryan gathered his things and retreated to the door.

Yes.

The doctor will be so disappointed…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, fuck em' I guess!"

A boisterous laugh. The gentle pouring of freshly brewed tea drowned out by the chortle. A gracefully aging man hovered over the coffee table, kettle in hand, as his baritone bawk barreled through the office. Beneath him sat two familiar mugs -- one a teal porcelain, the other black as ash, carved in the shape of Darth Vader's helm. He filled both equally.

The man returned his electric pot to the end table and plopped down in his office chair. His open lab coat bunched up between his slacks and the flaking, padded arms. Opposite him and flush to the auburn wall was a worn futon, where Ryan also sank into the cushions.

Relief flooded the boy's veins. He could breathe again. However, he straightened up when offered the blue glass, handle extended.

“Doctor, please don't say that about your students," Ryan urged, accepting the cup from his superior.

The professor pressed Darth Vader to his lips and swallowed. “Students-schmudents. I'm not even going to pretend like I know a hundred and seventy-two freshmen when they rotate every three months."

“A hundred forty-one. Several of them dropped the course after midterms."

“Good for them! They can sleep in like children and stop wasting our time." The doctor raised his mug to toast. “Or, your time, really. I can't thank you enough for babysitting, Mr. Ryan."

A thoughtful smile crossed the boy's face. He found the pet name quite silly but wouldn't dare ruin the man's fun. After all, Ryan should be the one giving thanks. It was an honor to speak in the doctor's stead. It was the least he could do.

“It's not a problem, Dr. Torres," he said as they clinked their mugs together. Ryan blew gently on the steaming well as hints of rose and lavender spiraled under his nose. The doctor's favorite blend. “Although, I am sorry about this morning. I lost count of my laps, but that's not an excuse."

“Hell, I certainly didn't remember! Otherwise, I might have bothered to show up. You always speak so eloquently, especially for a 101 lecture. At eight A.M. too. You're so disciplined!"

Ryan sipped softly, hiding the faintest blush. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that class. I'm more than happy to keep it afloat."

“Afloat!" the doctor laughed. “You're an old soul, Ryan."

“I suppose twenty-four is the new sixty-three."

“I'd gladly take sixty-three again," Torres said, stroking a salt-and-pepper beard that was more salt than not. “That's what I mean, though. The other kids don't share your passion! We're basically saving the world downstairs, and they're busy making TikToks or whatever."

Passion, that's right. If Ryan had anything to his name, it was passion. He wasn't the smartest or the best looking or the most charismatic…but he had passion. And passion led to confidence, right? Ryan needed that more than anything. Especially now.

This was the moment of truth.

The young TA set down his cup and sat up straighter. His core tensed, bracing for any number of rejections or dejected blows. His hands glided carefully into the satchel by his side. Two stapled pages nipped at his fingertips.

The beast with white fangs.

As he unleashed the papers, his eyes fell to the letterhead. A monster stared back in cold, black ink.

**The University of Hawai'i at M?noa

College of Engineering – Doctoral Recommendation**

The words were printed clear as day. Now if only he could read them aloud.

Ryan's head tilted up, trying desperately to lift his eyes from the sheet and address his mentor properly. His mouth already started to dry. “Dr. Torres, I am…very proud to be part of the work you're doing here. It's truly been an honor."

“ We are doing it, Ryan. Together." Torres leaned in, pointing Darth at the young apprentice. “You're indispensable."

The boy's mouth became the Sahara.

“Without your hydrone design, it would take half the EPA to clean up the cove, and clearly they're not willing to lift half a finger. You're an excellent roboticist, Mr. Ryan. The only one I trust for this project."

Roboticist was a strong word for a second-year Master's student.

“Hydrone was just the name for prototyping. You should pick something better, sir."

“It's a great name! They're cute. It fits. You invented the little guys, you get to name them."

Ryan shifted in his seat, fingers crinkling the pages.

“Thank you, sir."

“Thank you, Ryan." Torres took another sip and reached for the young man's paperwork. “Now, is that for me?"

Ryan pulled away. “No, doctor. It's just something I have to mail. I thought I'd left it in the classroom…but here it is." He forced a smile and returned the beast to its den. It would live to see another day. Again.

“Alrighty, then!" Torres hopped up, chugged the last of his tea, and laid Vader to rest. “Let's fix up those gel filters! We don't want any seahorses getting their legs chopped off."

Ryan followed his lead, shallow grin on the verge of collapse. He hadn't lied to the doctor. He would never lie, of course. He did have to mail the application, and he easily could've forgotten it in the lecture hall. Maybe he could keep forgetting it. Leave it be and let the date pass.

He only had to wait a week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Orange skies. Sea birds. A lavender mirror out past the sand. All of it carried Ryan down the road, wheels spinning on sunset rays. Despite such beauty by his side, the tight-lipped boy could not escape the rain cloud in his mind. Why couldn't he ask such a simple question? More importantly, why did he want to leave Santa Barbara anyway? He had work at the ready, a future at his fingertips. The UC program garnered high acclaim in the academic sphere, and Dr. Torres would be ecstatic to help with his doctoral dissertation.

So, why abandon it all for Hawaii?

Ryan's eyes drifted to the purpling tide. He'd seen both sides of the continent now, shore to shore, but they looked the same to him. Not like Hawaii. Seas of turquoise. A marine ecosystem like no other.

Not that he'd ever been, of course. He just remembered the photos…the brochures…the stories. The same Pacific, but a whole new world. Somewhere, beyond the horizon.

There was something he'd never find on a coast.

But was this the right time to leave? To chase a dream he didn't fully understand? Would there ever be a right time?

The back and forth sent Ryan's head through turbulence. A slight turn of his elbow transferred the imbalance to his hands, then to the handles, then the frame, and its wheels, until the front of his bike dipped into the lip of the road.

As his tire thumped and sputtered in the sand, Ryan forced himself back to reality and gripped the handlebars, wrangling them towards the asphalt. Panic made him wrangle too hard to the left.

With a yank and a CLANK, off went the left handlebar. The wheel jerked with it. Ryan leaned right and aimed for the sand -- which, of course, he missed.

Both hands flung up to his face as it collided with a shrub's stumpy branches. The force of his inertia pushed Ryan halfway through the bushel, but not enough to clear it completely. His bare shins caught on the twigs and stems while his head planted gracelessly into the sand below.

With leaves ensnaring him from the waist down, he looked oddly like a shrub-human hybrid. A mythical creature in the wild. Like a centaur.

His groaning stirred the dunes until Ryan pushed himself up on his forearms, glancing back at his natural disaster. Prickly pains scratched at his legs, but fortunately, the beachfront absorbed the brunt of his impact. He crawled forward like a man in the trenches until his lower half plopped out. Both flip-flops stayed behind in the branches -- two soldiers covering the rear.

Ryan sat up and took stock of his limbs. No blood. A few scratches on his elbows and knees. Both legs still attached. It could've been far worse. His fingers tussled loose sand from his hair and wiped the grainy smudges off his cheeks.

Then, his face flushed. He whipped his head left and right, searching for any onlookers who may have recorded his wipeout. The last thing he needed was to trend on the Campus Snap Story. Again.

But no. He was alone. As always.

Wait.

There.

Something caught his eye. Jutting up of the sand, just out of reach. A row of little spines sprouting from the sprawl. Off-white. Curved in a jagged line. A nasty surprise for anyone walking barefoot along the shore. Fortunately, Ryan didn't land on it face-first.

He excavated the thorns with a careful hand. Fully exposed, the ivory rods flowered in all directions with barely a centimeter between them. Their base was conic but curved distinctly in a clockwise tilt. A faint sienna hue kissed the bottom edge of the calcium formation. Sharp, yet delicate. Fierce, yet beautiful.

Arcinella cornuta.

A Florida jewel box shell.

Ryan turned it over gently to inspect the underside. Empty. Not a trace of the life that once resided within. He held it up to the half-sun still falling from the sky. The convex shape nearly eclipsed the light as orange peel rays extended from his new little treasure. Twisting it about, he found his eyes moving from the shell to the open water that, in a trick of perspective, surrounded it. The blue and the orange and the lilac haze. They triggered a memory.

A soft smile. Summer heat. Something familiar. Something he had forgotten. It melted away the stinging around his knees. It filled his chest with more air than he could hold. It washed away his uncertainty.

Confidence. There it was.

Pocketing the spindly shell, Ryan rose from his dugout and walked towards the tide, toes digging into the sand as if to keep him from sliding back in his stride. Another deep breath to take it all in. Salt air. Rippling sea foam. Lavender skies. He found joy in every sensation. He lifted the bottom of his tank top and tossed the garment aside.

He marched forward, each step stronger than the last. Wind pushed back against his bare chest, but not hard enough to stop him. Fists curled. Eyes tight on the horizon. He would make it this time. Ryan failed to slay one beast today, but this was different. This one he faced alone. This one he could beat! This one --

A shadow flickered across his vision before vanishing into the water. Every hair straightened on the back of his neck.

No. Not today.

Bravery vanquished, the boy stopped inches before the pulsating rim of the ocean. Now his toes dug into the sand like the bush's roots, holding him back from an irreversible edge crossing.

His lips curled down, willing himself forward but unable to take another step. It was just a trick of the light. Had to be. But still…

Whatever he saw, or thought he saw, was enough to make Ryan collect his shirt, his bike, and the loose left handle from the dunes. He salvaged his footwear before riding home without a second thought. Never looking back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Head above water. Shifting sands below. A blue ceiling full of clouds too high to ever touch. The summer surf flittered around Ryan's neck, shaking his little body like a jar of coins. His toes could barely reach the bottom of the Atlantic.

“Don't go out too far, hun!" came the voice of a woman, whose sunhat stood tall above the waves. Her green two-piece formed an island, safe harbor, not far at all from where the boy buoyed. Her fingers interlocked with the strapping man by her side.

“I'm fine, Mom!" Ryan shouted before diving under and springing back up a few feet away. He whipped his legs around until he was floating on his back. One swift motion, a blur in the blue.

“He's a natural," said the sun-kissed gentleman in zigzag trunks. He adjusted his sunglasses astutely.

“You must be very proud, Mr. Wreathe."

The grownups watched Ryan run circles in the water. It was no surprise he asked to join the swim team next fall.

“Wow buddy, I bet you could swim to Hawaii!"

“Where is that?"

“The other side of the country," said his mother. “Off the coast of California."

“Oh, that's the big one on the map! All the way on the left."

“Yes, that's west, hun. As far west as you can go."

“Not as far as Hawaii!" Ryan laughed then dove under again.

Mr. Wreathe untangled his fingers, pulled his blonde locks up into a ponytail, and rolled his wristband around the roots. “I think it's time for another race."

“Best two out of three, is it?" Mrs. Wreathe pulled off his sunglasses and kissed him good luck.

“Watch out, Ryan! Shark attack!"

Ryan screamed with joy as his father shot forward and yanked his shoulders from behind. Together they dipped backwards and sank into the surface. Blue haze. Refractions of gold. The boy's childhood squeals bloomed into a ringing that grew louder and louder as they sank, piercing through the muffle of the waves. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

A deep breath plunged into his chest as blue light blurred into black.

Ryan's eyes flickered open in the dark. He awoke wrapped in bed sheets instead of salt water. Endless blue sky replaced with grey paint and bare walls shrouded in early morning dust. The dream, the memory, gone with the wind.

He sank into his pillow and pushed the thought of the dream aside. He hadn't had it in some time. It always ended the same.

The ringing sound was new, however. Soft and precisely pitched like a finger swirling on the wet rim of a glass. Water dripping down the sides. Evaporating drops. The image made him thirsty, but he was too tired to swing his legs out of bed.

With what little energy he had, Ryan rolled over to the nightstand and tapped on his phone:

[5:16 AM]

An hour till the pool opened. Glints of gold peeked through his only window, but not enough to rouse him.

Resigned to rest, he curled back under his blanket and turned away from the stand, where the shell's ivory spines stood quietly in the receding night.

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CHAPTER 2

Friday, April 26th

For a hundred forty-one students, the box of bluebooks weighed uncomfortably light.

Ryan's flip-flops clacked against the sidewalk as he carried the exams uphill. Gulls greeted him from above as they prepared to make another nest on the roof of the lab. He'd have to shoo them off later -- such was the price of a private facility overlooking the waterfront. The exterior wasn't as pristine as the university buildings, but it more than compensated in location.

Breaking off from the main road was a sandy path leading around to the underside of the cliff. Ryan passed by it every day, always glancing at the posted signage:

[GRIFFITH'S COVE]

|

[WASTE HAZARD]

|

[NO ENTRY]

He'd never seen the cove in person due to the lab's distinct lack of hazmat suits. That would change soon enough.

Making a mental note of the suit requisition, the TA continued on to the two-story facility he called home. More home than his drab studio apartment, certainly. The green shingles and old tan blocks gave it an appropriately earthy mood. Ryan felt like an islander whenever he stepped inside.

The old glass door locked behind him. He crossed to the open staircase and passed five rows of unattended workstations gathering dust. Beyond the desks sat two enclosed pools used for the doctor's experiments. One couldn't hold water.

Flopping footsteps shifted to clangs of metal as he climbed to the second floor -- though “floor" was a generous description. A single walkway hung over the first level and led straight to Dr. Torres' study, which the professor himself had to furnish. The futon came with the building.

Ryan approached the office door and its faded golden plate:

[ Dr. Isaac Torres, Ph.D. ]

[ Ecology, Hydrology, Computer Science ]

[ Squash Instructor ( Seasonal) ]

However, a muffled voice kept him at a distance.

“Last time, you said it wouldn't launch until July. How many corners did they cut this time?"

A beat.

“No, I said Griffith's Cove was the field test. You wouldn't pay for two, remember?"

Another fight.

“Then SHALEFRONT can hold its damn seahorses, or they can go ahead without us!"

Their sponsor, a perpetual thorn.

“No…yes, I agree. Yes. Okay. Fine, sure…thank you, ma'am."

The door swung open before Ryan could reach the handle. He froze. Deer-in-headlights. Caught. Spying. Shameful.

“Good morning, Dr. Torres."

“It's an Earl Grey morning, Ryan. That's what it is." Torres grabbed the exam box and tossed it inside. Roughly. “I'll meet you downstairs."

He might have broken the door off its frame, if they could afford to repair it.

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Rattling spoons. Kettle smoking hot on a serving tray. Two mugs. One blue. One blue-grey with a great white shark circling the rim, its mouth wide and googly eyes bulging out from the ceramic. “JAWS-DROPPING" scribbled above the illustration.

Dismounting the stairs with their drinks, Dr. Torres found his assistant already hunched over at a workbench with an armory of tools. He set the platter down at an empty table and started to pour. Ryan paid little attention as he focused on his work.

Sitting before him was a mechanical marvel -- a microscopic robot that resembled a jellyfish, with a silicone shell and flagella arms. No larger than his thumb, this particular hydrone had its skin peeled back as Ryan prodded the wiring with plastic tweezers.

The teal mug clunked down next to him mid-surgery. He moved the magnifying arm away and pressed the glass to his mouth. Lavender and rose.

“Weren't you brewing Earl Grey?"

“This blend is far more relaxing," Torres laughed as he prepared a glass of his own. “I don't need my blood pressure any higher today."

Ryan took another soft sip, eyes falling to the steam cloud in his hands. “I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to overhear…"

“Oh please, you could've heard her from the bowels of the Mariana. And you're part of the plan too so…"

Of course. Indispensable.

“Is SHALEFRONT unhappy with our progress?"

“This is just their old song and dance. They act like they own the place and stomp their feet when they don't get their way. A bunch of millionaire toddlers. Basically, they want the hydrones done yesterday and for the Sun to revolve around the Earth."

“Are they aware of the…signal decay issue?"

“They know what they need to know. It's easier that way."

The young engineer nodded, replacing his cup with a bite-sized soldering iron.

“That said…" Torres cleared his throat. “They moved up the anchor date to the 2 nd."

“Of July?"

“Of May."

Ryan's working hand paused. That was a week away.

“To quote our beloved dean, we must reassure the public that an oil spill from the rig, Heaven forbid, can be mitigated using the hydrones. And it's in our best interest to do that. Can you read between the lines? And yes, she actually said that last part."

So, that was the new goal. Clean up SHALEFRONT's inevitable mess. They truly were toddlers.

“I know it's tight. But is it possible, Ryan?"

No.

“Yes, sir. But we have to test the new absorption filters, and the signal strength is still underpowered, so we need a solve for that."

“Here's your solve. Increase the hydrone's listening range. Ultrasonic frequencies over forty kilohertz."

That didn't sound right, no pun intended. Wouldn't higher frequencies be weaker underwater? No, the doctor obviously had a plan. “What about the field test in the cove?"

“Waitlisted, unfortunately. Besides, it's spent half a decade full of waste, another week won't kill anyone. As long as they stay sixty feet away."

Ryan agreed, albeit reluctantly. Griffith's Cove had inspired their project in the first place. And debuting the hydrones without a field test sounded…less than ideal. “Very well, but I'll have to rebuild their transducers to handle ultrasound, design a new signal controller, and then test it to see if that even fixes the decay problem."

“Good news, we're outsourcing the controller, so that's one less plate to spin." Torres stepped forward and extended his mug. “I know it's a tall order, but my gut is saying we can do this. Do you trust my gut, Ryan?"

Yes.

Always.

“Of course, sir."

Their cups clinked.

“That's what I like to hear! I'll order more supplies and start tearing up the code. SHALEFRONT won't know what hit 'em!" Roused as ever, Dr. Torres guzzled his drink and headed back up to the office.

Ryan swiveled around on his stool and began prying out the sound module he'd just installed.

This was going to be a long week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Look at this shell, hun. It's a Neverita duplicata. Do you remember the common name?"

“Shark's eye! Rawr!" Ryan roared, stomping his feet through the water like a mini-Godzilla.

“Right again," Mrs. Wreathe said with a smile. Her long strides kept easy pace with the wild boy at her side. After several attempts, she'd successfully wrangled him closer to shore before the waters grew dark. The sky above rippled with golden-hour clouds and cobalt pockets, which was their cue to walk home. Tonight was a school night, after all.

Her husband slung their sand-splashed towels over his shoulder and quickly caught up.

“Remember, Ryan. Never eat a neverita!" he laughed. His dear wife rolled her eyes as always. “You know, your mom and I found a whole colony of these stuffed in a cave down in Venezuela."

“Yes, they shouldn't have moved so far south. Scientific American was quite eager for our paper on that one."

“Too eager, I'd say. Maybe next time they'll spell my name right."

“Perhaps if we discover another new species, we'll name it the Marstonita duplicata. Then they'll have to get it right."

His father replied with some quip, but Ryan wasn't too interested in their banter. That was parent talk. Instead, he skipped forward through the water, always one to wander.

“Don't go too far, hun!"

Ryan heard that but kept splashing anyway, even as his parents' voices grew distant. He scooped up a rock and tossed it, just to watch it fly.

“Woah! Did you see, Mom? I tossed it like a hundred miles!"

A response shouted behind him, but it was too muffled to be clear.

“Mom? Dad?" Ryan spun around. His parents stood in shallow waters several yards away, much farther than where he had left them. They were chatting inaudibly, laughing and whispering into each other's ears and, all the while, sinking straight down.

“Wait up!" The boy hurried back to his family, but miles of shore seemed to birth between them, pushing Ryan further and further away.

Mr. and Mrs. Wreathe kissed in the sunset before turning to their desperate child. Glowing smiles lit up their faces. They waved in tandem to say hello. Or goodbye.

He had to reach them. Now. But the water congealed like tar and clung to his ankles. When he couldn't keep up on foot, Ryan followed his instincts and dove under. What was once two feet of flooding expanded into a vast ocean beneath him. There was no sign of land.

The boy swam faster and faster. The sea grew colder by the second. His mother continued to talk in silence, blissfully unaware of the water rising past her chin. Her husband wasn't far behind.

Closer. Closer. The water scraped its cold fingers against the child's skin. Its grip tightened. His kicks weakened. His small fists grabbed at the air.

Farther. Farther. Beyond his reach, their hands fluttered in the wind, bidding a definitive farewell to Ryan as their fingertips dipped beneath the surface.

He wasn't going to make it. He never would.

He just wasn't there.

Ryan's sharp inhale pierced the dark of the room. He shot up in bed, fingers clutching the blanket to save its life.

Sweat ran wild down his back, his chest rising and falling with violent choking breaths. He wiped his brow on the comforter and tried the undo the knots in his aching lungs.

Minutes crawled away as he forced the nightmare from his mind. When his airflow steadied, Ryan returned to his pillow and tried to ground himself like he'd been taught. He focused on physical sensations. The warmth of the blanket. The soft fibers of the sheets. Even the cold spot of sweat beneath his back. Anything to keep his head above the spiral.

As he realigned his senses, an uncomfortable itch started bubbling along the undersides of his legs. A gentle burning. A tepid heat even his sweat couldn't wick away. For the sake of comfort, he rolled onto his side, away from the sweat puddle, and wriggled up against the wall.

His hand scratched thoughtlessly at the back of his left thigh. Obviously, he'd been kicking around in the sheets all night, and this wouldn't be the first time he started chafing as a result.

Ryan lulled himself back to sleep as the shell watched peacefully from his nightstand. Its forest of white spires sat motionless in the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 3

_ - - - - - Five days left - - - - -_

Delicate precision. Twisting wires too thin to see. It was no simple task to build electronics half a millimeter long, yet Ryan worked his tweezers with a finely tuned elegance. His father was a model ship aficionado, and they'd made many a vessel together, bottled or otherwise.

With a steady hand, he dislodged the sound receiver from the hydrone's motherboard and slid it out from the gelatinous shell. One down, nineteen to go. Then, he had to install the new transducers -- which he still needed to build.

He winced. The migraine he woke up to wasn't eager to leave.

Ryan set his tools aside and reached for the thirty-ounce thermos he'd brought from home. He chalked the pain up to overnight dehydration, considering he'd woken up in a storm of sweaty sheets.

The sippy top popped open, and in one swig, he finished off the last fifteen ounces. Still unsatisfied, he unscrewed the lid and made his way to the sink on the south wall. It was his third refill this morning.

“Careful not to drown in the bottle, Ryan." Dr. Torres smiled from the other side of the table, where his fingers danced gracefully across laptop keys. Lines of code scrawled down his screen at an incredible pace.

“Wouldn't that be ironic," Ryan said, gesturing to the lab's in-ground pools. As he walked, he let his free hand drift to his thigh, where last night's nagging itch returned beneath his salmon-pink shorts. There must have been some loose threads irritating the skin.

He topped off his drink and returned to his workstation. He resisted the urge to chug again.

Before his hands could pick up a forceps, the doctor's voice beckoned. “Care to double-check my chicken scratch?"

The young man set down his jug, after taking a swig, and walked around the table. He was no expert in scripting language, but the doctor's masterful syntax clearly identified each aspect of the hydrone's programming -- one of many skills he admired about his superior.

All Ryan had to do was conform to the code.

“It's excellent, doctor. But this is a very wide signal range. I could build the receivers faster if I knew the exact frequency bands we're using." He continued to scroll on the computer's trackpad, scratching at his leg on every third or fourth line.

“We won't know what signals work until we test them in the field. I'm giving you all the headroom you could need. You're welcome."

“Of course. Thank you, doctor." Ryan nodded, though that line of logic confused him. How could the signal remain unknown when their own control device would have to produce it? He must be misreading the doctor's source code. “I'll plug one in and test the software update."

As Ryan stepped away, his fingers retreated to the back of his thigh again. Then his knee. Then he stopped to claw at his calf. This was becoming a nuisance, along with his constant drinking. And the migraine. And the occasional ringing in his ears, which was a sure sign of Tinnitus, and he should honestly get that looked at, but he didn't have the --

“Hey, Ryan? There's something on your leg."

The young assistant glanced down at his shins for a moment. There was nothing out of the ordinary, of course. Then he twisted around.

From the apex of his calf muscle to the lower half of his thigh, a fervent rash dotted Ryan's skin. Copper spots the size of nickels lined up in intertwined, vertical rows. The dots even dipped into the back of his knee, their advance uninterrupted by the bend in his limb.

He followed the trail up and lifted the leg of his shorts. There was the hotspot that had tormented him for the past three hours. There, the rash stained his skin crimson. The strange ovals swelled larger, and bands of dry skin wove between them like fault lines. Staring at the malignant web made Ryan twitch.

“I…suppose I sat by a bug's nest or something."

“You look like you bathed in honey and kicked a beehive! Are you allergic to anything? Shellfish, maybe?"

“No, doctor. I feel fine aside from the itching." He didn't mention the migraine. “Do you think I should go to the clinic?"

“Eh, the student center charges an arm and a leg just to fix either. Maybe pick up some Benadryl on the way home. I'd write a prescription, but clearly I picked the wrong doctorate." Torres shrugged in jest.

Doctorate…right…

Ryan took stock of his breathing and pulse rate. No issues. No need to worry. He walked around and took a sip of water -- make that two -- then returned with the hydrone. If he focused more on work, maybe he'd be scratching less often.

Torres connected a USB cord and began the install. The progress bar crawled like a snail.

Waiting impatiently, Ryan let his thoughts drift to his remaining work -- the transducers, one for all twenty drones -- the controller, seemingly beyond his purview -- and his own future, or lack thereof.

He'd yet to breach the subject of the doctoral program, and now wasn't the time. Obviously. They had a deadline to meet. Besides, he still had no justification for the departure. No response to his own questions, let alone those on the application.

Why was he leaving? What was he looking for?

Ryan pushed the worry from his mind. It was fine. Six days remained, right? Plenty of time to find answers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Water like ice. It should have been frozen. Yet Ryan was here, diving for his life in a deep blue abyss. Arrows of light shot by in every direction. There was no telling up from down. However, he was no longer a child. He had the lungs of a grown man, a trained athlete. This was his only chance.

He tilted up, then down, then down again, switching strokes whenever he got tired -- though exhaustion never plagued him for long. Minutes and miles flickered by. The voyage had no end, and his mind started to wander. Ryan closed his eyes, flying blind through the sea.

And then came the ringing. The same pitch as before. He swam towards the source, compelled to, with eyes still clenched and ears tuned to the sound.

When the tone vanished, he observed his surroundings. He had reached the ocean floor. His feet landed firmly on the black sand as if gravity had doubled in strength.

There were no signs of life or death. Neither metals nor fabrics. All that lay before him was a shimmering city of spires, ivory towers that spanned for miles in every direction. No windows, no doors, no roads. Nothing but white. The skyscrapers jutted out at all angles, even towards his body.

But this was no metropolis.

This was a shell, magnified to titanic size. Or had he himself been shrunk, shriveled up by his time in the water?

Irrelevant. He stepped forward, hand extended, fingers aching to touch the giant.

Before Ryan could graze the surface, the opening chords of “Margaritaville" tore him from his slumber.

Eyes flickered open a second time. The white luster faded into the dead grey ceiling he'd stared at for the past three years.

A deep sigh. Ryan reached towards his nightstand and silenced the musical alarm on his phone. The shell sat there idly, now returned to its normal size.

Drowsy fuzz filled his head, vaguely masking the itch of his legs. Apparently, the cream he purchased was a failure and, unfortunately, nonrefundable. He raked at his skin through the fabric of his boxers, tracing the hidden rash up the length of his thigh. The relief, temporary. But his hand crept past his waistband and onto his abdomen. He touched his stomach. Something felt…odd.

Ryan pulled the covers away. His brow jumped.

Overnight, the spotted rash lines had marched up his hips. They stood in formation, positioned in horizontal bands below his navel and ready to invade the hole itself. When he pulled down the elastic of his underwear, he found reinforcements flanking his pubic region and, to his chagrin, climbing his forearms. A fleet of ruby dots made camp halfway to his elbow.

Gross.

But fine. This was fine. He'd pick up an allergy pill on his way to the aquatics center. Maybe a different salve too. CVS was open twenty-four-seven. Besides, these concerns took second place to the doctor's work and their race to May 2 nd. The clock ran circles around them. He didn't have time to slow down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

** CHAPTER 4 **

---- Four days left ----

What normally would've been his day off turned into a day of grinding. Ryan had spent the last hour and a half buffing plastic capsules with a nail file so they'd fit perfectly inside the hydrones' delicate framework.

Meanwhile, he'd designed an imperfect system to deal with his incessantly itching legs. It took forty-five seconds to refine one side of an electronic chip, but he could easily scratch at himself with one hand and keep working with the other, slowing his rate by a mere one-point-five seconds. The heat flared up along his thighs at increasing intervals, but he could still tolerate the irritation on his stomach and arms -- for the most part. He only bothered with them every four minutes.

When Torres placed a fresh cup of tea on the desk, his eyes wandered to Ryan's arm as it whittled away at the metal. The rash had moved three-quarters the way to his elbow.

“That bush really did a number on you. Was it a sumac or something?"

“Perhaps. I didn't check. I was a bit distracted eating leaves and sand."

“Good thing you love the beach so much."

“Not really the beach, more so the water."

“Yes, I've seen you run laps. No wonder you got recruited."

“Do we have more copper filament?" Ryan redirected the conversation as he pulled open a drawer and rummaged through. One hand dug, the other scratched his wrist. They alternated. Two seconds each.

“Try the supply room?"

The engineer got up and crossed to the west end of the lab, though not without rubbing subtly at the hem of his red button-down.

“And if you see more roaches, just holler! We'll get it sprayed again!"

Ryan shuddered at the thought.

To the north of the experiment pools sat a repository just large enough to house spare electronics and an overabundance of office supplies. As he stepped inside, Ryan flicked on the lights and immediately deflated.

Warzone. Ground zero.

He hadn't had time this semester to organize the space, and the doctor had a habit of tossing things around haphazardly. Of course, a man of his caliber had more important things to do than micromanage scrap metal, so that fell upon Ryan's list of duties -- which he was obviously failing at. Now his failure would cost them time that they didn't have.

The excavation moved from box to box, unsuccessfully, until he reached the shelving unit propped up against the back wall. Its towering height ran floor to ceiling with tools and components scattered across the five tiers. Row by row, he swept through boxes of screws, bolts, and dead bugs. He swallowed his scream when he touched a corpse.

As his failure of a search reached the third level, he spotted something stuck behind an old, rusty hand drill. Ryan squinted. The shape was rectangular like a toolbox, but it wasn't resting on the shelf. It was hooked to the wall.

He pushed the minutia aside and peered in.

No, he was wrong. There was a divot in the wall itself -- like the handle of a sliding door.

Curiosity piqued, Ryan's hand reached deep into the shelving stand, moving unnecessarily slow as if the frame would bite down on him for prying.

It was a stretch, but his fingers managed to wedge into the crevice.

He pulled. It wouldn't budge. As though he was trying to move the wall itself.

Maybe if he pushed the whole frame aside --

“Ryan!"

THUNK! Ryan jumped back and smacked his wrist against the shelf on the way out.

The doctor called out from the lab floor. “I found some filaments! They got shoved under the sink with the Drano."

“Shoot! Ah," Ryan muttered, shaking off the hit and turning back to the door. The last thing he needed was a wrist injury on top of…whatever allergy he'd developed. They couldn't afford any more delays.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Directionless. Wandering. Dark blue like deep space. Even the golden rays had vanished from his universe. No matter how far he swam, Ryan could never again find the bottom of the sea. When he looked down, he couldn't see his legs. When he kicked, he couldn't tell which foot he'd thrust into the void. The distinction had left him.

Then the ringing returned. Pulsating. It grew louder or softer depending on where he looked.

He pressed forward, or backward, until light filled his eyes. Not from the surface or the flash of a ship, but from a sea jelly glowing in the dark. Was it jelly? It resembled his inorganic machine copies, but the movement was too fluid, its body too luminescent and beautifully silver. Glittering platinum bulbs lit up one by one as they ascended.

He swam down towards their origin, but the ringing died out as he went. With one swift turn, he reversed direction and followed the jellies higher and farther, wherever they may lead.

The ringing fluctuated in pitch. A melody began to form. Without realizing, Ryan started to hum along. He could sing it if he were above water. Though higher than what his voice could normally produce, he kept the song going, paddling forward on every downbeat until --

The swimmer awoke, still carrying the tune. But when his melody clashed with the start of “Kokomo," he began to harmonize with The Beach Boys, and that was that.

Ryan stretched his arms and sat up with a yawn. For the first time in days, he wasn't compelled to tear off his legs. The incessant itch had quelled its fire to a dull roar. Certainly manageable. The third antihistamine's the charm.

When he peeled off the covers and looked down, his humming fractured into silence.

The platinum shimmer did not stay on the jellyfish of his dreams. It stared up at him like twenty silver eyes, blanketing the previously red rash along his stomach. Hesitant fingers glanced over the bands. No longer soft and fleshy, the argent crests overlapped into a firm lattice that felt more like plaster than skin. Too tough to be skin. Too smooth for comfort.

Mouth running dry, he pulled up the legs of his boxers to find the same stains on his calves and thighs. Their glimmer reminded him of medieval chainmail with its interlocking rows. Hardening armor. How long until he was fully covered?

His jaw tightened in disgust. Frustration compelled Ryan to pry at his abdomen without thought, but the moment his fingernail wedged beneath one of the plates, a searing pain made him screech like an animal. His hand shot back as though he touched an oven top, and his entire body shook with a staggering tremor.

He knew instinctually to never try that again.

A tired sigh. Ryan swung his discolored legs out of bed and got to his feet. He'd wasted enough time already.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 5

--- Three days left ---

Without the constant itch, Ryan found it prudent to wear sweats and long sleeves to bury his problems. He could not, however, find the one pair of closed-toe shoes he owned and didn't have time to dig further. His lab work would continue uninterrupted, so long as he ignored thought of mixing yoga pants and flip-flops. The mismatched style disturbed him almost as much as the silver sprawl beneath it.

Ryan connected the final wire fragments, each no longer than a centimeter, and successfully crafted the first ultra-high signal transducer. One down. Nineteen to go. With the thumb-sized hydrone lying prone on the table, he began the surgical process of rolling back its gelatinous layers.

“Ah!"

An electric shock ripped the forceps from his hand. As metal tips clanged against the table, Ryan turned over his palms, where a sudden heat flash curdled beneath his skin. Did he cross a bad wire inside the device? No, there wasn't any power running through its circuits. And yet, pulsating flames rolled up from his wrists to his fingertips, throbbing like a heartbeat and forcing visible rivulets of sweat from his palms.

Why was he sweating so much?

He stifled a groan and tried wiping the moisture on his pants, but that only left awkward wet spots around his groin. With each ticking second, the deluge grew, and though it oozed from his skin, it refused to drip or run like perspiration should. Each droplet congealed into thick patches -- on his fingers, by the blade of his hand, and on the heel -- until they coalesced at the center of his palm. The glistening secretions united like a thick layer of dollar-store slime covering his skin. “Sweat" was no longer an accurate label.

A gag boiled in Ryan's throat, but he swallowed it. Tucking his hands in his hoodie pockets, he hurried to the sink and wrenched open the faucet. He couldn't allow this ailment to disrupt work any further.

“Everything alright, Ryan?"

“Yes, doctor. Just a minor shock." That wasn't a lie. The mess on his hands was shocking, to say the least. Ryan feigned calm as he washed the fluid from his hands. In one swift motion, he wrapped his hands in paper towels and retrieved a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink. He equipped them before his hands could moisten again.

Thirty minutes and forty swigs of water later, Ryan lowered the final components into place. Two metal clicks, and it was done. He took one more drink for good luck.

“The first unit is ready for testing, sir."

“Wonderful!" said the doctor, marching towards the pool with a skip in his step. “Time for the maiden voyage!"

Ryan stood up and reached for the drone, but his hand stopped when a sharp pinching drilled into his right foot -- directly between his largest and second toe. The thin strap of his flip-flop must've pinched the skin. He seriously needed to buy a new pair.

His ankle rolled around to reorient the sandal. But the pain wasn't stopping. And it wasn't the same heat from his hands. Something felt stuck. Tightening.

Ryan had to sit back down.

Pulling his bare foot into his lap, he watched as the strangest little flesh tag sprouted next to his big toe. There, in the wide gap where a strap once resided, emerged a brand new flap of skin. Was it skin? If so, it wasn't a healthy hue. It was grey. And it was growing.

Ryan winced as the pinch turned to a morose stretching. The aberration pulled itself up along the sides of his toes without any discernible cause or goal. The farther it moved from the base of his foot, the lighter its color became. The edge ran practically transparent when it reached the bottom of his toenails.

“What on Earth?" A cautious finger prodded at the new skin, which looked more like a film or a fluid surface. Felt like it, too. Thin. Clammy. Wet. However, in spite of its foreign appearance, he could feel the growths being touched by his fingers. This was his skin, one way or another.

The thought made him nauseous, until the same ache came from his left foot.

Quietly panicked, Ryan pushed off his flip-flop in time to see a matching membrane take shape. Now two of a kind, the flaps looked utterly alien between his toes -- yet terribly familiar. Yes, the silver shade nearly matched the color of his lesions. His mind raced to terrible possibilities. This wasn't a simple immune reaction. No allergy could web someone's toes together after birth -- none that he'd heard of. Something was very wrong.

“First Mate Ryan? Did you find your sea legs?" The doctor's voice broke through his terror.

Shoot. Now wasn't the time. Ryan took a long gulp from his seventy-ounce bottle and slammed it down. He needed a refill.

“Yes, doctor." Kicking his footwear aside, he made for the pool with hydrone in hand.

A careful pace. A firm grip. Left leg. Right leg. One after the other. Ignoring the ache underfoot. The same blistering heat now trapped in his soles. Sweating. Oozing. The squelching slaps growing louder and louder. Step by step. Splat after splat. As if he stepped out of the shower and never bothered to dry off. His shoulders tensed. Ignore it. Ignore it.

Dr. Torres turned his head.

“Uh, did you step in something, Ryan?"

The man couldn't reply. His weight shifted. Both feet flew forward, slick with sweat or slime or whatever, as gravity slammed him into the tile. But even as he fell, Ryan cradled the hydrone in his arms. Their work mattered more than a sprained tailbone.

THUD!

Ryan squealed on impact. Bells of pain rang in his lower back and echoed through the elbows that braced his fall. Fortunately, he managed to keep his head well above ground.

More importantly, the hydrone was safe.

“Jesus, are you alright?" The doctor rushed over and examined Ryan's body, taking careful note of where his arms hit the floor.

“I'm fine," Ryan said as he shook off the ache and embarrassment. “I must have slipped on some water."

Did that count as a lie? Was that water leaking from his soles?

Either way, Torres's face contorted with suspicion. His eyes trailed back to the lab floor, where wet footprints had followed Ryan like a phantom. The examination moved to his feet. Both bottoms dawned coats of viscous slime. Did the doctor realize that they coated themselves? Unclear. He simply pulled at his assistant's big toe and watched the strange sterling membrane stretch between the digits. A blush spiraled through Ryan's face.

“No, that doesn't look right, Ryan. Not right at all."

Shoot. Caught. No point in hiding it. That would waste more time.

“I'm…not sure…what's happening to me."

“Where the hell is this bush you fell into?"

“It's not a reaction --"

“Where's the bush, Mr. Wreathe?" A stern tone. Rare. Crushing.

“On the other side of campus. I crashed into it, crawled out, and nearly gouged my eye out with a shell."

“What shell? You didn't mention any shell." That tone again. Ryan crumbled.

“It didn't…seem pertinent, sir."

“Mr. Wreathe, that shell could be toxic or coated in pollutants!"

“I don't think it's that serious. Or I didn't --"

“No, not serious at all. You're just oozing slime like a fish and jeopardizing our work with contaminants!"

Ryan deflated. He had no words. No justification. The doctor was right, as usual. His antics threatened their already tenuous situation. Not to mention a written report on his workflow would read as absurd.

Dr. Torres placed the hydrone in the pool and helped Ryan to his feet. Easier said than done, given his slime trail staining the floor. “Grab your things. I'll drop you off at home and test the startup protocol myself. Tomorrow, bring in that shell and a cut of the bush. I need to figure out what's wrong with you."

“Yes, doctor."

Ryan pattered away, gripping the tables for balance. Fire singed his face. Shame whipped at his backside. How could he be so reckless? So stupid? Although the shell was not poisonous by nature, he could've easily contracted some virus lingering on its surface. How could he ignore such a problem? He was a fool. He knew nothing.

Whatever virus led to abnormal perspiration, silver lesions, and dactyl skin growth was obviously beyond him -- but certainly the doctor would find a cure. He would know what to do. He always knew.

Dr. Torres knew everything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Happy anniversary, class!" A confetti popper burst in the doctor's hands, showering the front row of students with paper rainbow vomit. Most were visibly nonplussed by their choice of seating. “Today's the fifth anniversary of something very special. Can anyone tell me what that is?"

Silence. Dead air. A sea of half-asleep zombies taking up space in the lecture hall. One hand raised out of a hundred sixty-two. A hundred sixty-two-ish.

“Great, you in the back. What's your name?"

“Uh, Ryan…professor, sir."

“And what are we celebrating, Mr. Ryan?"

The blonde underclassman sat up straight and grew painfully aware that he'd worn his swim trunks to class. Only his swim trunks. “You're referring to the SHALEFRONT oil spill? I'm not sure that it's worth celebrating, however."

“That's right! But why'd you make it sound like it's a bad thing?" Dr. Torres walked up the aisle. Each step sounded abnormally slick against the stairs.

“I believe it was an entire meltdown of their platform. Thousands of gallons of oil and refining chemicals leaked offshore. The beach was closed for months according to the textbook." As Ryan spoke, he felt something wet at his feet. His eyes fell to the floor, where a small stream was flowing by.

He spun around. The little river led back to the rear of the lecture hall, seeping out from underneath the doors.

“Well, I'm glad someone reads the book in this class," Dr. Torres laughed. Water lapped at his ankles, but the man didn't seem to care. “Yes, it was a sad tragedy that turned Griffith's Cove into a literal cesspool. But the key point you're missing, my young Padawan, is that SHALEFRONT's ongoing apology tour has paid for our new Environmental Science building on campus. Ironic, isn't it? My team is moving in this weekend, and that is worth celebrating!"

Ryan turned back. He too ignored the tide rising with every word. “They should pay for more than that, Dr. Torres. We're still unable to filter out the pollutants trapped on the sea floor."

The boy stood up when the water reached his knees.

“Pay for it, you say? How interesting. Do you have any suggestions?"

The rear exits rattled with strain.

“Well, there are a lot of factors to consider."

Crackling. Squealing.

“I'm listening, Mr. Ryan."

Pressure drummed at the floodgates.

“And our tactics would need to be subtle so as not to disturb microscopic life in the ecosystem."

Pounding pounding pounding.

“Naturally. Go on."

The dam was failing.

“We'd need something noninvasive and undetectable."

“Something small, then?"

“Yes, sir. You wouldn't even notice it."

The double doors let loose a tsunami. Thunderous rushing force swept down the aisles and swallowed up row after row of sleeping students. It washed away the walls, the seats, the bodies. Everything that made the room whole. Even with his strength as a swimmer, Ryan floundered powerlessly against the current. His head went under.

The roaring torrent demanded his silence. Screaming was a waste of air. Ryan punched and kicked as the ability to swim erased itself from his body. His breathing collapsed. Bubbles erupted from his mouth and scattered, defying gravity and all sense of direction. He looked down. He couldn't see his legs. Just bubbles boiling and darkness and a blacker than black hand reaching up past his waist and tearing into his abdomen and pulling him down and --

The sting of tears cut through his nightmare. Ryan shot up, gasping for breath.

Every inch of him swam in sweat save for his hands, his feet, and now his lower abdomen, all of which wept the same slimy mucus as yesterday. The towels beneath his heels had drowned overnight. While his heart still pounded away, a familiar ache bit into his toes. Ryan groaned and tore off his sopping blanket. This was becoming a routine.

His eyes narrowed as the grown-in flaps flanking his big toes began to pulsate. Their mountain climb resumed, centimeter by centimeter, stitch by stitch. In half a breath, the twin slick membranes approached the ends of his feet and quickly turned the corners, connecting his toe tips in swooping arcs. There was no gap left in between.

He reached forward and tried desperately to pry them apart. Pain stopped him from trying too hard.

Before Ryan could take more drastic measures, a volley of pinching pulling pinpricks jabbed him between the other digits. His jaw clenched. The plague was spreading. His right leg folded inward as he splayed his other toes, where every divot filled rapidly with the same slimy membranes. Even the smallest growths were too noticeable for their own good.

In record time, the silver webbing transformed his toes into a parody of their former selves. He grimaced at the sight. Strap sandals were out of the question today, never mind his useless flip-flops. If anyone caught a rogue glimpse of his mutations, he'd find himself quarantined at the CDC. Or worse…

On the Snapchat Campus Story. Again.

While his mind raced through hypothetical embarrassment, a familiar flame scorched the tops of his feet from ankle to toe. He cradled his legs reflexively, eyes wide as visible balls of sweat formed along the knuckles and drew tear trails down to his heels. No longer resigned to his soles, the floodgates of slime had opened in every pore. He wiped his feet on the comforter and vowed to wash it later. Mucus covered them again in short order.

Perfect. Just perfect. All this self-produced lubricant made the simple act of walking a hazard. And he was already so great at that.

Okay.

He could manage.

This was fine.

Inhale.

Exha --

When his alarm kicked off “The Piña Colada Song," he nearly tossed his phone at the wall.

Ryan shoved his face into his sweaty palms and screamed. He didn't have time for this nonsense. He had to improvise a solution.

The slippery young man tied towels around his feet before sliding out of bed. If this disease didn't kill him, the stress certainly would.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 6

-- Two days left --

“Good morning, doctor."

His greeting diffused through the laboratory, acknowledged only by his closing of the door.

Silent. Empty. Alone.

Ryan shifted uncomfortably in his Nikes, which he somehow found in a broom closet, and the two layers of socks he wore to absorb the moisture from his feet. A makeshift solution that left his shoes perpetually waterlogged.

Step by squelching step, he made his way upstairs, cotton-gloved fingers wrapped tight around the strap of his workbag. No gym duffle. No swim this morning. He didn't want to see his webbed toes any more than necessary.

“Dr. Torres?"

Ryan knocked twice on the office door.

No answer.

Yet the door was half-ajar.

Though hesitant, he pushed on the handle. He needed the results of yesterday's test before finishing the other drones.

One foot inside. No aroma. No steaming whistle. The man's kettle sat cold at its station.

Now that was unusual.

He checked his phone. No messages. Should he call? No, it was only ten after eight. He'd be a nuisance. After yesterday's folly, he wouldn't dare interrupt the doctor's obviously busy morning. He should go to his desk and work on the drones' containment unit.

Ryan turned to leave.

But something gave him pause.

There on the coffee table. No mugs, but a mad paper display. Two manila folders spread open as if tossed in haste.

Piled on top was his own photo. A picture taken two years ago for his lab ID. His hair was so long back then. The blonde reached down and collected the folders' contents.

More than just his image, it was his initial job application. His resume. His physical examination. His financial aid status.

Ryan closed his dossier and flipped to the second folder, which held a similar collection. A resume. A physical report. And a photo.

A brown-eyed, black-haired young man with the softest features.

Carlos Castro. The name typed on each document.

A Master's in biology and machine learning, a graduate of Columbia, Summa Cum Laude, a Fulbright Award recipient, published in The New England Journal of Medicine , a national water polo champion and

Ryan's obvious replacement.

His breath shuddered. Spit lodged in his throat. The room caved in overhead. He had failed the doctor for the last time.

Of course. He didn't work fast enough. He didn't plan well enough. His cryptic disease wasted time and money and contaminated their research. Any number of reasons justified his dismissal. He should be reprimanded, terminated, and expelled in that order.

“Mr. Ryan! I have a surprise for you," the doctor's voice echoed from the lower level.

Okay. That was fine. This was it then. His days were numbered. Nothing left to lose. Now or never. There was only one path forward. One way out.

Ryan tossed the folders down and stormed off. The door slammed behind him.

Peering over the balcony, he found the doctor pulling out components from an old cardboard box.

“Hello up there! I got more stuff for the hydrone carrier."

Ryan pounded down the stairs with blind, stupid bravery.

“And I'm sorry I snapped at you yesterday. Your feet just kinda freaked me out. No offense." He watched his assistant nearly trip on the last step. “Oh, are those new shoes?"

“Doctor, I have something important to ask you."

“If it's about the magnets, they'll be delivered tomorrow. Apparently, they got stuck to the inside of the Amazon truck. At least we know they work this time."

Caution thrown, Ryan tore open his messenger bag and wrangled the long-forgotten, slumbering white beast from its cavern. His shaking hands flattened out the pages as best they could.

“With all due respect sir I'm aware of your decision and I know this is last minute and due by Thursday but will you please consider writing my recommendation letter for the doctoral engineering program at Manoa?" Ryan's words spewed out as one desperate line.

Deer-in-headlights. That was the strategy. With a sky-high brow, his mentor set down a loose circuit board and grabbed the paperwork. He scanned the first page for a moment. Then the second. Ryan held his breath, awaiting imminent rejection. Would the doctor gawk at his hubris? Or would he have ChatGPT spit out a letter to make way for his new, suave, tan-skinned savant? Sweat beaded down the back of Ryan's neck. His mucus-lined fingers twitched in his gloves.

Before the poor boy could run out of air, Torres returned the application.

“Oh sure, put it on my desk. I'll have it by tomorrow."

In one simple swing, the ancient beast perished in twenty-three seconds. The doctor was victorious.

“Thank you, doctor. Very much. It's been an honor working with you." Ryan slid the form back into his satchel. His heartbeat decelerated to a livable speed. Why did he wait so long to ask? Was that really so hard?

“Y'know, my last assistant looked at Manoa too before going with Oxford."

The young engineer set his things aside and pulled spare wires from the box. “Was this before I started?" He didn't recall meeting any other employees or TAs in the lab. Ever. Budget cuts and all that.

“I think the year before you enrolled in the Graduate program? Carlos and I were studying algae overgrowth out by Malibu. We cut the dead zone down by forty percent in three months!"

Wait. “Carlos…Castro?"

“Yes, you probably read one of his papers at some point. He had the catchiest titles."

No. “And is he…coming back here?"

“I wish! He's so tied up nowadays, he won't even take my calls. No, it's still just you and me. Until graduation, I guess."

No. No. No. Ryan had been wrong. So wrong.

“Anyway, he wrote a brilliant paper on water pollution and human pathology. I'm trying to find a copy. Maybe it can shed some light on your, uh, condition. In the meantime, did you bring those samples?"

Still distracted by his grave misinterpretation, Ryan removed the shell and a Ziploc bag from his hoodie pocket, avoiding eye contact as shame chewed at his gut. How could he believe the doctor would replace him so abruptly? Without discussion? The man wasn't so indecent or unprofessional or callous. Ryan was a fool. And now he seemed ungrateful.

“Perfect. Hopefully, we can fix you up before you're covered in scales."

That last word struck a chord and pulled Ryan from his doom spiral.

“Scales?" he asked, voice nearly cracking.

“Those things on your legs. They look like scales, don't they?" Torres smiled, but it faded when his assistant's face turned pallid. “I'm joking, of course."

A hard swallow. “Of course, sir."

Despite his affirmation, uncertainty clouded Ryan's mind. What if the doctor was right, even in jest? Were those hard plates on his arms and legs --

Whatever. It was fine. Now that he had the necessary samples, Dr. Torres would find a cure. Ryan just had to finish his work on the hydrones…and weasel his way out of a doctoral application. He couldn't leave Santa Barbara, obviously. He couldn't even afford a plane ticket, and he should stay to oversee the project, and the cove still needed cleaning, and he would never get accepted anyway, and…

He had a million reasons to stay.

Why did he want to leave again?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sky blue water. Endless everywhere. No surface, no bottom, but Ryan could see clearly through the currant.

Except for his legs. Both fluxed in a blur beneath his waistline.

The only remaining darkness floated before him. A human silhouette, its lower half also a warbling haze.

Drifting forward, it ebbed and flowed like a dolphin behind aquarium glass.

The shadow stood straight up, now inches from Ryan's face. Its blacked-out form was close enough to touch. But neither party seemed afraid. No ill intent. That much was understood.

Piece by piece, individual features formed on the amorphous shape. Pink lips. An auburn nose. A bushel of black hair. The brown eyes and tan skin of a man he'd never met, but one he recognized from a photograph.

His name was Carlos.

A gentle hand reached out and brushed against Ryan's cheek. The silence held a question.

Blush sizzled through the blonde's face. Therein lay the answer. He was already swimming in the boy's chocolate eyes.

Carlos' fingers fell to the small of his back and pulled him in. It was sudden, swift, spontaneous. Electric. Ryan didn't resist. All he could do was lean forward.

Their lips touched. Soft. Warm. Comforting. He'd never been kissed that way before.

Ephemeral thoughts flickered by as Ryan grabbed Carlos' hips, thumb tracing his prominent pelvic ridge. Their lips pressed in again. Air exchanged. Hints of rose and lavender. Ryan pushed his bare chest against his partner's. The heat could've boiled the ocean.

The ringing tone whistled from afar. Surrounding them and echoing against nonexistent walls. Eyes closed, Ryan could almost find its origin. Left, backwards, below, right in front of him. Within Carlos. Within himself.

But when his phone vibrated, Ryan turned over in bed. And the warmth was gone.

Daylight had yet to enter his room. Too early for his alarm.

A sad exhale drifted out of him. He could still feel the flush in his face and the taste of the kiss and…

The tent pitched above his groin.

He reached down and felt the front of his boxers. Dry, at least. His hand retracted before it made the situation worse. There was no time to…deal with that fully.

Searching for a distraction, he grabbed his phone and checked the notification that had destroyed his dreams. The lock screen flicked on. A message from Dr. Torres:

[Hey, did you take the shell?]

No, he didn't. He didn't recall taking it.

And yet, there it was sitting by his bedside.

Ryan's scream stalled in his throat. His wet feet hit the floor then backpedaled away from the apparent apparition. He barely clocked how the scale bands had descended past his knees. That wasn't important right now.

Why was the shell back on his nightstand? How? Panic drove him to pull on his gloves and grab the thing, rearing to toss it into his trashcan. He crossed to the door and hovered over the bin.

Wait…

No.

This was absurd.

He must have grabbed it by accident. That conclusion was far more logical.

Besides, the doctor still needed to examine it. Ryan couldn't dispose of the shell just yet.

It held the answer to everything. Surely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 7

_ - One day left -_

Three little hydrones skittered across the lab's smallest pool. Their soft shells pulsated with lifelike grace, propelling them towards the red dye Ryan had injected into the water. Torres crouched down beside him, wrinkled brow high in astonishment. From a distance, the machines were indistinguishable from real sea jellies.

Ryan tilted the makeshift controller -- built from a deconstructed PS4 gamepad -- and adjusted the signal frequency with the joystick. The fleet came to a careful halt. He flicked the stick again. The sliver shells turned scarlet in perfect unity, and within seconds they returned to their platinum shine.

The ruby stain had vanished from the world. Pride flickered across Ryan's eyes.

Dr. Torres smacked him on the shoulder. “Amazing, Ryan! That was the best synchronized swimming I've ever seen."

“Well, it was only three units and a foot of water. And the actual controller will need pressure casing, which could inhibit --"

“Don't undervalue your work! Remember when we first started? The first batch sank like stones."

“After they combusted. Somehow," he muttered. “But we still need to calibrate signal generation. When will the device be ready?"

Torres slapped him on the back again. “All in good time! And right now, it's teatime. I'll go make a fresh pot."

“Could I at least review the schematics? To cross-check compatibility with the new parts?"

“I'm sure your updates are perfect," he said as he grabbed their drinks from the table and shot back what was left of his own cup. Today, he'd chosen the Disneyland mug wrapped in cartoon heroes and their rogue's galleries. Aladdin and Jafar. Pan and Hook. Ariel and Ursula.

Ryan kept fidgeting with the old gamepad, sailing hydrones to the pool's end and back. “And who did you say was constructing it? Should we set up a call? Or, I can visit their lab in person?"

“It's really, really not ready yet. Just take five and drink your tea."

“With all due respect, sir, if we spent less time drinking tea and more time working, we would be finished by now!" Ryan bit his lip. Too forward. Insubordinate. But time was short.

Torres paused, then set the mugs back down. “Alrighty, I can tell you're stressed. I'm sorry this put so much pressure on you, but you're doing amazing, and we need to keep a level head. Just breathe."

Just breathe? Ryan hated that phrase. He'd never say aloud, but it was the only instruction he abhorred. It was redundant. Reductive. He was breathing all the time, and it hardly did any good. The doctor had asked him to move mountains, and of course he agreed, so it was only right that he be stressed, that his pulse spike, that he put everything on the line for their success, and as Ryan prepared to stand up and press the issue further --

He pitched forward with a sharp gasp and dropped his controller in the pool. He would've followed along if Torres hadn't pulled him back by the collar.

“Whoa, whoa, are you alright?"

Cramps. The front of his thigh. Pain squirmed around like a vicious worm digging deep into his pelvis. He stifled a groan.

“Please…excuse me a moment, doctor."

Ryan hobbled away, every step a fight against the fire lancing through his legs. Swelling pressure spun his muscles into charley horses. Every flex in his stride twisted the ghost of a knife into his limbs.

In one swift arc, his shaking hands whipped open the restroom door open and slammed it shut. He fell back against the wall, chest huffing from the pain. As he thumbed down his sweatpants and boxers, he half-expected gashes or bleeding wounds on his legs, but there was nothing so brutal. The scales, as Dr. Torres coined them, had spread into wide patches along his thighs and hips. Thick stripes ran races down his legs and threatened to dominate the skin entirely.

However, they were not the sole cause of his duress. Aching muscles throbbed visibly beneath the silver bands.

The warping started small, as if a hand took hold of thighs and started to pull, brutally squeezing and rolling the scale-ridden flesh like dough. Long lumps rose slowly from his legs. Higher and higher. Shimmering with grey plates and a fresh layer of mucus. They peeled away from his body with harsh wet creaks until at last the pressure gave way and forced Ryan down.

He yelped as his rear smacked the floor for the second time this week.

The twin twigs of flesh jutted up like bike spokes before elongating in the cold bathroom air. Ryan struggled to breathe. Every inch was agony. Hot bone and tendon came to life, adding length and strength until both rods were the size of his hands. Two terrible fingers growing at the tops of his thighs.

His pain jumped back to the base of the spires. The edges of his skin stretched forward, practically unraveling like wax paper as it grew along the lengths of his new appendages. Weaving. Connecting. Silver and thin. Semi-opaque. The same webbing that afflicted his feet.

Fins. They looked like the fins of a fish. And they were wriggling.

Mortified by the undulations, Ryan resisted their will to twitch and shake, but he had little understanding of the new muscles in his thighs. He was losing control of his body at a rapid rate, and there was no breathing room. Another heat wave rolled over his ankles. Preemptively, he tore off his sneakers and three pairs of soggy cotton socks. The discarded fabric plopped down with wet slaps, never to be worn again.

Muscles crunched in his lower legs as strange new connections came to life by his Achilles -- like wires connecting and sparking for the first time. Nerves routed to the sides of his shins, just above the anklebone. There, in the spitting image of their predecessors, fleshy strands and their accompanying webs blossomed from the skin. Smaller than those by his pelvis, but just as skittish.

Ryan shuddered. Nausea buried itself in his stomach and wouldn't leave. He would've fainted if not for the footsteps echoing on the other side of the wall. The door swung open.

“Did you fall in, Mr. Ryan?"

Dr. Torres locked eyes with his apprentice, who was practically pants'd and smothered by aquatic abnormalities. Ryan covered his privates but didn't have enough hands to hide the quartet of fins dancing atop his legs.

The old man looked away from his rampant nudity. “I'll just…use the bathroom upstairs. Maybe you should stay the night?"

The door squealed shut.

Ryan planned to enter the stall and flush himself out to sea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moon traipsed in through the skylight but withered away past the incandescent lamps. As always, working proved the best distraction from Ryan's condition. If only he didn't have to do so in his underwear, the legs of which he pulled up so as not to bend the twitching growths on his thighs. He wouldn't make that mistake twice.

He hunched over the work desk, fresh gloves wrapped around his hands, and installed a sound transducer into the last of the drones. The rigging process had slowed with his covered fingers and an almost constant need to drink from his ninety-ounce bottle. He calculated an average of twelve sips a minute.

Nevertheless, his work continued undaunted, even as his webbed toes gripped the stool's rung and dripped a waterfall of slime into the buck below. The doctor offered to empty his pail several times, but Ryan insisted on self-monitoring.

He'd suffered enough indignity as is.

“The final receiver is installed, doctor. Apologies for the delay."

“Quit apologizing," his mentor said, hopping up from his own stool. “You've been killing it this week, even with your…whatever's going on."

“We're not out of the woods yet. The signals need calibration once the new controller is ready. Do we have an ETA yet?" It was the third time he'd asked that evening.

“Probably tomorrow. Hopefully. In the meantime, I've made some progress of my own. I dare say, I even have a theory. Come take a look."

“A theory as to why I'm oozing slime and growing flippers?" Ryan grabbed two cellophane bags from off the table and shoved his feet inside. Rubber bands snapped the tops shut around his ankles. An absurd solve, but at least it beat wet socks.

“Oh, flippers now, are they?"

“I'm not blind, sir." Rustling plastic and sloshing goo trudged across the lab floor.

“Not yet at least…kidding. Anyway, good news! I've ruled out the hedge as the catalyst. It's just a shrub, nothing special, no trace of it in your blood sample." He made room for Ryan at the microscope. “You also tested negative for grass allergies, so congratulations."

“And the shell?"

“Yes, can you guess what I found inside?"

Bubonic plague? Carcinogens? Flesh-eating microbes leading to necrosis?

“An adhesive residue. And microscopic fibers. From a price tag. Someone must've bought it at a sundry shop and lost it at the beach."

Ryan rolled his eyes. Really? All that headache for nothing? He should've tossed it after all.

“Sure explains how you found it. Astralium phoebium aren't native to the west coast."

“ Arcinella cornuta, doctor."

“…what was that?"

“It's a Florida spiny jewel box. I'm familiar with it."

“Ah," Torres said. “Of course you are. The ocean's in your blood. On that note, did your parents have any preexisting conditions? Any latent hereditary genes or superpowers?"

“No, they were perfectly healthy. No fins or gills."

“What a shame. They really could've used some, huh?"

The boy's heart stopped. Silence froze the room.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Wreathe. That was a bad joke on my part. Very sorry."

“It's fine, sir."

It wasn't.

“Anyway, you've worked your tail off today, so I'll go lecture my own class for once. Enjoy the futon."

“Are you sure, doctor?"

“Yes, I'd rather not have you dangling your flippers in front of the impressionable youth. Or anything else for that matter…." He watched Ryan tense from the implication. “Do you need anything from your place? I think I still have that spare key from spring break."

Ryan did not want to talk about spring break. Nor the Snapchat Story that followed.

“I'm fine."

“Great, I'll be back at nine."

“The lecture runs until ten, sir."

“I know."

The doctor closed his laptop and folded it into his bag. With a playful salute, he departed before any more freshmen could drop the course.

When the door swung shut, Ryan took a deep breath and drank the rest of his tea. Exhaustion clawed at him mercilessly. It had been for days, worsened by his strange bout of dreams and nightmares. Now that their work neared completion, his inertia started to wane. Perhaps if he catnapped, he'd dream up some brilliant controller of his own and render the outsourced work unnecessary.

Surely, that would impress the doctor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warm currents rolled around Ryan's chest like the blanket in his bed. The surface was long and lost with no trace in any direction, but that didn't matter. Pillars of light guided him through the ocean's maze. Endless aqua welcomed him once again.

Zen. That's what he felt. Calm as the waters.

He kicked forward, swimming without his hands and flying further into the vast latitude of the sea. He felt dolphin-like the way his body bobbed up and down. A sine wave in motion.

The ringing played in his ears. Its tone warm and pulsating. Behind him.

Ryan slowed his motion and turned back.

In the distance, Carlos waved hello. His upper body bathed in light as the ivory scales on his chest glistened like diamonds. His lower half remained a greyed-out blur. Pencil marks smudged by an impatient child.

Ryan swam closer, smiling wide at the handsome young man. Just like before, they embraced one another, lips poised to lock. A gentle moan escaped Ryan's throat. The taste of rose and lavender floated from Carlos' mouth.

They parted for just a moment. A sad smile befell the tan boy. His lips began to move.

Ryan heard nothing over the ringing tones in the air, but he could read his intentions. He knew instinctually.

Would you come with me?

The blonde nodded. He didn't need the details.

Boldly, Ryan's partner wrapped a hand around his waist and pulled him in.

The blonde sank into the chocolate pools of his eyes, breath wavering as soft tan fingers trailed down his stomach. One finger ventured farther than the rest, gliding across the rim of his pelvis as it faded into the shadows below.

His arousal had been mounting since their kiss. He dared not look away from his lover.

Just out of view, a graceful hand took hold of Ryan's shaft. Perfect strokes made his hips buckle, and he couldn't help but whimper and twitch in Carlos' grasp. He reached forward, trying desperately to find the man's length and share the pleasure he'd been gifted. However, Carlos guided the wandering wrist back. Ryan gave in and wrapped his fingers around his partner's hand. Like clockwork, they worked his throbbing length in tandem. Synchronized. Elegant.

The warmth of the water increased, rushing in ripples down the swimmer's spine. Their lips pressed back together, forcing another hot exhale from Ryan's lungs. He breathed into Carlos' mouth as if to save his life.

Will you help me?

The Latino boy angled to the side and gifted a kiss on the neck. A silent curse expelled from the blonde's chest.

There was no sign of land, yet waves roared in the distance. Their thrashing shouts made way for the ringing notes. The tone cutting through a thumping tide. Melodic. Harmonic.

Electricity sparked through his back, his hips, then crescendoed in his manhood.

Ryan was the one singing now.

Can you save yourself?

Then there was silence. The ocean vanished once again. Ryan awoke on the office futon, his hand buried deep in his boxers.

Horrified, he pulled his bare fingers out from his waistband. His layered gloves apparently slipped off in his sleep. Slipped or tossed.

Now there was more than mucus covering his palm.

Blush invaded his cheeks.

He bolted from the futon when -- THUNK -- his shin smacked the coffee table and nearly sent him tumbling.

Cursing under his breath, Ryan grabbed the tissue box from the end table and wiped off his hand. Unbelievable. How could he do such a thing in the doctor's study? On his personal futon? It was bad enough that he left slime trails all over the lab, but this was despicable.

He didn't have the nerve to dispose of the rags in the office trashcan. He'd have to flush them. And himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robotics didn't involve many biohazards, usually, so the chemical shower's pipes were slow to work. With few options on hand, Ryan resorted to using a bottle of hand soap to clean off his genitalia. That was a mistake. The slippery mix of soap, mucus, and seed left his shaft uncomfortably sensitive, to the point that it felt sore to the touch. How hard had he worked himself in his sleep? Perhaps he didn't want to know the answer.

Through the suds and sop, he could tell how red his length had become. Well, not quite red, but approaching it. He rinsed away the foam and found the skin of his shaft was a sweltering pink, a stark contrast from its normal peachy tone. He hoped it was due to his inappropriate outburst and…nothing else.

After an equally thorough wash, his underwear sagged uncomfortably above his thigh-rooted fins. He thought of forgoing clothes entirely. The thought died on arrival. He couldn't bear more shame if the doctor saw him naked again.

Dawning rubber gloves and fresh bags on his feet, Ryan returned to the office with an unyielding sense of purpose. There were clues to his condition buried in Carlos's old research. Ryan just had to find them. Ideally, before he jeopardized the doctor's project, or their professional relationship, any further.

Carlos -- the man, the mythos -- was a whole other matter entirely. What nonsensical delusions possessed Ryan to trap this total stranger in his dreams? He admitted that the man was attractive, but why must their interactions be so…vivid?

One question at a time. First, the research paper. Ryan pulled the doctor's chair away from his desk, unwilling to sit on any more furniture, and peeled open all the side drawers. Lecture notes, lesson plans, comedically terrible term papers from past students. But nothing written by the famed Mr. Castro. Not even his personnel folder had a place among the stacks.

Well, the doctor mentioned publications. Carlos' work must be available online.

Ryan logged into the desktop computer -- the password was “SHALEFRONTSUCKS" -- and found a mess of files scattered around the home screen. Like most brilliant minds, Dr. Torres' didn't waste time with organizational minutia, digital or otherwise.

Mr. Castro, however, seemed equally as brilliant as a search through the JSTOR database revealed none of his fabled published works. Nothing in The Lancet. Nothing in Scientific American. Strange for a scientist of such apparent caliber. Ok, time to Google.

Of the seven Carlos Castro's that had Instagram or any social media, none matched the photo of the man from Ryan's dreams. The man of his dreams? He rolled his eyes at the thought. If he hadn't seen the photo himself, he would've doubted that the man existed at all.

Ryan returned to the file browser and resorted to searching every keyword he could think of. Research. Santa Barbara. Biology. Eventually, the word “assistant" came to mind later than it should have.

The first file in the query:

mr-ryan-letter.doc

His recommendation letter. Ripe for opening. Of course, ethics forbade him from intruding on the doctor's unfinished work. He'd done enough damage to their relationship already. Reading now would be disrespectful. Unprofessional. Invasive.

Scientific curiosity won out in the end.

Double click.

Dear *GOOGLE THE NAME*,

My TA and research assistant, Ryan Marston Wreathe, has a brilliant mind, a bold curiosity, an unstoppable perseverance, and above all a sense of duty. He has become an indispensable member of my small but mighty team. So, it is with a heavy heart I must announce that my dear mentee, nay my dear friend, will be taking a leave of absence from his tireless work here at UCSB effective immediately. His contributions to our understanding of climate science and praxis of environmental remediation are immeasurable. He will be truly missed, and *FINISH BY TOMORROW AHHH*

Ryan's own heart weighed heavy on the text. No matter how often his mentor encouraged him, he never had the confidence to accept the praise. Even now, he wallowed in self-doubt. To leave, or not to leave? That was the question. Was Dr. Torres disappointed by his sudden departure? Or would he be more disappointed if he stayed? Maybe Ryan should just ask for his opinion and --

Wait.

Did he read that right?

He squinted at the monitor.

That must be a typo.

He wasn't leaving the university immediately. He wasn't transferring, let alone dropping out. The Master's cohort didn't graduate until the winter. Dr. Torres knew that, surely. Ryan would have to ask for a correction…after the note was printed, of course.

With two clicks, he closed the document and returned to his paltry search results. What files remained were a series of unsorted job applications dated well before Ryan enrolled at the university. Dozens of candidates. Years of history. Were any of them ever hired? Maybe they asked for too high a salary. Or a salary, period.

One thing stood out among the endless stream of resumes.

Not a CV, but an icon with a little blue square and two vague shapes cut out in the middle.

Kisi…

That was a security system, wasn't it? The newer buildings on campus used it for their door locks.

But the lab didn't have a digital lock. They couldn't afford one.

What was the program linked to?

Double click.

The software booted in a new window.

[ --REMOTE ACCESS -- ]

| 1 SPACE AVAILABLE |

| STORAGE (1/1) |

[ PASSWORD: __________ ]

What storage? They kept all their supplies downstairs in the backroom, and that door didn't have a lock. A working one, anyway.

He should log off.

But his hands took hold of the mouse and clicked in the text field.

He shouldn't be doing this.

But his fingers typed in the computer password. Enter.

[FAILED ATTEMPT]

Why was he doing this?

Why was his mind racing through every phrase and code the doctor had used in the past?

[FAILED ATTEMPT]

[FAILED ATTEMPT]

[FAILED ATTEMPT]

[YOUR SYSTEM WILL LOCK IN (2) MORE FAILURES]

He needed to understand.

What could the password be?

No photos or souvenirs on the desk. No family that Ryan knew of.

His eyes scanned the room. The bookshelves. The coffee table. The futon. The kettle.

The tea.

The brand on the box.

[Black Whale]

[UNLOCKED]

Ryan awaited some grand reveal. A door in the floor. A hole in the wall. He even pressed against the bookshelves to see if they would slide open. He felt silly attempting that.

What did he unlock? Where was this so-called second storage?

And would he have to organize that too?

Wait…

Ryan remembered something.

Something obvious. So obviously strange.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lights flickered on. Scattered boxes loitered around the supply room. Same as Tuesday. Same as every day.

Ryan moved the towering shelf unit just enough to squeeze by. The strange handle he'd seen remained in the wall. An open gap now ran beside it.

His hand wedged into the divot and pulled. All resistance had vanished. The false wall stood seven feet high, forming a brand new exit with its vacancy.

The doorway led to darkness.

Only the hint of a descending stairwell crept its way into the light. The first step of an unknown count.

Ryan swallowed dryly. He stood on the boundary line between research and intrusion. The dilemma of every scientist in the field. What did he have to gain from trespassing? Could there be some secret archive down below? Some explanation for his condition?

Confusion and curiosity boiled over. He had no choice but to flick on his phone light and step into the abyss.

Ryan crept with caution, gripping the wall of the oddly narrow strait. His plastic-lined footsteps thunked down the stairs as the steel froze his soles through the bags. By now, the slime within submerged his feet and sloshed dangerously around his ankles. Every step carried him through a dark bog, and he prayed he wouldn't kick anything sharp. He should've drained the bags before his departure.

He reached a landing, turned the corner, and followed the second flight down. At the foot of the stairs sat a second sliding door. Unlocked. Ajar.

He stepped inside.

Faint blacklights hung overhead, casting a lavender haze across the ceiling. The glow trailed off before reaching the floor. Ryan moved carefully through the darkness, his phone light revealing one empty desk after another, rows framed in the mirror image of the upper level. His finger traced one of the surfaces. A field of dead dust.

After the seventh table or eighth table -- he'd lost count -- Ryan stumbled upon a mess of papers blanketing one of the workstations. He cast his lantern down on the cacophony and, at last, found something familiar. The dossier of Carlos Castro. Proof of the man's existence. Beside it sat a thick stack of white sheets. Ryan read the cover page:

From Glass to Gut:

Water Pollution and the Maladaptation of Cells

by

Carlos Castro

A Thesis

Submitted to the College of Letters & Science

University of California, Santa Barbra

In Fulfillment of the Requirements

For a Master's Degree

He retrieved the paper stack, but his attention turned to the other scattered pages.

Strange.

A newspaper from three years prior:

[ SHALEFRONT'S FAILED FRONT ]

[ The latest oil spill in the west ]

[ reveals a mountain of violations ]

Printed emails. Circled dates and phone numbers. Names and home addresses. Red lines intertwined with black ink.

||

TO: Penelope Heinz – p.heinz@sfwest.org

You're aiming at a very bad spot. How many times do I have to say this? Apply too much pressure and the whole thing's going to explode. This is basic science.

//

TO: Dr. Castro – r.castro@sfwest.org

If your concerns don't relate to the chemical balance within the injector, perhaps keep them to yourself? Thanks.

//

TO: Sam Yim – s.yim@sfnorth.org

Castro is whining again. Sounds like papa bear needs to retire.

//

TO: Penelope Heinz -- p.heinz@sfwest.org

I'd buy his shares and flush them if I could…

//

TO: ATTN ALL STAFF -- team@sfwest.org

Yesterday's incident at the Archer XL Platform is not reflective of our company's standard safeguard practices and policies. We apologize for any material losses incurred during the evacuation.

We will share more details as they become available, including a return to work date for all AXL crewmembers.

SHALEFRONT is committed to the safety of all employees on land and at sea.

//

TO: Sam Yim – s.yim@sfnorth.org

Castro miscalculated the pressure capacity for the drilling area. I'm sure of it. Probably did it on purpose too. Dumb fuck.

//

TO: Penelope Heinz -- p.heinz@sfwest.org

Would you say that in writing?

I'd back you Pen…

||

Ryan felt lost in the miles of paper trail. His eyes flew across the pages and darted from one line to another. The hair on his neck started to bristle.

Carlos Castro was a student at Oxford, certainly not much older than Ryan himself. But the SHALEFRONT accident occurred nearly a decade ago. How could the boy be involved?

He set the documents down and ruffled through the menagerie. Few other passages read so clearly. Most items were redacted. No trace of detail.

As he cleared the debris, his fingers plucked at something hard.

A laminated card lay buried beneath the pulp and print.

An ID badge.

[ SHALEFRONT WEST -- ARCHER XL ]

[ DR. RAYMOND CASTRO ]

[ ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ANALYSIS DIVISION ]

This was not a photo of Carlos.

It was Dr. Isaac Torres. Ten years younger. Ebony hair. Trimmed goatee. But undoubtedly the man Ryan knew well. Or, so he thought.

A whirlwind of confusion sent him into a spiral. None of this seemed real.

All he understood was the door screaming on its hinges.

“There you are, Mr. Ryan. I was worried you went home in your condition." His voice came from the darkest corner of the room. Too far for the young man's light.

“Dr. Torres, what is all this?"

“It's a mess is what it is. Let's chat upstairs. Everything down here is so depressing."

The young assistant steeled himself. He wished to storm forward, but his feet stayed rooted to the floor. When it came to fight or flight, he always froze. “You said…that I'm leaving school, but you know that's not true."

“Well, you are leaving in a way."

Approaching footsteps. Echoes. Even as Ryan panned his phone light, he couldn't escape the --

Fear. Its cold tendrils ensnared his spine. He was trembling. Sweating. He didn't understand why. This was his employer. His mentor. His friend. And yet his heart pumped in double time. Adrenaline shot off like a flare.

“Don't worry, I'm writing you an absence note. You're welcome."

Measured footfalls. Clacking like knives on a cutting board. Closer and closer and taking form in the shadows.

“I thought you resented SHALEFRONT?" Ryan's voice rose in pitch, bouncing off distant walls as his anxiety spiked. “Why were you working for them What is going on --"

A sharp crack of bone stole the air from his words. He pitched forward. Both knees slammed into the tile. His phone skittered away as the floor swallowed its light. All along the center of his back, lightning jolted in heavy pulses that made the boy wheeze in agony. Caustic shocks jumped between his vertebrae like an electrocution.

“Oh, great. Looks like your adrenaline's kicking things into overdrive. Try to relax. Just breathe."

Impossible. Ryan's fingers clawed at his ribs, ready to pull them out if it meant the pain would end. Every muscle in his back twitched and twisted into whirlpools of miserable anguish. Pressure built with each passing moment. Swelling, crackling, growing. Something had jammed its way inside him, lodged within the flesh and bone of his dorsal side.

Dorsal. Dorsal.

CRACK! CRICK!

A scream tore itself from Ryan's throat. His spine ballooned at sonic speed. The bones shot upwards, pressing into his flesh like rockets breaking the atmosphere. There was no ripping, no splitting, just skin pulled taut and stretching and stretching and stretching.

Breaths escaping in violent huffs, he curled forward and sent a shivering hand beneath the collar of his shirt. His fingers pressed frantically along the base of his neck, past his shoulders, and down to the blades. There, by the third thoracic vertebrae, was a hard, thin bump of flesh bulging out of his dorsal line. Bony and firm, but perfectly wrapped in skin. Then beneath it, another. And another. And another.

His spine had formed a ridge. Silver spires hovering over his back.

CRACK! CRUNCH!

And they were still growing.

Ryan's forehead pressed to the floor as he cried.

“Help me! Doctor, please!"

“Wish I could, Ryan. I told you, you're too stressed out."

Born from the depths of his spinal column, the piercing bony needles continued to lengthen against his will. They eagerly parted muscle and fat with unstoppable force, and the moment their tips pushed too hard against his red polo, Ryan tore it off.

Cold air whipped at his back, but it did nothing to ease the boiling horror within his bones. The spires of flesh rose to six, twelve, fourteen inches. They curved towards his tailbone in a swooping arc and hardened further, building up a rigidity that exceeded those of his pelvic and ankle fins. This fin was not designed to move. It barely twitched as a familiar slimy membrane yanked up from the base of the towers and filled their gaps entirely. The argent webbing shimmered even in the low light.

Ryan raised his head, eyes hot and wet, and felt the abomination bend subtly. Such little motion was enough to make him nauseous. Despite its solid construction, the fin was terribly sensitive and unwieldy. And cruel. It was all so cruel.

“Doctor…help…" Ryan muttered.

“Alrighty, let's settle down." Torres took a knee before his apprentice. A careful hand reached into his coat pocket.

A pinprick stung Ryan's arm.

Black consumed the room in totality.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no time for dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 8

For Nothing…

Sand. Course. Salt air, frozen. The shattering of waves in the distance.

Ryan thought it a dream. But the night was still and the pain too real.

Sharp and throbbing and boiling raw. He awoke when an invisible arrow burrowed deep within his stomach. Muffled groans sank into rocky sand. Jagged pebbles prodded at his cheek. His eyes stretched open to observe the black.

An electric crack. Fierce floodlights tore open the darkness. Ryan twisted away as his ears rang in harmonics. Not the song from his dreams, but a piercing shriek. His stomach groaned in tandem. He felt like he was dying, though part of him knew that wasn't true.

A draft rippled from his neck to his rear, skin exposed in the open air. His only garments were the cold cuffs clamped around his wrists overhead. Panic roused him. He tried to sit up, but his body weighed heavy, and the short chain on his shackles trailed back to a guardrail lodged firmly in the ground.

He swiveled away from the lamps and peered into the distance. Far beyond the blinding plume, the mouth of a rocky formation wrenched open to the black sea. A razor wire fence separated him from the blustering void.

Shuffling shoes in the sand. Ryan turned back and squinted against the glare.

Dr. Isaac Torres -- or Raymond Castro or whoever -- took his seat on a beach chair, the hydrone's thermos-shaped container resting in his lap. A cup of tea steamed in his hand. Ryan couldn't tell which mug he had. Did it matter? Why did he care?

“Rise and shine, Ryan. It's a big day today," said the doctor with a gentle coo. Two sips punctuated his words.

“Doctor…where are we?"

“Griffith's Cove. About an hour till sunrise. I'm hoping we can get started before daybreak."

The memory of hazard signs sent alarms through Ryan's pounding head.

“But….the cove…the toxic spill?"

“Well," Torres gestured to the glistening pool at the center of all the floodlights and bracketed rail posts. A small channel led out to the Pacific, but otherwise the natural reservoir stayed isolated among the rocks. “Carlos did a good job cleaning it out, but the whole place still reeks of failure. That's kind of why I kept the signs up."

Toxic or not, the cave spun and tilted as if on a gyroscope. Nausea overwhelmed Ryan, but there was nothing in his stomach to eject.

“What…is happening?"

“We're finishing the project today, and right on time! I knew you could do it. Even when you're writhing in pain and literally leaking goo on my floor, you put your nose to the grind and get things done. I've always admired your discipline, Mr. Ryan."

The compliments were lost on him. A moan forced its way from Ryan's lips as he rolled onto his side and curled inwards. The ache in his stomach amplified, throbbing with each breath. Stabbing. Tearing. Crushing. His eyes fell to his abdomen, terrified that he had truly been impaled.

However, there was no incision, no exterior wound. All he saw were bulges.

Fleshy, rolling lumps had formed under his skin, rising and falling like restless waters. He watched in terror as his organs -- and muscles and fat -- began to writhe and twist within his gut. His intestines compressed. His stomach expanded. A strange swelling came to life at the base of his ribs, pressing up against his lungs and forcing a sharp cough from his throat. Both lobes felt crushed against the sides of his ribcage.

“I'm going to guess that you just grew a swim bladder, though it's hard to say without a CT scan. Put that on my giant do list."

Ryan's face twisted in on itself. “Do you know…what's happening to me?" His heart pounded at lightning speed, forcing blood through his veins to fuel the sensitive changes in his chest cavity.

“I mean, kind of?" Torres said with a shrug. “This hasn't exactly gone to plan, Ryan. You weren't supposed to grow scales and spines, and the webbing between your toes is all wrong. It should be much thicker."

Plan? What plan?

“I don't understand…" Ryan's gaze fell to his feet, where scale bands had already sprouted below the ankle. Droplets of slime kept pushing up through the fresh silver plates.

CRICK!

Ryan yelped, tossing about in his restraints as hot needles burst through his arms. Bony spires of flesh and razor-thin bone forced up through the gaps in his scale bands. Mirroring the fins on his thighs, they stretched out in rays and pulled silver webbing running from wrist to elbow. Bold sterling arcs born from the terrible ache.

“I'll keep it brief since you seem distracted. Yes, I worked for SHALEFRONT, and yes, they're all assholes. But it wasn't like that when we started. Turns out, when an oil company buys your research lab, everyone's environmentalism goes out the window. They stop listening to the old man who says not to break your toys, kids, and then yell at him when their oil rig explodes. Isn't that so dumb?"

Ryan spared no response as his body mutated out of control. He huffed and winced as cruel fate took him by the hand and pulled hard at the skin between his digits. Fingers curled and tensed, the growing membranes stitching them together much like his toes. Would he lose his hands entirely? Were they destined to become fins as well?

When short spines tore through his nails, Ryan had to scream.

Torres sighed. “Ok, I'll be briefer. We're going to sabotage their rig when the drilling starts, then swoop in with the hydrones, clean up their mess, and embarrass the shit out of them! If you've seen The Incredibles, it's kind of like that."

The relentless, pummeling pain steamrolled down through Ryan's feet and left him kicking the sand in futile resistance. His webbed toes curled in furious anguish. They were already conjoined, what more could be done to them?

SNAP!

CRACK!

Terrible question. His toes straightened by force. Little bones burnt and conjoined around the balls of his feet, and knuckle joints welded shut like impenetrable vaults. Muscle compressed and tendons thinned, eviscerating his ability to manipulate the digits. Unnerving stiffness swept over his toes, bordering on a sick paralysis. Ryan's cries echoed within the cavern, but they would never escape.

Torres continued unabated. “I know it sounds wrong, but SHALEFRONT's had this coming for a long time. The nerve of them to sponsor a project at my new place of work! I swear they did that on purpose. Spiteful brats, latching onto things like melanoma."

Crackling fire. Snapping wood. Grinding bark. Such sounds could describe Ryan's toes as they slowly began to elongate, but none would capture the torturous agony such growth caused him. Nerves shot off like revolvers, blasting bolts of pain along the fronts of his feet. Skin stretched taut along the growing flesh as each segment of his phalanges started to expand.

“And for all their whining about our delays, they need us more than we need them. We're the insurance. You know, they never fully recovered from their last spill? And now they never will."

Three inches. Six inches. Nine inches. Ryan's toes sprouted like strands of grass, stretching their webbing well beyond their previous dimensions. Worse still, he could feel the slimy membrane expand as much as he felt it in his toes. His mucus-ridden heels smacked into the sand in a desperate plea to end his suffering.

“I hated keeping you in the dark so long, but I didn't want to distract you from finishing the hydrones. They're just as important as you and Carlos."

This had all been planned out? That wasn't possible. Dr. Torres would never commit such heinous acts. He would never treat his assistant this way.

And what did Carlos have to do with any of this?

From the stretching came worse reformation. As his toe tips moved further and further from the bulk of his feet, their delicate pudgy flesh remolded into fine points that grew firmer by the second. Not quite bone, not quite skin, but perfectly identical to the piscine spires born from his thighs and ankles. Each and every nail flicked off once there was no skin left to cling to.

“But really, it's really a win-win, Ryan. We debut your hydrones -- again, great name -- then we finally tank their brand, and our amazing research gets government funding and like twenty Nobel Prizes! Sounds great, doesn't it? And you wanted to leave for Hawai'i?"

Fusion and destruction washed over feet, tearing muscle and bone asunder as his soles lengthened, dripping his overzealous mucus across an expanding surface area. The metatarsal bones within his mid-foot followed in time, lengthening and conjoining in their own right. Melting heat blazed through his arches. The effect became apparent when the rigid form of his feet started to sag. Firm bone weakened as it traded strength for flexibility. Structure for fluidity. Land for water.

A violent snap at the front of his feet forced his massive webbed toes to splay wide and unwieldy. Although Ryan had little mobility left, the terrible splattering of his bones forced another pained cry from his aching throat. He willed his toes back in line, urging them to shrink down and fold inward, but he lacked the muscles to do so. His shoe size had doubled from the length of his soles alone. Both arches sank down amidst the elongation, flattening out of existence and rendering his foot paddle-like from heel to untouchable toe.

Ryan's feet had functionally devolved into fins. He would never walk again.

The half-human swallowed back tears and his pitiful, uncontrolled whimpering.

“Doctor…did you really…do this to me?"

“Well, I did everything I could to preserve your intelligence. Which worked obviously, so you're welcome. But if my hypothesis is correct, and I'm sure you agree, this off-the-rails transition is due to your high stress and an outrageous cortisol level. What I'm saying is…you kind of did this to yourself."

Reality set in, but fractured all the same. Ryan's breath stuttered as the last hot tears rolled down from his eyes. The pain had been crippling. The dysmorphic horror, maddening.

Most devastating, however, was the impossible possibility that his mentor had orchestrated this from the start. Perhaps from the day they had met.

The cruel manipulation poisoned the roots of the doctor's tutelage. His hidden intentions had driven every action and calculation over the years, no matter how he seasoned it with fatherly humor and nonchalance. The visceral betrayal of Ryan's trust sank a knife into his back and twisted it, severing the humanity from his physical body. The act was cold. Insidious. Vile.

Through aching breaths and torrents of agony in his limbs, Ryan forced out a single question.

“If you wanted revenge...on SHALEFRONT…why the hell…did you turn me into a freak?"

Torres walked over to the console at the water's edge and placed the hydrone's capsule on the ground. He typed rapidly on the console, and with the pull of a lever, whirring machines came to life, gears and chains bubbling beneath the surface of the pool.

“Well, that's where things get complicated, Ryan."

Like an unearthed sarcophagus, the long shell of a fiberglass basin rose from the mire. Its steel cover parted down the center. Bubbling within its walls was thick purple fluid -- a cloudy, swirling, lavender haze.

The army of floodlights shot through the glass, clearing the mist within. Something floated along the surface of the muck. Something dark. Something curved concave like a waxing moon. Something with a dorsal fin.

Was that…a dolphin?

A sleek form and skin black and white like an orca. A flat tailfin extending six feet back, spanning the basin's length.

An hourglass torso distinctly human in scale and proportion. Webbed hands hanging shackled to its bulking, muscular chest.

A blunt snout jutted out from its face, shorter than any breed of cetacean. Protruding jaws locked inside a leather muzzle, thin lips enclosed around a thick tube leading down into the floor of the tank.

Strangest of all, the beast possessed a full head of hair spiking up from its scalp. Hair half as black as its flesh.

“See this? This was the goal. Eighty-three percent orca. Seven percent aquatic mix. And three hundred pounds of pure muscle strong enough to detach a rig tether with his bare hands. But unless you develop super strength in the next twenty minutes, my dear stupid nephew will have to do that part himself."

Nephew?

Carlos...Castro…

A chill rippled down Ryan's back, turning his dorsal spines to ice. “You did this to your own family?"

“And I've certainly paid for it. The purple goo inside? Oxygenated, nutrient-rich plasma. Do you know how much that costs? This is where half our budget goes every year. It's crazy!"

Crazy couldn't begin to describe it. Before Ryan could deride the poor accounting, a new pain lanced through his ears. His hand shot up to the rims where the cartilage set itself alight. A sharp pulling on both sides of his head. Buried in his palms, the outer curves of his ears twisted and grew into three distinct points, each connected by more silver webbing. Like everything else on his body. The change grew dangerously close to his face.

“You should be grateful, really. We learned a lot from those early experiments. At least, I learned something. Carlos lost a few IQ points. But his loss is your gain, right? That's why I only gave you a fraction of his dosage over the past month. One point four milliliters this week."

Torres retrieved his mug and took another sip. His sour face revealed the tea's underwhelming temperature, and he promptly dumped it in the sand. “Once with every cup."

Ryan's heart sank as the epiphany came to him on a silver serving tray. Each offering hid a surreptitious calculation. A cruel intention. Poison in every sense of the word.

A fury stirred in his chest, fanning flames that began to rush into his neck. His teeth grit through the ache as Ryan's head cocked side-to-wide to work out the scorching pressure. He clawed at the muscles around his throat, desperate for relief as the crushing weight choked him. The sides of his neck throbbed rapidly under his fingertips. Something awful burrowed beneath his skin, waiting for its chance to emerge.

“This entire time," Ryan coughed out as neck shifted and warped in his hands. “You did this to us…like some fucking curse."

“C'mon, Ryan. There's no such things are curses. We're men of science, masters of our own fate! The only exception, I guess…is that I am the master of yours." Torres shrugged. “But in hindsight, that's always been the case, hasn't it?"

Ryan scowled, still rubbing beneath the hinges of his jaw.

“And what about the shell? You didn't lace it with a hallucinogen or use it for some cultist ritual?"

“It's just trash, Ryan. There was no trace of it in your DNA." Then Torres thought for a moment. “You don't feel one growing on your back, do you?"

“The other night, I found it in my room. I didn't take home."

“Oh, right! Yes, well, I still have a key to your apartment. Spring break, remember?"

Ryan remembered. The embarrassment seemed so trivial compared to his current hazing.

“And you seemed so uptight this week, I just thought it'd be funny to, you know, drop by? If that contributed to your stress spike, then…I'm surprised. I thought you knew how to take a joke."

Yes, a joke. Breaking and entering, classic comedy. Ryan would've condemned the juvenility, but a cruel burn between his legs turned his words to hot air. He glared down, squinting at his most vulnerable parts. Chased by the inferno, his faint golden pubic hair jumped from its roots and fell to the sand below. Invisible flames spread through the abandoned pores as scales swept over them, tugging at the base of his shaft but refusing to climb it. The fresh bands even left a gap around his member. Although the plates would not advance, the grueling ache moved quickly into the barren hotspot. His hips buckled at flashpoint.

“Goddamnit!"

Ryan wailed in agony as his pubic area set itself alight. Sweltering pain flared above and below the base of his shaft. A blistering heat. A boiling wetness. Seeping. Squelching. Peeling open what was never meant to be exposed.

“No…not there…please. Anything…not…"

A hot wet fissure tore itself open on his pubic mound. He squealed in desperation, hips thrusting wildly from the searing ache within his groin. The flesh within burned hot, reflected in the vibrant red walls that now lined his cetacean vent. He knew well the purpose of the vertical slit -- to protect sea creatures' genitalia when not in use -- and he knew such a chasm did not belong on a human male. Despite this inexorable fact of nature, he couldn't seal the vent or stop it from seeping slime like every other part of his body.

“Don't worry, you're still one hundred percent pure-blooded male. The last thing I need is accidental grandchildren if Carlos gets too handsy."

With no time to catch his breath, Ryan whimpered as the flames of rebirth lit up his length like a gasoline trail. An unwelcome rally followed, pumping hot blood to inevitably hoist his shaft high into the air. Skin throbbed. Veins bulged. But the erection felt utterly alien. There was no stiffness in his member and certainly no arousal. He tried to think of something, anything, that would lower his mast -- but its actions were apparently beyond his control.

His member started to twitch. And then, it began to bend.

“Oh God, stop!"

Fire bloomed in his shaft as soft tissue tightened into firm and pliable flesh. His girth couldn't help but expand as a result. New inhuman muscles burnt into existence, ones that could push and pull, twist and flex. They bulged up at the bottom of his shaft and latched on for dear life. Towering above his new penile muscles, the transformation took hold of Ryan's mushroom tip and pinched it mercilessly into an inhuman point. The ridge dividing head from body flattened out of existence.

All the barreling blood forced a rosy hue to the surface of his already salmon-stained skin, but as the volcanic torment faded, the oversaturation refused to leave. Ryan sat dumbstruck. He stared at his thickened, pink cock as it writhed and undulated and relished its new prehensile nature. Sweats of terror dribbled down his neck. He was going to be ill.

“Well, what do you know? You do have some orca in you!" Torres cocked his head. “The reproductive benefits of mammals must've won out in the gene selection. Too bad you're gay, huh?"

Ryan couldn't process the lewd insults tossed his way as a different variety of warmth rushed through his animalistic shaft. Simmering. Throbbing. Pulsating. Churning. No. Building and building towards disaster. No, no, no. Squeezing at his testes, warping them, and forcing them into bestial submission. Something new began to boil in his lower region, and room had to be made.

“Wait, stop --"

He didn't have time to blush.

Hot. Wet. A whitewater dam burst. Ryan's semen forced itself from his cock, the last he'd ever produce as a human. The fountain erupted from his cetacean shaft and turned his pelvic vent into a bubbling reservoir. However, what should have disgusted him could not even grab his attention. The sensation of release, the electric blitz, frazzled his mind in a way it never had before. A whirlwind swept his senses from his body, and Ryan fell onto his side, cuffed wrists slung over his head. His prehensile shaft swung about one last time before retracting into the cavernous slit.

Torres cocked a brow. “Really, Mr. Wreathe? C'mon, we don't have time --"

The meaningless words faded in time. A fog clouded Ryan's mind as it always had after release, though this mist weighed particularly heavy. He tried to fight it. He always lost.

His eyes rolled back. Light faded into slumber.

Darkness for the last time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

…hello…

…student…

…news…

…sorry….

“Hello…"

“…student…"

“…news…"

“…sorry…."

A hazy green sky. The sand black as ash.

Ryan stood at the water's edge.

Human, utterly and feebly, he lifted the phone before it could ring -- his cold gaze never leaving the horizon.

Static intercut with scattered words. “Hello Ryan….campus….student services…the news…am sorry…call us…"

He lowered the device as his shaking fist crushed it into dust. Grains of sand slipped through his fingers and fell like an hourglass at its end. None of it mattered. He couldn't turn away from the rising tide.

There. In the distance. Thirty-five meters away.

An inkblot taking form.

A wing of iron and steel jutting up like a mountain. Towering, looming death.

Smoke plumed from its broken turbine.

Far beneath the fractured tip lay two dots of cold black dye. Two silent shadows in the water. Then there were three. Then five. Then nine. Sixteen. Twenty-eighty. Seventy-four.

One hundred thirty-three.

Screaming. Sobbing. Plummeting down from above.

Then Ryan was drowning with all of them.

The freezing waters swallowed him and all light. His legs gave nothing. Muscles too tired and sore to swim. He was sinking without suffocating. His neck burned, every breath catching in his windpipe, strangling from within, but never enough to snuff the life from his body. Fins and scales swaddled his legs, desperate to keep him alive -- for better or worse.

That was his punishment. Well-deserved. He was never where he was supposed to be. He wasted three years of life. Manipulated by a demon. All that time in vain. All the sleepless nights and countless false starts.

He was going to float alone forever.

Yes…

Ryan would pay for his cowardice. His body, his own humanity forfeit to the sea.

There was no future. He didn't deserve one…

And yet…

The ringing tone called from a distance. Its shifting pitch echoed between his ears. Straight ahead. A light in the darkness.

His hands pressed to his ears. Ignore it. Ignore it.

But the noise persisted.

The shuffling of water. A soft touch on the cheek.

His eyes opened. The dark waters parted just an inch.

Carlos. Just an arm's length away. His legs kicked underneath him. Fins at the end of his ankles. Just like Ryan. The fate they shared.

The blonde boy reached out pitifully. For salvation, destruction, anything but the stagnant water binding him. A silent plea. Begin it or end it.

But Carlos would not take his hand. He would not embrace him. He had no lifejacket, no cure. His palm opened.

There was the shell. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Ryan took it.

Sand came to life beneath his feet. The black water receded through a long-forgotten drain, and so came the morning before his eyes. A fresh horizon bloomed with golden sparks. The ocean, now an aqua gem, spread out for a million miles. He had landed on the shores of Hawaii. Where he never was, but always had been.

Salt air. Summer wind. Ryan was himself again. Human. But alone. The jagged shell still in his hand.

“That's an Arcinella cornuta, hun. Do you remember the common name?"

“A spiny jewel box shell," he said, too quiet to be heard over the waves.

“Right again!" His mother's voice echoed behind him. He dared not look back, lest everything in the world turn to salt and collapse. “They're native to regions like Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. The spines offer great protection to any wandering crab that needs a home."

“But the crab can't live inside forever," his father called from afar. “It'll grow out of it eventually, and then it needs to find another home. Ain't that right, Liz?"

Ryan's fist clenched. The eighty-odd spines pressed into his palm.

“Yes, I certainly picked the right semester to study abroad." She laughed. Soft, yet confident. He remembered it well.

“And I wouldn't have left the island for anyone else!"

“We should take Ryan when he's older. It's so lovely."

He knew. The photos. The brochures. The stories.

“It's a big ol' world, son. You should see it for yourself."

Two hands rested gently on his shoulders -- and then, they were gone. No more words. No more shadows. Just wind and water sloshing at his feet. He had the beach to himself. And that really was fine.

Ryan pulled back and cast the shell into the sea. He'd held onto it long enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

** CHAPTER 9**

…For Everything

His emerald eyes snapped open and found a world of Technicolor. Gradient light rolled across the rocky walls. Shades and hues he'd never seen before. A golden beam shot through the mouth of the cove. Even the inch of sun peeking up from the horizon was enough to bathe the earthy walls in gold.

Dawn was upon them.

As if burnt by the light, harkening fire rolled up his thighs and calves once again. The change would not let him go easily…but his teeth gritted through it all. His focus remained on the sun. The rolling waters just beyond the fence. A world he'd hidden from for years.

He knew the pain was worth it.

Volatile lava. The feeling of melting ran through his pelvis and flowed into his legs. Muscles cramped and tightened, forcing his lower limbs inward. He couldn't pull them apart if he wanted to. He didn't care to try once the gap between his toned and tired thighs began welding itself shut. Skin merged with skin, flesh upon flesh, subsuming every spot where scales had dared not to grow.

An unstoppable yelp as his femurs shot out from their hip joints and migrated closer together inside the growing blanket of flesh. Their smooth, hard lengths segmented until they earned their piscine flexibility, and the resulting saw-tooth strands interlocked in perfect formation. The bones ground together uncomfortably, but he knew it was where they belonged. Interweaving muscles once divided now wrapped themselves around the newly formed calcium column below his hips. Compressing. Twisting. Tightening. Yet freeing all the same.

The molten merging flowed down to his knees in a waterfall. His patellae softened as bone turned into muscle fibers, the restriction on his joints lifting forever. In a rather strange sight, he could bend his knees in the opposite direction, inadvertently flicking his ankles upwards with a pile of sand. A sight he found fascinating despite the continuous growing pains.

Reversing course, the transformation boiled back up and wrapped around his neck like a velvet scarf. He rolled his head and rubbed his hands against the sides of his throat. The heat flared for just a moment. Throbbing warmth. Skin peeling once again as daggers narrowly avoided his veins. The ache subsided, but the throbbing remained. Pulsating beneath his webbed fingers. Ryan pulled his hands away, palms covered with slick residue.

His breath hitched.

His chest tightened.

He needed water.

Water was always his home.

Amidst his gasping, Ryan felt his shackles unlock with the twist of a key. Go. Roll. Run. On instinct, he rolled himself into the water, partial tail flapping about, still beyond his control. The oasis swallowed him and the brand-new gills in his neck. He breathed deep.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It came so naturally.

Sinking into the pool, he shuddered as his ankles snapped and popped, forcing the tips of his fins, what were once his toes, straight down. The flashes of pain did not abate, but still, he endured. He'd endured so much already. The stringent structure of his ankles collapsed and gave way to flexible muscle. Hard bone softened and flowed. His fin tip flickered from the shock of his heel bones diffusing into muscle strands, the plantigrade base thinning and compressing until the distinct shape of his foot utterly imploded on itself. With them went his arches, flattening as much as the rest of his feet. The inner curves of his soles merged until their shapes vanished entirely.

Ryan watched with fascination as his tailfin took its final form. All trace signs of his individual toes began to thin and fade, flesh tightening around the bone and hardening like the ray fin bones that had grown on his hips and arms and everywhere else. More pinching and pulling came and went as spiny needles grew in the gaps between his elongated digits. Their sharp tips carefully extended up through the webbing, merging seamlessly with the summation of his caudal fin. He couldn't tell which spines were once his toes, and it didn't matter anymore.

In its final sprint, Ryan's body pushed through the last stages of change at bolter speed. Lightning shot down his new tail and paved the way for new vertebrae to grow. Fresh cartilage cumulated like clouds beneath layers of muscle and nerves, fusing forever to the whip of rubbery bone that his femurs had become. A storm of silver scales dusted his cheeks and wrapped around his shoulders until they curved across his chest like the tattoos of a native island tribe. Skin to scales as land to sea.

Quickly as it came, the torrent passed. His quiet writhing ceased, and the water sat still to cradle him. A deep breath pulled water into the slits of his neck and washed away the lingering aches and pains of transformation. The flow of oxygen gave him new energy. Strength he'd never known.

Ryan looked down at his new body as though he was seeing himself for the first time.

He questioned how the tailfin below his waist would function, but when he thought of kicking through the water, as he always had, the muscles ebbed and flowed and propelled him back up. It came naturally. Like he was born with this brilliant, silver arrow pointing him towards the sky.

Ryan's golden hair pierced the surface with an emboldened splash. He didn't even have to wipe the water from his eyes. Everything was crystal clear. Morning glow radiated from the mouth of the cavern, banishing the shadows from the walls. Waves danced far beyond the fence, inviting him to join the ballet. Iridescence bounced off the water as brightly as his scales. Natural beauty. Dawn of the summer.

The only sour sight was that of his ex-superior waving from behind the guardrail, key to his cuffs in hand. He smirked. “You're welcome."

With a tailfin fluttering beneath him, Ryan felt lighter than he had in years. His scale-bathed shoulders didn't tense at the comment despite its laden bite. He'd reached a point of calm and clarity that had long escaped him. A beautiful lucidity that gave him the guts and guile to finally say --

“Go to hell, Raymond."

“It's actually Raymundo, though I never cared for either. Isaac is a better name. History remembers its Isaacs. Newton. Asimov. Oscar…Isaac."

“All people will remember is how much of a monster you are."

“Pot and kettle, fish boy. Pot and kettle. Which I should've brought down. It's time for morning tea."

“I can't change what I am, but I won't forgive you for what you've done. To both of us."

“Oh, you think this is bad? You should have seen our first subjects. Nasty bags of flesh, that's what they became. Bloody spines, tentacles, terrible things. Most didn't survive, thankfully. That's how we learned about the slow priming period for gene diffusion. Again, you're welcome. Too bad you screwed up the process. You would've made a handsome buff orca man."

Ryan rolled his eyes. His specialty was far removed from biochemistry, let alone gene editing, but he doubted any action on his part affected his transformation. In fact, he had his own theory to rub in Torres' face. “Not that you deserve to know, but my hypothesis is that you didn't calculate the gene strands' diffusion rate across the new timeframe. Your deadline moved up, and you didn't adjust for the difference. In short, you made a mistake."

The man scoffed. “If anyone here screwed the pooch, it's my nephew and his bad calculus."

“Why don't you take responsibility for once? Instead of having me do everything?"

“I'm responsible for keeping your brain safe, okay? So you wouldn't wind up like Carlos who, by the by, is no saint! He was right there with me. I let him run the whole basement by himself. Obviously, I spoiled him rotten."

“He did what you told him. I've had the same lapse in judgment."

Torres crossed back to the computer console. “Believe what you want, but I cared for you like I cared for my own blood. I also took him under my wing when my brother died. Where's my World's Best Uncle mug?"

Ryan pictured the Lion King mug sitting on the man's shelf but didn't bother drawing the comparison.

A flick of the wrist. A subtle click. The cave bellowed with the sounds of hissing hydraulics and bubbling gels. The fluid level in the basin began to drop.

“Oh, there's another thing you two have in common. Dead parents! I'm sure you'll get along great once he's under control."

Ryan ignored the callous jab. “What do you mean under control?"

A whirring squelch in the vat. Wet suction and violent retraction. The tube running into Carlos' mouth slithered away as the accompanying muzzle unlatched itself. His swollen body started to stir.

Hot streams of wheezing air steamed out of the hole in his neck. Tension soiled the air. Caution rising, Ryan floated away to the edge of the pool. A nervous chill rippled down his dorsal fin and the lateral line that had grown in his tail. He never imagined the young man would be dangerous. But he'd been wrong before.

A guttural gag burst from the beast. Dark purple gel spewed out of its maw and absorbed into the surrounding solution. A growl followed. A thunderous rumbling.

Its eyelids squelched open as massive dilated pupils scanned the cavern. When the creature's gaze fell upon on its captor, the growl turned to a snarl. Its tail fin slapped against the shallow fluid in the tank. Its arms, still locked up beneath thick pectoral muscles, threatened to shatter their binds with a simple gesture. Shrieking squeals and titanic roars shook the cove with malice.

“You want to talk about monsters? Look at him, Ryan. He can't even speak anymore! If you don't wrangle him, we're never going to get through Phase 1 today."

“And what is Phase 1, Raymond? Care to elaborate, or are you just making this up as you go?"

Torres pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God, use the brain I let you keep! You have to command Carlos to tear down SHALEFRONT's rig and direct him on-site. It'll be just like controlling the hydrones, except his acoustic pattern is garbage, so you'll have to be really specific in your instructions. Think of him like an intern. A dumb one."

Wait, Ryan was supposed to control the hydrones…with his voice? And control Carlos too?

“You want me to, what, talk to him?"

“Less like talking, more like squawking. Or yipping? Whatever you want to call it, you can both produce ultra-sonic frequencies. Remember, we programmed that into the hydrones? Well, they're Phase 2, and you're the key to all of it. Now get squeaking! It's already sunrise!"

The key. The acoustic signal. The crux of this revenge plot. No one else was building the hydrone's controller. Torres made it himself. He stripped Ryan of his humanity -- tortured him, embarrassed him -- just to create some clarion call. With a strange body part. He'd never used before.

For the first time, Ryan realized that his former mentor was not simply unhinged and reckless and disorganized and morally abhorrent. He was stupid.

“That sounds absurd. And I wouldn't help you even if I could."

“Look, I'll buy you and Carlos a nice dinner tonight. Do you still eat sushi? Or is that, like, half-cannibalism for you now?"

“I genuinely don't know how to do what you're asking," Ryan said flatly. He had a hypothesis, but not one he was willing to share.

“Really? Where's that can-do spirit of yours? You didn't lose that with your legs, did you?"

Ryan crossed his arms and stood his ground. Well, swam in it.

The doctor shot up straight. Their eyes locked. Glaring, waiting for the other to break.

As the match of minds raged on, Carlos grew increasingly irritable in the basin. His tail thrashed against the glass. His wrists shuddered and jerked. His cuffs wouldn't last forever.

Finally, Torres blinked.

“Ok, Mr. Ryan. Maybe you're not fully changed after all." He sighed and reached into his coat pocket.

A glass vial flashed in his hand. The solution within swirled in a black vortex that swallowed all light.

“And sadly, I left the kettle upstairs, so we're going to do this old school."

A needle followed. Its saber tip swung through the air.

Ryan bristled. Fight or flight. For once, he didn't freeze. His tail flicked up and torpedoed him to the back of the pool. Every instinct old and new fired off in the back of his mind. One stab would be lethal. Death, or worse.

The doctor's lips pursed as he filled the syringe. “Don't make me come in there, young man…"

His loafers circled around to the gap in the guardrails. He stopped to tug off his shoes. Before he could step foot into the water, the beast growled in warning. Only three feet of canal separated the tank and the metal rungs.

“Oh, relax sobrino. He'll live. Probably."

One more step. One more mistake.

A violent wail tore through the cavern, strengthening as its shrieking pitch rose higher and louder and slammed into the rock walls. Piercing. Percussive. An echoed assault.

Glass shattered.

The tank-like basin crumbled into dust. Serrated slivers formed a mountain range in the sand and glaciers on the water. What remained of the violet solution dissolved in salt water.

Ryan had pressed his hands to his head seconds before the blast, realizing afterwards that his evolved eardrums shielded themselves from the blast. When his hearing returned, the cove lingered in near silence.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Deep scarlet droplets fell into the pool.

The doctor observed his leg, where a four-inch-long dagger of glass had lodged itself in his skin. By Ryan's approximation, the location of the wound was fortunately nonlethal.

However, when Torres's clenched fist unraveled, the remnants of the vial fell at his feet. A handful of shards lingered in his palm. Along with the black solution once contained within.

His face aged twenty years.

“After everything I've done for you two?" The old man glared at his ex-assistants. “This is why I hate kids."

Silence. Then the scream. Wailing. Cracking. Breaking. Squelching. All at once, a sudden violent shift. Ryan ducked beneath the water. He didn't want to see it. The horror. The violence. What his own fate might have been if countless other souls hadn't succumbed to the doctor's terrible whims. He prayed for them under his breath.

Silence once again. The cave grew still, and Ryan resurfaced.

Where the doctor once stood was nothing more than a pudgy lump hidden beneath a bloodstained lab coat. A boulder, if only in shape. It did not move. Ryan dared not investigate further.

As terrible as the punishment seemed, he could not find sympathy for his former employer. Every memory of him reeked of deception and malice. Cruelty, above all else. Whatever fate had befallen him, it was surely the doctor's own doing. He said it himself…in not so few words.

The war cry of the behemoth shifted Ryan's focus.

A furious Carlos flummoxed inside the remains of the basin, his tail pummeling the metal floor with heavy clambering hits. His shackles tensed and shuttered in cycles until, with one sharp pull of his wrists, the chains exploded.

Carlos climbed over the shrapnel and hauled his hulking body ashore. His thick webbed hands pummeled the ground as he struggled to orient himself on dry land. The lift of his massive tailfin scattered sand like a tornado. Howling with bitter rage, he spun around and tore the tethers from his former prison, severing wires and metal shards from the tank's useless floor. His fury burnt with years of torment and isolation. Vengeful. Mournful. Unstoppable.

His rampage only quelled when a ringing tone chimed through the cavern.

Carlos turned his lumbering body back to the water.

There sat Ryan on a small sandy shore, his lips pursed as he whistled the melody from his dreams. Whether he could sing the notes remained unclear, but at least he could stumble his way through the tune. His pitch was imperfect -- stuttering and unrefined and still a bit nervous -- but it rang true. It flowed across the pond and beckoned to the beast. A siren's call by any other name.

As the familiar song lulled his temper, Carlos breathed deeply through his blowhole. His snout opened, and a string of squeaks and chirps sang along with the melody. Not quite in unison, but close enough.

The beast crawled in with a splash and floated towards Ryan like the shadow of his dreams. He stopped just out of reach, head buoying silently above the water. The blonde's whistle trailed off as he stared into the orca boy's eyes. Though his dark irises had grown large and almond-shaped, they were the same deep brown as before. There was no malice, no rage, but no direction either. Like a lost child. Ryan knew that feeling all too well.

He extended his hand.

“I'm glad we're finally meeting in person. Thank you."

Carlos drifted past his fingers and nudged gently into his stomach. A soft chirp followed. Ryan understood it well enough. Leaning forward, he rubbed the side of the orca boy's snout and ran a hand through his damp ebony hair. It was as soft as he dreamt it would be.

As the two kindred creatures enjoyed a moment of peace, Ryan wondered how exactly their relationship came to be. Did Carlos truly project himself into his dreams? Was it simply Ryan's imagination after seeing an old photo? Was the ringing melody sent to guide him, or was it a natural part of the transition? Something built into their DNA. Perhaps Carlos knew. Or maybe he didn't. Either way, it was fine.

Ryan didn't have all the answers, but unlike Raymond Castro, he was willing to admit that. Science thrived on curiosity.

The piscine boy swam over to the console and grabbed the hydrones' capsule from under the guardrail. One day, he would find another opportunity to put his work to good use -- an oil spill not created by some false flag initiative. He slung the carrier's strap over his shoulder and led the way through the cove's canal. Carlos followed in tow. When they reached the chain link fence, the stronger of them tore through it with ease.

The pair swam through the breach and crossed into open waters, where morning sun greeted them from the long horizon. Amber skies. Sapphire seas. The open expanse of possibility.

They could go anywhere. North to the Bay. South to the tropics. Or westward to an island that Ryan had longed to see.

Destination secondary, they dived forward together, tailfins flicking up before vanishing under the waves. Black obsidian and a platinum luster so impeccable that it nearly shined white.

Ryan took a breath through his gills. The warmth still felt strange, but it filled him with life.

He was so full of life that morning.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Emerald eyes open

Into the blue

Diamonds, all of it.

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~ The Shell ~