^ "Berechiah" (3-31-20)

—

DARWIN

Saturday, March 24, 2018

"F*ck!" Thomas roared. "F*ck! F*ck!"

Each curse was punctuated by a kick to the door, one that still wasn't yielding, even after half an hour and fifteen kicks later. Or was that twenty? I sat on the couch, staring numbly at him. Through him. While Thomas was still kicking, I was still shaking. That's why I hadn't tried to stop him yet.

I felt as though something had reached into my brain and flicked an off switch. I couldn't think. I couldn't focus. Just as broken were my emotional pathways — the only ones that could bridge the sudden break were a need to cry and a need to vomit. I struggled to do neither, and so I stared blankly at Thomas, watching as he pulled out his phone for the umpteenth time and waved it around.

"No signal," he said again. The words came out emotionally garbled, a mix of fury and fear. "No Wi-fi. No other exits, and no windows. What the actual f*ck. That f*cking sack of skin. That piece of sh*t!"

He kept talking, but I tuned him out, vague thoughts kneading around in my head like dough, unable to fully form. Suddenly Thomas was in front of me, and he grabbed me by the collar.

"I said stand the f*ck up," he shouted in my face. "And help me with this!"

"With what," I said tonelessly.

"With the couch, sh*thead. We're gonna lift it, and use it to bust the door open."

I glanced down at the foot of the couch, and saw bolts pinning it to the floor. "It's tied down."

"Dammit!" He went over to the chair, whose legs were also nailed to the floor. "There's gotta be something around here we can use to get that bitch open."

"Forget it," I said sullenly. "If there was a way out, we would've found it half an hour ago."

Something came flying for my head: a magazine, one Thomas threw so hard that it nearly put a crater in my skull. "Shut the hell up," he hissed at me, with a fury so acute that I could scarcely believe it came from Thomas Ryans-Wade. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to say that, you piece of sh*t, not when this is your fault."

His words — and the pain — pushed me a little out of my stupor; growing angry, I shoved the magazine to the floor. "I had nothing to do with this."

"The hell you didn't! We wouldn't be here if you hadn't agreed to go."

"Nobody asked you to come," I snapped, my voice rising.

"You did, dipsh*t! When you asked me to help you move house!"

"Arceus, shut up!" I grabbed the nearest thing within reach — a coffee cup from the table — and hurled it. Thomas ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind him. "You invited yourself, asshat! Or did you forget plugging your f*cking number in my phone? Or maybe you did — after all, some days that f*cking brain of yours can barely remember to not cheat on your girlfriend!"

His eyes burned with rage, and he took a step forward, only to back into the counter when I lobbed a ceramic coaster at him. He fumbled, grabbed the plate of Oreos, and hurled it. Cookies went flying everywhere, and one beaned me on the skull. Hissing, I grabbed my next missile — a Bible — and it narrowly missed his shoulder.

Next came a wine glass, then a Dragonair statuette, three oranges, several DVDs, and a bottle of dish soap, with plenty of insults in between.

"Bitch!"

"Bastard!"

"Retard!"

"Ass!"

"Prick!"

"Pansy!"

"Simp!"

Fifteen minutes later, the apartment was a wreck: sh*t covered the floor, interspersed with pieces of broken glass and ceramic. I was back on the couch, head in my hands, fighting back tears. Thomas sat slumped on the kitchenette floor, back against the counter. When he spoke, he sounded defeated.

"What's happening, Darwin?" he croaked. "Why's your grandpa batsh*t insane?"

I feared I knew, but like my tears, my body and mind were struggling against it. I'd known Jonathan Briney for less than a day, yet I was certain, somewhere deep down, that he wasn't crazy, and he wasn't cruel — in any other situation, he would've opened the door when I'd screamed for him to let us go on the other side, opened the door when Thomas had tried to kick his way out. But something about today was different. And for some reason, this something had backed him into a corner.

"Nero," I rasped.

"That asshole?" Thomas grunted. "What about him?" Silence; out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas's head rotate my way. "Snowman. Answer: what about him?"

Do I tell him? Better question: why shouldn't I tell him? Grandpa Jon knew. Or did he? A bolt of sudden, ice-cold fear: Was that a trick? Was he pretending? I didn't know. It was confusing: I knew that Grandpa Jon was not a bad man, I could feel that in my gut... But in all other ways he was a stranger to me.

Still, I had a feeling that my knowing about Nero was why we were locked in this well-furnished room, loaded with supplies and a locked door.

So why not tell him?

"Darwin," Thomas snapped.

I stared at the opposing wall, the ruined entertainment center: the TV still sat on the cabinet, but the DVDs littered the floor, heaps of action movies, sci-fi flicks, and black-and-white horror films. In the glossy black screen of the TV, I could make out my reflection: I looked like I needed more than three days of sleep. "Nero," I said again. "He's a mermaid."

I heard Thomas shift, his shoes crunching the broken glass beneath his feet, and I felt his stare bore into the back of my head. "What?" he said.

I opened my mouth, but now the words struggled to come — suddenly, I wanted to just stop talking and go to sleep, and find some solace in unconsciousness. But it was too late for that — I'd already said it. I had to explain. "He's a mermaid," I said again, voice broken and ragged. "I met him in the Water Safari. He came after me after I caught his Sharpedo, and almost drowned me. Remember when I asked you if you'd seen a Milotic in the Zone? It was because—"

"What the f*ck are you talking about?" Suddenly Thomas was on his feet, and coming around the couch. I made to speak, but the look on his face silenced me — a striking bewilderment, almost terror. "What are you talking about?" he said again, looking like he didn't want to know the answer.

I faltered a minute, and he grabbed me by the collar, wrenching me up until we were nearly nose-to-nose. "What the f*ck are you talking about?" he screamed.

I don't know why, but it was at that moment that the tears finally fought their way free, drawing gleaming trails down my face. Yet my voice was weirdly calm — I felt as though the pressure in my skull was finally easing as I said, "Nero's a mermaid, Thomas. I know it sounds crazy, but Grandpa knows too. And he found out that I knew not long before he brought us here. I think we're here because I know. Maybe I'm not supposed to know."

"Shut up!" He shook me, like he was trying to knock something loose, some parasite inside my skull that was making me spout nonsense. "Not now, not f*cking now, you piece of sh*t! Stop screwing around!"

"I'm telling the truth," I said, still absurdly calm.

Thomas shoved me and backed away, shaking his head, looking like he was nearing his breaking point. He moved away, stumbling over a trail of DVDs, and when he reached the kitchen, shoved anything left on the counter to the floor in a fevered rage: condiments, salt and pepper shakers, a couple of intact glasses. They hit the floor with a crash, and so did he, collapsing in front of the fridge and rubbing his eyes as though Nero was speaking into his ear.

I sat back on the couch. Thomas had reacted exactly as I'd expected him to react, and yet, again, I felt lighter, the knots in my shoulders less stiff. Finally, someone else was burdened with the knowledge that had been sitting heavy on my back for what felt like ages.

Yet I wasn't so relieved that I'd forgotten the door, the locked door, and the mysteries surrounding it, and why we were here. Anxiety rode hard on that thought, and I felt my stomach cramp.

Did Grandpa Jon really just leave us here?

***

NERO

I jerked awake with a single thought: Magdalene!

Before my eyes, the dream evaporated in the strong, orange sunlight, and I could barely hold onto it for three seconds before it dissolved completely: Mag, I'd been dreaming about Mag.

There'd been a...storm, and we'd been in the ocean as it had boiled around us, searching for shelter. At one point, we'd had no choice but to ascend — the surface was somehow less violent than the furious maelstrom swirling beneath the waves, and when we'd hit air, we'd emerged to a sky blacker than deep space, split periodically by forks of orange lightning.

Then another glint, closer, only yards away: a small boat, somehow holding its own against the tussle of the sea. And that boy...Darwin, he'd been on the prow of the boat somehow, dressed in a slick black rain coat and a seaman's cap, armed with a rifle. Even in the nauseating, chaotic storm of light and dark, I'd been able to clearly see the blood streaming from his eyes and grin on his face as he'd pulled the trigger.

But instead of a bullet, there'd been ice — a hailstorm of ice shards a tail-length long, and they'd come not from Darwin, but Titus, and he'd been wearing that face, that face from that day.

"I AM KIN!" he'd bellowed over the fury of the storm. "Whoever stands against me stands against the seas. Die!"

He turned back into Darwin, an evil, cold-eyed Darwin, just as the ice shards reached Magdalene. And she didn't collapse, she exploded — blood everywhere, reddening the water, warming my face, stinging the back of my throat, and I'd sunk under the weight of her carcass, back down into the cruel storm. I remembered screaming and trying to kick free, but my tail had disappeared, replaced by weak, scarred legs, and as I descended into the gloom, I'd choked on the ocean, and Magdalene's blood.

I shivered as the dream slowly faded away, a chill racing down my spine, and then shook my head, getting myself together — Just a bad dream, idiot. But not the part about Magdalene being gone — she was gone, if gone meant not by my side. Maybe that's why the unnerved prickle in my bones didn't quite go away. She's okay, isn't she?

A strange smell: meat, sizzling somewhere. I blinked, coming into focus. I was on a bed, and the surrounding room was sparse, mostly empty save for a couple of cabinets and—

The room. Of course. It came flooding back: that bastard Darwin and his friend had taken me to the floor and knocked me out. Now that I thought about it, my head was still smarting from the final blow. Where did they go?

Someplace they obviously didn't want me to go — as I tried to sit up, I found that I couldn't move more than a few inches from the bedstead. My hands were bound by a chord of very scratchy rope that was looped around a bedpost in the headboard. The knots were tight and unyielding: I tried to pry them apart with my fingers, only to get very sore nails threatening to separate from my fingertips.

Dammit! I wanted to hiss angrily, but couldn't — I was gagged, and the hiss became a choke. Luckily, that came out easily enough, and I peeled off one of my gloves with my teeth, then stuck the palm of my hand against the bulging knots. I waited, expecting heat and smoke, but got nothing, which I had expected, but hoped against anyway. I really couldn't summon that heat when I was outside the water. My teeth hammered together as I pulled the glove back on, and I sat back, trying to stay calm.

But it was impossible. How long am I going to be here? Are they going to leave me here? And Darwin: What about Darwin? I'd gotten the information I technically needed from him: Mag was at his school, in the Pokémon Depository. Yet the easiest way to her was still through him, and now he and the others were gone. A horrible thought came to me: Did I just ruin my only chance of getting Magdalene back?

No, no, you're still in Briney's house. Which could've easily been a jail cell instead, I realized with morbid amusement — how ironic would it have been if I'd woken up in that holding cell in Slateport City again, to be manhandled by Officer Stanson and Officer Benson? But no, I was still here, still in the same room I'd broken into, which meant that Mr. Briney... What? Still wanted to help me? Wanted something from me? At the very least, he wasn't ready to dump me behind bars just yet.

So I wait until he comes back. But then what? No idea, but I had access to Darwin through him, right? He's my grandson! What a coincidence, I thought, of cosmic proportions. Maybe Arceus was rewarding me for my tenacity. I smiled thinly at the idea.

So I wait until he comes back... And then I play nice. Just as I'd planned to do with the police when I'd actually been in prison. Brute force had been a bad idea back then, and it had been a bad idea today too. And though the thought of having to stay calm and be polite and ask for Magdalene back — rather than beat the consent out of Darwin — boiled me, I would do it if it got the job done.

Creak. The sound of flexing wood, just outside the door. I froze. Mr. Briney? Silence — I strained my ears, wondering if I'd misheard, but then it came again. Someone was standing outside the door, someone who didn't want me to know they were there.

"Mr. Briney?" I rasped — my Pitch came out a little too high, and I cleared my throat, and tamped it down. "Hello?"

More silence. Then... The knob squeaked, turned. But the door didn't open. I frowned. Locked? Wouldn't Mr. Briney have had the key?

Another, more sudden sound, high and peeling.

Footsteps, as Mr. Briney, or whoever the hell it was, disappeared down the hall. I growled in frustration, and returned my attention to the knots. Planning on playing nice or not, I sure as hell wasn't going to stay tied up for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe my teeth?

I bent over, worrying the knots with my incisors, and heard muted sounds coming through the walls. Voices, several male, one...female? Very abruptly I wondered about Cora. Had she gone back to the Sea House like I'd asked? I felt guilty again at having dragged her out so far, only to send her back when she'd had every intention of helping. I'm going to have to apologize for that...

The female voice abruptly rose in volume, growing heated; I paused, trying to make out the words, but the walls muffled them into vague garble. One of the male voices tried to speak, but the female interjected, sounding furious. Then another male voice spoke, and this one felt distinct from the others for some reason... I didn't know how to describe it, it just...made my skin prickle.

Then silence. And footsteps.

What's happening? I tensed, wondering at this sudden strange situation. Am I in trouble? The footsteps drew closer to the room, and the voices started up again, growing clearer and clearer as they grew closer: "...said the key was in...under the dish...find...it?"

"Yes."

"Here."

All at once the footsteps and voices were both outside my door, and I sat up straight as I heard a key turn and click, and the knob move again. Then the door was yawning open, and outside stood...

Simeon.

A moment of relief, and then I felt heat creep up my neck as he stepped into the room. For the first time since I'd met him, Simeon did not look pleased to see me: there was thunder on his face as he stared across the space at me, something that was not quite frustration and not quite anger, but a pointed annoyance, like a figure of authority who had been inconvenienced by a sudden turn of events. But when he spoke, his tone was even.

"I'm glad you're safe," he said. "Mr. Briney told me there was a fight. Are you injured?"

"I've suffered worse," I muttered, glaring down at the paisley-colored spread. I pulled at my bonds. "Do you mind?"

"I do mind," Simeon said, voice sharp. "And so does Mr. Briney, Ms. Gray, and everyone else who had to assemble and coordinate this escort from here back to Slateport City. A five-thousand dollar effort, we estimate, and all because one impulsive merman can't hold his impatience in check and wait to do things the right way."

I bristled. "I wasn't going to wait five days for—"

"Shut up, Nero. When I want to hear your opinion, I'll ask."

I opened my mouth to snap back, and then reluctantly closed it — something about the storm in his eyes told me that he would leave me right there, tied up and helpless, for the rest of the night if I didn't do as I was told.

"Because of you," Simeon continued, "we now have a situation on our hands, one we haven't had to deal with in quite some time: not just one but two humans aware of the existence of merfolk. Maybe not as a surety, but suspicions? Certainly, and in my experience suspicions can spread more rapidly than cancer, especially among teenagers. Mr. Briney told us all about it," he said to my surprised look. "He seemed to be the only one thinking here: he secured you, called us, and quarantined those two boys in less than two hours, cutting what could have been a major emergency for the merfolk off at the knees. An emergency you caused, Nero. Are you proud of yourself?"

My tongue soured, even as I shook my head. "I was just—"

"Shut up, Nero. I didn't ask you to speak, I asked you to think, which, again, you clearly weren't doing when you burst through that door." He pointed to the patio door. "Mr. Briney said you used your voice, that you pried information out of one of the boys, and brought the other to his knees. That's an experience they won't forget in a hurry, either of them, and imagine what would happen if they were free right now. They go to school — what if they told their classmates about what happened? Many of their friends wouldn't believe them, but some of them would. And what if those kids told some of their friends the boys' story? The idea that there's someone out there with freaky speaking powers would spread further, and we merfolk would no longer be able to use Pitch on land — for emergencies, for long-calls, for mindwashing — without arousing suspicion, arousing attention. Some humans might begin to notice that those with translucent white hair can use the voodoo voice. Some might notice that those with the voodoo voice frequent the beaches, the water ways. And some might notice that those with the voodoo voices stay on that stretch of private property at the edge of the Saltwater Highway."

"You're exaggerating," I said.

Fully-formed anger flashed through Simeon's eyes. "Am I, Nero? Or are you just too short-sighted to see it? Yeah, probably — this idiocy has shown me that the only things you care about are your brother, your Sharpedo, and yourself, the safety and security of the merfolk be damned."

That sour taste in my mouth intensified; my mouth opened again, but this time there was no comeback poised at the tip of my tongue. Exaggerating, I thought again. You're exaggerating.

But I couldn't even say that.

Someone appeared in the hall behind Simeon, leaning into the doorway. " 'Tis wearin' off, my brother," the person, a tall, dark-skinned man — merman — said. "Are we movin'? She'll take a sleep song, but not another for stillness."

Simeon scowled — he wasn't done with me yet, I could tell, but it looked like we were running out of time. He unclipped something from his belt — a small knife — and came over. A moment of sawing, and I was free. I rose wordlessly from the bed, and after another pointed stare, Simeon motioned over to the doorway, and I followed. Instinctively, I knew not to talk, and the feeling, though familiar, was also foreign: it had been years since I'd been chastened. Suddenly, I didn't know whether that was a bad or good thing.

I was led into an unfamiliar part of Mr. Briney's house, which was so absurdly big that the ceilings and walls seemed to stretch in place, hurting my eyes. The next room had tile for floor instead of wood, counters, a table, a big stove and oven: a kitchen.

A woman sat at the counter, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and mesh shorts, no shoes. She was... Well, I wasn't sure what she was doing. There was a pot on the stove, wafting that mouth-watering smell of cooked meat I'd scented earlier, but she was paying it no attention. Sitting? Yes, but not much else: her eyes were trained on something across the way, a picture that hung on the opposite wall, one of a much-younger Mr. Briney and his wife standing on the deck of a ship. A giant Pokémon coiled around her feet: an Arbok. I tensed when I saw him, but he was fast asleep, letting out hissing snores.

Three figures stood on the other side of the counter. Two were male, both Seawatchers — the organization's insignia was stamped across their blue shirts in silver foil. Simeon made his way over to them, ducking as he did, and when I made to follow, the third said, "Go under, little brother. Ye will break the trance."

This was the merman I'd seen in the hall, but now that I squinted at him, I couldn't be sure if he was actually a fin or just a human hippie. His hair was long and thick, flowing freely and wildly like a white mane; it continued down across his face in a tuft of a beard crouching at the base of his chin. His face was lined, his eyes strangely colored — blue going into green — but his clothes... Had he meant to dress so oddly, or did he generally like the neon pink argyle pattern of his sweatshirt? It clashed terribly with his camouflage cargo pants, which in turn clashed even more terribly with his orange and blue flip-flops. The poor color coordination made his entire outfit look more like a costume than an ensemble, as if he'd reached blindly into a closet and thrown on whatever he'd wrangled out.

"Go under?" I repeated.

The merman pointed a long-nailed finger at the picture the woman was staring at. "She be set in on that," he said. "Cross before it, and ye break the loop."

I didn't understand, but copied Simeon anyway and dropped under the picture as I passed it. The woman with the Arbok blinked and said serenely, "Isn't that a pretty picture? He always said he would take me on a trip to see that ship, but he never did..." The corner of her eye twitched. "Bastard."

Who is she talking to? More importantly: "Who the hell is she?" I asked.

"Mr. Briney's daughter," Simeon said mildly. "She stayed behind while he went to go quarantine the boys." He turned to the merman. "He also said that she'd need to be under for at least a day."

The merman glanced down at the dozing Arbok. "Her pet too?"

"Aye." Simeon motioned to me and the two Seawatchers. "Come on, we can wait out in the van. Berry needs quiet for his work."

Berry? As in Berechiah? I followed Simeon towards the door, watching the other merman over my shoulder. He'd moved over to Mr. Briney daughter, and was whispering lowly in her ear: "Heather, it's been a long day, and you've worked so hard. You're tired: you want to sleep, don't you?"

Heather yawned. "I'm sleepy. Quincy, want to take a nap with me?"

Gooseflesh crawled up my back and neck. What the hell is with that high Pitch? Berechiah's voice was liquid-smooth and cold, an icy shadow sneaking into the cracks, and I sped up, hurrying after Simeon into the warm sunshine: no wonder he'd told us to get the hell out of there. Listening to Berechiah's voice, I was getting the urge to take a day-long nap too.

Outside there was grass and scrub, and then a hill. Two vehicles sat at the bottom: a rusty, tiny little thing with chipped paint, and a large, blue van, idling patiently in the dirt. The Seawatchers climbed into the front, and me and Simeon went into the side, into the van's spacious gut. I settled into the seat beside him, and after watching me silently for a moment, Simeon reached over and buckled a safety belt across my chest.

Moments later, Berechiah joined us, sliding into another seat beside me. "Done," he said as he snapped his own belt into place. "She'll not be botherin' a body about anythin' anytime soon."

We began to move, and I saw trees and foliage pass us by as we climbed another hill and worked our way back out onto a road cutting through the woodland. "What now?" I asked Simeon. I suddenly felt a little nervous, caught between his dark mood and Berechiah's ominously efficient high Pitch. "Are we going back to the Sea House?"

"Back to the Sea House," Simeon confirmed, looking grim. "And we'll see what Ms. Gray has to say about you."

***

I remembered Simeon mentioning Ms. Gray once before, in relation to the Sea House's hierarchy. By that reference, I assumed that she was at the top of the chain of command here, overseeing the volunteers and managing the seafolk who came to stay at the place.

I was...half right. It turned out that Ms. Carroll Gray was a Program Manager, one of three that worked at this Sea House, in charge of facilitating the recreational and educational programs that took place here. Normally, she was not directly involved in disciplinary action or mediation; the Director, Assistant Director, and — surprisingly but not surprisingly — Berechiah filled that role. But in the absence of the first two, as was the case today, she could step into their shoes and give a troublesome merman a good talking-to if the situation called for it.

She told me all of this in her stuffy little office in the Administration Building, with Simeon and a line of Seawatchers standing behind me. The place reminded me of Officer Benson's office: the air here was thick, barely stirred into motion by the fan spinning lethargically on the ceiling. Which baffled me a little, because the rest of the buildings in the Sea House complex had state-of-the-art AC systems, making every room so cold that you barely remembered it was the middle of summer outside.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, Nero," Ms. Gray continued. It was hard to gauge her age: her hair was gray and streaked with bands of white, but it was sharply cut in a youthful style. Like the rest, she wore a blue Seawatchers T-shirt ticked into a pair of jeans. Her arms were pale, telling me that she didn't get out much, and her fingers were starting to go veiny, but she'd had a strong grip when she'd shaken my hand a few minutes earlier. And her gaze was sharp, focused, and possibly intensified by the thick glasses sitting on her nose. "I use words like 'mediation', 'discipline'. You must wonder why, seeing as you're mer, and I'm human — you must be thinking that I have no authority to impose discipline over you, as I have no authority over you. Am I right?"

I was slouching in my chair, sour. It was hot, and I was suddenly tired after my train-wreck of a day — I was not in the mood for another lecture. But I was here, and I couldn't leave, thanks to the wall of blue shirts behind me. So best to get this over with as quickly as possible. "I'm sure the five-thousand-dollar escort back here has changed things."

"You would be right. But that's not the only reason why." She leaned across the desk, which, unlike Officer Benson's, was immaculate: a stack of papers, a jar of pens, and the rest was empty wood. "By Simeon's face, I suspect you two have already had a chat."

"Yes. Apparently I'm selfish for wanting my companion Pokémon back."

"I understand your need to find your Sharpedo." I bristled, and she nodded. "Yes, son, I've been briefed. I had to do the paperwork to arrange that escort, after all, and the Board always requires a legitimate reason for us to dip into funds. And we've scooped out quite a handful, not just for the escort, but for the quarantine, too. Are you aware of what's happened on Mr. Briney's end?"

I shifted. "His grandson, and that other boy..."

"Yes. They bore witness to you using your Pitch, and those memories, though not directly exposing your kind, are highly dangerous in an environment where they can easily spread, like a high school." She steepled her fingers. "So for now, they've been sequestered away in a facility far west of here, and in the meantime, the Board has a decision to make, a very dire one."

I frowned. "Dire? How?"

Ms. Gray's eyes lifted behind me. "Dire in regards to whether or not we use Berechiah to excise those memories out of their skulls."

Despite myself, I felt gooseflesh crawl up my spine again, remembering the icy smoothness of Berechiah's high Pitch. Generally, that end of the mer's vocal scale was used for calling others from a distance, or for persuasion: Tell me this. Bring me that. But in especially dire situations, to use Ms. Gray's word, high Pitch could also directly manipulate a victim's memory in a practice known as mindwashing. It was extremely difficult, rarely ever used, and is different for every target, but if you find and hit the right notes, the voice can sneak deep into the brain, stimulate the memory centers and...change things. Not how they actually happened, but how the human remembers them.

Like, Forget that Nero ever used high Pitch to control you.

Or, Forget that you ever saw him last week in Slateport City.

I myself had never performed a mindwashing before, mainly because I was raised only to do so when there was literally no other option. The practice was just too risky, especially as it could wreak havoc on a human. At least, in my case, I assumed it would: I could barely use high Pitch for general persuasion; when I had on that nurse in the Pokémon Center and on Darwin, their eyes had bled. If I'd gone for mindwashing, they could have been left with catastrophic brain damage. Paralysis, staring seizures, catatonia... I'd heard all the horror stories.

However, if there was one person who could probably pull it off, I believed it was Berechiah. What he'd done with Mr. Briney's daughter was enough to show me that he was highly skilled with his voice—he'd put her to sleep for a day, for heaven's sake, and had probably told her to forget that me or anyone from the Sea House had ever been in her father's house.

"Well, if he's doing it," I said, "shouldn't you?"

Ms. Gray's eyes narrowed — apparently, that was the wrong answer. "Even with Berry at the helm, it's a risky endeavor, Nero. Imagine it like uprooting a small tree, and filling in the gaps it leaves behind in the soil. It isn't as easy as grabbing with both hands and heave-ho — sometimes chunks of the roots break off and remain behind. Sometimes all the gaps aren't filled. Sometimes loops start up, or phantom memories haunt the psyche, inducing bizarre behavior and mania. A mess is more likely than a clean job: every grain of these boys' association with you has to be erased, and this can take hours of prompts and small wipes. And even then, sometimes things go wrong, inexplicable things, sudden, sporadic discharges between neurons, abrupt cell death, sometimes sudden recall." She shook her head. "However precise Berry is, working on these boys could very likely ruin their lives. Do you see that?"

I looked down at my gloved fingers, watching them wind together, seemingly on their own. Part of me was irked that I was being lectured by a human about something that only concerned the mer, but a bigger part of me was perturbed by what she was actually saying.

"How great is the risk?" I said lowly.

"A different question: how great would the risk have been if you'd had a little more patience?" I stiffened, and she went on: "Simeon came to me with your concerns. I contacted one of the Program Leaders, and was fully prepared to put him in charge of your request. And then dear Cora comes to us and tells us that you've gone to Jon on your own to track your Sharpedo down yourself. And then, sadly but predictably, this happens, and you single-handedly put the futures of the merfolk and two innocent young boys at risk." She stared at me, her face neutral, but her eyes harsh and unflinching. "You, Nero, are why the Seawatchers exist."

"How's that," I hissed.

"Simeon told me you once asked him why he cared so much. This is why. Because there are impatient hot-headed young mermen like you out there, ones that put their own immediate needs above the needs of the merfolk community, which is caution and secrecy. We blunt that recklessness: we act as a revolving door, taking in your landside needs and sending a trusted agent to conduct your business in your stead. Without us, there would no doubt be hundreds of thousands of merfolk sightings around the world, driving us back to an era of mer aquariums, cooked mermaid flesh, and ground-scale tea. We are the only line of defense between you and another Era of Bloody Water.

"That is why the Seawatchers are so persistent. It's why we try to work with local underwater communities, and drive their Droughts through us. We don't just house you and feed you. We also cover for you. We attend on you. We hide you, Nero, and allow you to live unencumbered by humans. And today, you jeopardized all of that. Do you see that?"

I didn't look up. My fingers were still moving, tying themselves up into knots. No. Wrong. Right? Yes. I'd just wanted that damn map. Nothing more. I hadn't meant to harm anyone, and risk anything, anyone. I hadn't been raised an idiot. You're wrong. I tried to say the words, but, again they couldn't get past my throat. So I closed my mouth, set my teeth. My jaw ached.

Seeing that I wasn't going to answer, Ms. Gray sighed and sat back. "All that is to say," she continued, "that considering your actions, I am obligated to discipline you, whether you agree or not. Not because of your foolishness, but to protect the security of this place, and the people that rely on us."

"What are you going to do?" I asked. My voice was quiet again. "Are you going to lock me up?"

"Don't be absurd," Ms. Gray said. "We have no intentions of restricting your freedom, Nero — after all, though your actions have inconvenienced us, no one has died today, and that counts for something." Her eyes hardened. "But we will be watching you carefully. You are now a person of interest, and while you are staying on our property, your activities will be monitored. And if further action needs to be taken, you'll know it."

"I will?" I asked.

She gave a small smile. "Oh yes. You'll know because you'll see Berechiah coming after you."

Shortly after, the meeting ended. True to their word, the Seawatchers broke up and let me go, disappearing into the halls of the Administrative Building. The only ones who remained by my side were Simeon and Berechiah. I was acutely aware of the latter trailing behind me, and as we stepped back out into the baking afternoon heat, he caught me staring at him.

"Don't be so skittish, little brother," he said with rough amusement. " 'Tis as the lass said: when ye be in trouble with I, ye will know it."

I felt an odd, sudden curiosity — I'd seen for myself why, but Simeon and Ms. Gray really painted this weirdo wearing a pink sweatshirt and cargo pants in the middle of the summer as a true threat to the thorns in their sides. "Is that your job?" I asked. "Going after people that cause problems for the Seawatchers?"

"Aye, that be an apt take of it," he said, and paused around a sudden yawn. "And I s'pose someone has to — as ye do know, sometimes the biggest problem for the seafolk be the seafolk."

We reached the stairs leading down the waterline, and Berechiah waved goodbye, scratching himself as he slouched off towards the Pavilion. Simeon led me down the wooden steps and to the Suites, and only spoke when we reached Jude's room.

"Tomorrow, come to the cafeteria at nine o'clock," he said. "My first break is then, and I can bring Lyle along. He works with Travel, and might be able to help us coordinate a meeting with you and Mr. Briney's grandson."

I froze, just outside the door. "What?"

He was impatient. "Mr. Briney told me, all right? I thought I mentioned that. It was a bit of a rush, but he told me that his grandson is the one who caught your Sharpedo." He arched a brow. "You still want her back, don't you?"

"Yes, of course, but..." I didn't understand: "Aren't I on your watch list?"

"Yes, and like Ms. Gray said, that means we're keeping an eye on you. That doesn't mean that we still don't want to help you recover your Sharpedo."

"Even after everything that happened today?"

"You've had your turn, Nero," Simeon said, turning away. "And now you're going to hold your nose and do this the right way. Nine o'clock, tomorrow morning. Don't forget."

I stared after him as he disappeared down the hall, and for the first time that day, guilt settled in full-force. Guilt and shame: remembering myself bursting into that room and throwing Darwin against the wall, I suddenly wondered if I'd suffered from an abrupt episode of mania. I'd finally found the boy who'd captured Magdalene and I'd been excited and upset but... Looking back at it now, I was shocked at the things I'd done afterward. I'd made everything worse, and had accomplished nothing on a day when I'd been determined to get Magdalene back into the ocean.

Now she was still gone, and Darwin and that other kid were in quarantine. And while part of me still relished the thought of him incurring permanent brain damage from a mindwashing, another part, the part that had been perturbed by the things Ms. Gray and Simeon had said, wondered if the punishment fit the crimes.

Or if I deserved this second chance that Simeon was giving me, free of charge.

—

FLOOD Artwork: New Cover

It pains me to replace Cora's beautiful cover, but I think FLOOD needs a fresh look. I've got several FLOOD covers waiting to be showcased, but I like this one because over the past few months, I've come to the realization that Nero is the main character of the story, more than Darwin, because he drives the narrative forward.

Also, I've really become crap at making covers. I used to be semi-decent, but now... 😫