^ "Not for Sale" (4-27-20) (Man, this makes Darwin look REALLY short.)

—

DARWIN

Sunday, March 25, 2018

There was a clock in the room, a giant analog hanging from the wall by a hook, and it read 3 AM. It didn't feel like it — the lights were on, and I was wired. It also didn't feel like we'd been in this room for fifteen hours.

Try a week.

Being stuck here with Thomas made it better and yet worse. He hadn't spoken to me since I'd revealed that Nero was a mermaid, and had avoided my eyes when we'd looked in vaguely the same direction, almost as if he was scared of catching my sudden crazy. When I'd gotten up from the couch and wandered into the kitchen looking for something to eat, he'd stolen my spot and had passed out. He was still asleep now, twitching — it was like he couldn't get comfortable. Or was that bad dreams?

While he was out, I'd tried my best to tidy up the mess we'd made, out of habit — Mom was always leaving sh*t everywhere when she got home from work, and if left to her own devices wouldn't clean up after herself until days later. So it was always up to me to make sure that the house wasn't a complete sty. I'd resented it at first, but eventually I'd come to appreciate the dull monotony of housework. It gave you something productive to do, took your mind off of other things.

Like this. Nero, Grandpa... Mom. We'd been gone for more than half a day — surely she was past the point of impatience now, and growing a little hysterical, wondering where I was. And Grandpa, what the hell was he doing? Was he coming back anytime soon? There was no way to know what was going on outside of this place, with its thick walls and sh*tty reception.

Except for the note.

I ran some water from the sink into the cup of instant mac and cheese I'd found, all the way to the line, and then stuck it in the microwave. The machine buzzed and the easy mac turned inside, and the sound was so familiar, so depressingly familiar, that it was nearly out of place in this waking nightmare. I stared at it a moment, taking a breath, trying to gulp down that pressurized bubble expanding in my chest, between my heart and spine. Then I faced the counter, and the sheet of paper lying there.

After the fight with Thomas, it had wound up on the floor like everything else, and was now crumpled in a dozen places and stained by the bottom of Thomas's tennis shoe. It was the sheet of paper I'd noticed by the plate of Oreos when I'd first stepped into the room, the note I'd quickly forgotten when that door had closed and locked. Now I stared down at it, my heart racing just as fast as the last time I'd read it.

We'd wanted answers. Here they were.

Hello.

On behalf of the entire Seawatcher organization, we would like to apologize for what is certainly an abrupt and upsetting situation. It has been brought to our attention that you have interacted with one or more very vulnerable individuals from our community, and for the foreseeable future, you must be quarantined until we can confirm the safety of all those who are currently at risk.

We know you may have questions. We know you are very confused. Very shortly a disciplinary team will be deployed to handle your situation.

You are safe here, so please help yourself to the amenities while we organize on our end. Relax and have a cookie!

Yours truly,

Terrance Munoz

Hoenn Society for Marine Conservationists

Slateport Branch, Director

"Have a cookie". I smiled thinly again at that closing line. F*ck you, Terrance Munoz. The nonchalant tone of the letter was borderline contemptuous, and so was some of the letter's grating vaguery.

But it did provide somewhat of an explanation as to what was going on, and it was as I'd suspected: I was not supposed to know that Nero was a mermaid. But there were people who did know, people outside of just Grandpa Jon. The letter all but said it: Hoenn Society for Marine Conservationists, Seawatchers... Were these two different groups, or were they one and the same? I barely gave a f*ck: my heart throbbed inside my throat at the revelation that a huge group of people were aware of the existence of mermaids. I'd known before I read the letter, but... Real. It's all real. Mer-people are out there.

And apparently they were highly "vulnernable" — hell, Nero hadn't even had his Milotic's tail when he'd burst through the door, yet just for seeing him Grandpa Jon had thrown his own grandson and Thomas in "quarantine".

Grandpa Jon. Did he work for them? Of course he did — he was the one who'd first mentioned the Seawatchers, and why would he have tricked us and locked us in here if he wasn't on their payroll? That brought up an entire mountain of questions, including one that tasted bitter on my tongue: I'm his grandson. Why did he do this to me? Couldn't he have just explained the danger of this knowledge, and made me promise not to tell anyone... Or something? I remembered that fear on his face, the call he'd made when I'd left Nero's bedroom. To the Sewatchers? Obviously. Probably, he'd been setting all this sh*t in motion. Maybe that was why the room was fully-furnished when we'd arrived. By the note, we'd clearly been expected.

And then there was this: Very shortly a disciplinary team will be deployed to handle your situation. What did that mean? What was a disciplinary team? I thought of how Mom used to "discipline" me when I cut up in elementary school: a wooden ruler or spoon, and a painful crack on the hand. I shook my head. They aren't going to spank you, moron. I had no idea what the hell this team was going to do to me and Thomas — a bolt of anxiety raced up through my stomach at the idea of us being... "handled" the same way loose ends were handled in mobster movies.

No, no, no. Grandpa Jon, he works for them. He won't let that happen to you... Right?

F*ck Grandpa Jon. A sudden flash of rage that came and went like a lightning strike, leaving me feeling scared and depressed. Grandpa Jon had put us here and left us: clearly he wasn't interested in protecting us, even if one of us was of his own blood. How deep is he in with these people that he could just abandon his grandson like this?

I wound my fingers into my hair, my other hand crumpling the Seawatchers' note, and that anger came back a moment, just a pinprick in my intestines, as I thought about Nero. F*ck you too. None of this would have happened if he hadn't showed up at the door. Probably we'd still be at the house now, Mom cooking, me setting up my stuff in my room, Grandpa Jon hovering, smiling his nice smile and helping me unpack my stuff.

How had things gotten so twisted up like this?

Beep, beep, beep.

My easy mac was done. I pushed up — I'd started slouching, wanting to bury my head, but there was no sand here, just an unfamiliar, messy, but furnished prison that set my nerves on edge. I looked down at the note, wondering if I should go wake Thomas up to get him to read it too, ask his thoughts. But when the sound of the microwave faded, I heard his snores — looked like he'd finally managed to fall more deeply asleep.

I remembered the manic fear in his eyes earlier, and felt a stab of guilt — suddenly I hated that Thomas had gotten dragged into this crapshow against his will. Douchebag or not, he didn't deserve this... Whatever it was. Whatever it would be.

I popped open the microwave, took out the mac and cheese, and tried to eat. I'd followed the directions, but it was about as appetizing as muddy water.

***

When I woke up, the clock on the wall read 6 AM.

It was dark — I'd turned off the lights after finishing my easy mac and consuming two bottles of water — and things were still. Or were they? Something had startled me awake from my uneasy, wafer-thin sleep lying crookedly in the easy chair. I sat up straight, listening, and I heard it again: a faint thud, muted by this place's thick walls.

A car door?

I propelled myself off the chair and nearly hit the floor after stumbling over a book and knocking over a stack of DVDs. Thomas grunted in his sleep, and I got over to the door, pressed my ear against it. Listened. Nothing, nothing... Then another thud, another slam. Several more.

Car doors yes. I was sure of it.

Excitement and dread welled up inside, heating my blood, making my heart thud against the walls of my sternum. Someone was here...maybe several someones, judging by the noise. Was it... What had Mr. Munoz's note said? The disciplinary team? My mouth dried as more sounds, louder and clearer sounds, propagated through the walls. I heard voices, glowing closer. An opening door, and then the footsteps of many people, rapping sharply against the linoleum tile. My pulse roared in my ears. Were they coming to free us?

"Darwin." Thomas was suddenly behind me — I was so wound up that I hadn't heard him rise from the couch and walk over. "Is someone there?"

"Yeah. I think it's the disciplinary team."

"Disciplinary team?"

"Yeah, there was a note..." I turned to point, and faltered. In the darkness, Thomas looked like a ghost, his face withered, his eyes bloodshot and lined with what I could only describe as ditches. It was obvious that his sleep had been as uncomfortable as mine, maybe worse.

And there was something else on his face, something I couldn't see but feel: a crazed energy stirring beneath the surface. Witnessing it, I suddenly felt the need to keep my voice calm and level.

"There's a note on the counter," I started again, then stopped, because would Thomas actually give a damn? "Someone's supposed to be coming from us," I said quickly. I pressed my ear to the door again: even closer now, to the point that I could pick out individual words. I moved from the door. "Step back. They'll be here any moment."

Thomas obeyed, hovering behind me as we waited with dreadful anticipation, a ball of nerves. More footsteps, more talking, more words. I tried to listen, even as my ears threatened to drown out the sound:

"This one?"

"I don't think this is a good idea, sir. I think we should use the conference room. You saw the footage, didn't you?"

"Perhaps you're right... I suppose it would be easier to lay it out for them there, give them time to digest it before we send in Berry. Mind sticking around for a little while?"

"Aye, if it'll see me back to my bed all the sooner."

Closer, closer.... And then gone. I blinked in disbelief, wondering if I was hearing wrong, but no — the voices were fading. What's happening? But of course I knew what had happened: they'd passed us by. Going where? To that conference room they'd spoken of? Why?

A sickening thought occurred to me: Maybe they aren't even here for us. But no, no — what about the note? Confused and dismayed, I took two steps towards the door and pounded hard twice.

"Hello?" I said loudly. No answer. "Hello? Can you please help us? We're in here!"

No response — before I could stop myself, I exchanged a troubled look with Thomas, and I saw that thing that had been hiding in his eyes come alive full force: full-bodied, manic terror. He went for the door like a charging Tauros, and I barely managed to dive out of the way before he hit it with his shoulder, then his fists, then his knees and legs, hitting and hitting and hitting, to no avail.

"HEY!" he shrieked. "LET US OUT OF HERE! LET US OUT OF HERE! LET US OUT OF HERE!"

I watched him as he fought the door, thrashing like a dying man trying to dig his way out of a whirlpool of quicksand. Suddenly I felt gross, and nauseous, like I was seeing something that I shouldn't see: a level of desperation that only came forth when you were scraping at the bottom of the barrel. It seemed to seep from Thomas into the air like a contagion, threatening to infect me; even now, one thought kept looping through my mind: What if they aren't here for you, Darwin? What if the note was a lie? What if you're trapped here for—

Finally, Thomas stumbled away from the door and collapsed, leaving behind small concavities in the metal...and blood. He'd punched it so furiously that he'd split open his knuckles. I could see blood pooling onto his shorts, onto the floor. Blood and terrified tears—they sped from his eyes, a growing river.

Sh*t. Not sure what to do, I stepped towards the kitchen, towards the paper towels, and then he began wheezing — the sound was a hideous, dry rattling, and it lifted hairs on the back of my neck. What was happening? A panic attack?

I felt some semblance of control return — I'd once had a panic attack in the fifth grade, and Mom had helped me through it. She'd sat me down, told me to breathe, and had gotten me some water. Moving into the kitchen, I grabbed a glass from one of the cupboards and filled it from the tap. I hurried over to Thomas who, surprisingly, was already recovering. The attack had come like an eruption: sudden and intense, and now he was working his way through the fumes.

"It's...okay," I said, a little clumsily. Never in my life had I ever thought that I would have to give Thomas comfort for anything, and it was f*cking awkward. Trying to remember what Mom had said to me all those years ago, I said, "It'll pass, give it a minute."

He looked up at me, his face ghoulish with desperation. "Why aren't...they..." He struggled—it sounded like he was losing his voice. "Saving...us—"

"Don't worry about that right now. Breathe: in through your nose, out through your mouth." I looked up. "Do you, uh, want to sit on the couch?"

He didn't answer, but he worked his way to his feet, and I followed him over to where he didn't sit so much as crumple. I handed him the water. "Think you can drink some of this?"

Wordlessly, he took the cup and took a tentative sip. His pupils were beginning to dilate back out again — he was going to be all right, which was suddenly a relief. The last thing I wanted was for him to have a f*cking heart attack and leave me here alone. I needed someone to be scared with.

And I was still scared, still fighting off an infection of Thomas's terror. Am I right? Was the note wrong? Are we just going to be left to rot here?

Almost like divine intervention, a voice suddenly answered me, booming around the apartment.

"Hello? Can you boys hear me?"

I grabbed Thomas's arm before he could jump up again: Don't panic! Don't panic! I twisted my head, trying to figure out where the sound had come from, and my eyes landed on the ceiling: a small device that I'd assumed was a smoke alarm hung there, but that must've been by design. A speaker system?

"Hello? I see you looking around, but I want to make sure all systems are working before we begin. Go ahead and speak so we can test the microphones."

Microphones? And cameras too, apparently. I bristled — Were we being watched this entire time? I felt heat push into my skull at the possibility — Did they see our fight? And Thomas's breakdown? And they still left us in here? Maybe these people were the mob — there was no other explanation for this blatant cruelty.

My eyes fell onto Thomas's bloody hands again, and I stood up, heading into the kitchen. I returned with the paper towels and then said, loudly, "We can hear you."

"Very good," the voice said as I sat down and handed Thomas the paper towels — he didn't seem to see me, the set of his jaw and shoulders harder than concrete. "My name is Terrance Munoz. I am the Director of the Slateport Chapter of the Seawatchers. And you're Darwin and Thomas...right?"

"F*ck you!" Thomas burst up from his seat like a rocket. "Open that door, goddamn you! Let us the f*ck out of..." His voice went then, and his words transformed into straining rasps. Mr. Munoz waited as he coughed and tried to speak.

"I will," he said. "That I promise you. I deeply regret that this has happened in the first place, and I am going to do all that I can to ensure that this situation is resolved as quickly and efficiently as is humanly possible. But in order for that to happen, and for that door to open, we must first have a difficult conversation. Will you listen?"

Thomas tried to speak and vaguely I could hear what he said — something including the words "piece of sh*t" — but my glare silenced him. Didn't he get it? Mr. Munoz might have softened his statement with words like "I promise" and "I regret", but stripped down this was a negotiation for our release, with those who had kidnapped us in the first place. Too much more hotheadedness, and we could be crawling these walls for who-f*cking-knew how long.

"We'll listen," I said mildly; angrily, Thomas tore strips from the roll of paper towels and began to dab at his bloody knuckles.

"Thank you, Darwin. Now please, do me a favor." Pause. "Do you see the remote lying around anywhere?"

I did — it was right up beneath the coffee table. I fished it out and held it up for the hidden cameras to see.

"Good. Please turn on the TV, and go to Channel 9. I — and your grandfather — would like to see you when we talk to you."

I stiffened. "He's there?"

"I'm here, Darwin." Grandpa Jon's voice came through, sounding strained. Emotion boiled behind my sternum, shifting from relief to pointed hatred and back. He's here...and he trapped us here in the first place. Is he going to help us? It was sad that I didn't know the answer to that question — Grandpa Jon had already demonstrated where his loyalties lay, so why did I expect that he would have my back in this negotiation?

Negotiation. The word suddenly sent a prickle down my spine. The term implied a quid pro quo. What exactly were these Seawatchers going to ask of us?

Thumbing the remote, I turned on the TV, and then cycled through channels of static until I reached number nine. Here was an image of a big room of blue carpet, mostly empty save for a big table surrounded by swivel chairs. The conference room. Sitting in the chairs nearest to the camera were several people. Most I didn't recognize: several men and women in blue shirts, and then a wild-looking dude with long white hair, wearing a high-necked pastel-green sweater with a polka-dot design. Closer were Grandpa, pale-faced and resigned, and a thick-set, conventionally-handsome older man that I assumed was Director Munoz.

"Can you see us?" Mr. Munoz asked. His voice was no longer coming from the speaker system, but from the TV.

"Yes," I said civilly. Thomas said nothing at all.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence; I noticed that Mr. Munoz was the only one looking into the camera. The rest of the figures around the conference table, including Grandpa Jon, looked down or away. What they saw in our faces must've been disturbing, which did not surprise me: Thomas's gaze was severe with barely-restrained rage. Arceus only knew how I looked.

"Darwin," Mr. Munoz said, looking at me intently. "Jonathan holds you in high regard — he tells me that you are very intelligent. So I would like to know: are you aware of why this is happening?"

I shifted.  "Yes."

"Tell us."

The air felt charged, and for a moment I suffered from another pang of deep-reaching doubt. Even though I knew it was real. "It's about Nero," I said.

Mr. Munoz glanced at Grandpa, who nodded. "What about Nero?" the Director asked.

I licked my lips, which were bone-dry. I don't know why he wanted to hear me say it; would this be recorded, and used against me later? Who gives a damn? Do what it takes to get out of here. "About Nero being a mermaid," I said.

Beside me, Thomas bristled; the blue shirts in the conference room moved uncomfortably in their seats. Grandpa Jon remained motionless, and Mr. Munoz sat back, looking slightly resigned.

No one denied it. No one called me crazy, or stupid.

Real. It's real.

I'd already known that. But for some reason this moment here made it not just real in my small social circle, not just real on a lower level but... Real. Pins-and-needles, cutting-edge real, acknowledged by a larger community of strangers. Globally real. My head spun and swam at the same time.

"Jonathan's told me that you and the individual known as Nero have had a prior interaction," Mr. Munoz said. "Can you confirm this?"

"Yes," I said. "It was during a field trip to the Water Safari Zone in Slateport City. I caught a Sharpedo in the outskirts. His Sharpedo — companion Pokémon. He attacked me after the final seal dropped, almost drowned me. I was saved by a patrol Pokémon."

"Did you ever see him after that?"

"Yeah, yesterday."

Mr. Munoz gazed towards Thomas. "What about you, Mr. Ryans-Wade? Have you had any prior interaction with Nero before yesterday?"

Thomas didn't answer, not with words — instead, he lurched out of his seat again and hurled the paper towels at the TV, so hard that the roll fell away flattened on one side. Then he spoke, and I could tell that he was trying to scream, but his throat just couldn't manage it: "You pricks are...ing with me. Is this...joke? Some kind of...itty game? Answer...e, you f*cking creep!"

Mr. Munoz's eyes darkened. "This is no joke, Thomas. It's as Darwin said, you are both here in quarantine because you are aware of the existence of the merfolk. Nero, in particular."

"No," Thomas rasped.

"Yes. "

"No! He had...ing legs. He's not a...ing merman. You...nd you—" He pointed to the TV, then glowered down at me— "are batsh*t insane."

"And what about Nero's voice?" Mr. Munoz said gravely, patiently, in a tone that told me he'd had this conversation many, many times before. "Jonathan told me all about it, Thomas. You came in the room, Nero said to sit, and you sat. And it hurt, didn't it? Not just stereo-system-cranked-up-to-max hurt, but white-poker-cauterizing-the-brain hurt. Do you remember Darwin's eyes bleeding, Thomas? Or was that something you and he imagined?"

Thomas's face creased with sudden doubt, and I could almost read his mind: that had been frickin' weird, and it had bothered him yesterday afternoon. Still, the explanation that Nero's freaky voice came from him being a mermaid was even more Farfetch'd.

Right?

"It's called Pitch," Mr. Munoz continued. "A merperson's ability to control the strength at which their voice propagates. Underwater, Pitch is used continually to elevate their volume to a degree that it can be heard by other merpeople through the thicker medium. But in the air, Pitch can have more...damaging, even catastrophic affects. Notes can act as probes or, to use my earlier analogy, hot pokers, stimulating the brain's neural centers and connections to induce pain, memory loss, or submission. That is why when Nero spoke, you obeyed, Thomas." He glanced back at me. "And Darwin when he asked, you answered."

A chill, remembering how mechanically I'd spoken when Nero had questioned me about Magdalene the Sharpedo: I hadn't meant to answer, but I had, and before I'd even made the conscious decision to speak. That horrid pain was also something I couldn't forget.

"You...aren't serious," Thomas grated. The doubt had collapsed into disbelief — I could still tell that he didn't believe the mermaid part, but the way in which Director Munoz had described Nero's voice — Pitch — aligned too smoothly with what had actually happened during the fight.

"I don't make it a business to kidnap children," Mr. Munoz said seriously. "You don't know me from Adam, Thomas, but believe me when I say that every word out of my mouth is true. And if you still don't believe me...believe Darwin."

Thomas looked down at me with searching eyes, and I nodded glumly. The heat of that earlier terror resurfaced again in his eyes, and he sat down heavily. His hands were shaking, and the brightness of the TV illuminated the flop sweat dripping down his face. He was processing — I could sympathize.

Mr. Munoz's chair creaked loudly as he leaned back, lacing his fingers together. "I know this is a lot to take in at once," he said, more to Thomas than to me. "But, regretfully, whether or not you fully believe...this, the problem remains the same: a very vulnerable community has been exposed, and we must deal with it before it gets out of hand. That is why we are having this conversation."

I felt the sudden need to stall. "Is that what you guys do? 'Deal' with people that discover that mermaids exist?"

"Broadly speaking, yes. And it is critical that we do: the merfolk are some of the most endangered creatures on the planet. Can you imagine what might happen if knowledge of their existence became mainstream?"

I couldn't, but I had an idea, and it wasn't good. "I wouldn't tell anyone," I said.

"But we know that's a lie, Darwin. You told Thomas, didn't you?"

I bristled, and opened my mouth to deny it, but quickly closed it. I couldn't deny what the hidden cameras and microphones had recorded. "I won't tell anyone else," I tried again. Uselessly.

Mr. Munoz sighed. "And I believe you, son, but your personal assurances aren't enough."

Sweat appeared on the back of my neck. "Then what? Do we sign a NDA or something?"

"Of sorts. A NDA would be included in the contract."

"Contract?" Moisture seemed to drain from my mouth at the word.

Mr. Munoz shared a look with Grandpa Jon, a dark, serious one. "Yes, a contract," the Director said. "We have two options here, Darwin, but you only have one: become Seawatchers, both of you, and no further action is needed on our part."

I sat back, staring at the screen, wondering if I'd misheard. "Become a—"

"Darwin, son, listen carefully," Grandpa Jon said urgently. "You don't yet know the scope of the Seawatchers, but they are quite serious when it comes to protecting vulnerable members of the merfolk community."

I felt a flash of resentment: I know, Grandpa. Hell, you threw me in here, remember?

He seemed to read my mind; guiltily, he said, "I didn't have any choice, son. I made an oath to protect and defend this community when I was quite young, and I had to stand by my words." He wound his fingers together anxiously. "If you and Thomas were to take the same oath today, more drastic measures would not be needed to resolve this issue. You would be inducted into the society, and your knowledge of the merfolk would be of no consequence. Are you understanding what I'm saying?"

"Yes." Though I was struggling. Join the Seawatchers? An organization that I knew little to nothing about? Well, you know they'll throw innocent people who accidently find out about the merfolk into quarantine. I shook the spiteful thoughts away, trying to concentrate. "I don't know," I said. "I think I would need more information on the Seawatchers first—"

"I'm afraid we don't have that luxury today, son," Mr. Munoz said gravely. "We have a timetable for quarantines, and in that time you need to choose: become a Seawatcher, or have your memories erased."

Thomas barked out a sudden, disbelieving laugh; I had almost the same reaction, and a twisted not-smile came to my face. "What?" I said. I searched the screen, trying to find the joke, but no one was laughing, or even smiling. "What are you talking about?"

Mr. Munoz's face was grim. "Were you listening? Pitch, if used carefully, can induce memory loss." He glanced back at the white-haired man in the polka-dot turtleneck. "And if you decide that you would forgo the option to become a Seawatcher, we will have no choice but to allow Berechiah to manipulate your memories so that you forget Nero and what happened at the Water Safari."

I glanced at Thomas, who looked just as incredulous as I felt. "Bullsh*t," he rasped.

"Is it though?" the Director said. "When Nero made you fall to the floor with a single word?"

"Boys, listen," Grandpa Jon snapped with sudden ferocity. "The Seawatchers normally don't extend this offer to those that know what you know. Most of the time they are tracked, quarantined, and wiped without consent. This doesn't happen often, but I've seen a range of results, from ideal to disastrous. If you do not accept the offer to become Seawatchers, you run the risk of severe neural damage from the memory wipe."

That got my attention. "How severe?" I demanded.

"As severe as you can imagine, Darwin."

Thomas snorted, but I knew from the look in Grandpa Jon's eyes that he was being serious. Still, his response provided no gauge: Serious like a brain tumor? Serious like bleeding on the brain? Serious like a stroke? Brain damage? Probably all of the above — just remembering that pulsing, deep-seated pain that had throbbed in my skull at Nero's voice told me it was all possible.

"How often does that happen?" I asked.

"Does it matter?" Grandpa Jon said. "It happens. It's a possibility. Do you even want to run the risk?"

It was a good point, and yet I felt torn, caught between paranoia and suspicion. "Is there no other option?" I asked.

"No," Director Munoz said gravely. "And as your grandfather said, there normally isn't a choice in the first place. The only reason that the Seawatchers are being generous on this particular issue is because Jonathan has been a loyal member of our community for decades, and out of consideration for him, we are extending the olive branch to his grandson and his friend."

So normally, Thomas and I would've been knocked the f*ck out and wiped already. Flop sweat beaded my brow, and Thomas shoved me with his shoulder.

"Lying," he rasped. "Screwin'...with us."

I whirled on him. "Shut the hell up. Are you blind or deaf or both? Or maybe Nero hit you on the head and you forgot the weird sh*t that happened at the house?"

"That don't...ean I sudd..ly believe in...mermaids," he hissed.

"So don't! But that doesn't mean that these people and Grandpa Jon won't let us rot in here, or screw us up with another guy that can talk like Nero."

Hurt flashed across Grandpa Jon's face, but he said nothing.

Thomas stared at me, incredulous. "I can't...ieve you're buyin'...all this sh*t."

"There's a lock on the door, genius. Four walls, no windows, no phones, no Wi-fi." I pointed to his knuckles. "Didn't you want to get out? Or did I f*cking imagine that? And now they're giving us options, and all you care about is getting screwed over? Shut the hell up. Shut the hell up. Sit back and let me do the work, like you usually do!"

Thomas's face twisted up into something ugly, but he said nothing; angrily, he shoved up from his seat and walked into the kitchen. The fight drained from me as I watched him go, and with a sinking feeling of dread, I wondered if he was right. I knew I was right to be concerned with getting the f*ck out of here, even if it meant joining Grandpa's organization, society, cult... Whatever the hell it was. But Thomas was right too: Are we getting suckered? I didn't know these people, and I barely knew Grandpa Jon; apparently they were being considerate, but was this a means to an end? You would think that if they were truly committed to hiding the merfolk from human society, they would wipe the memories of anyone who learned about them, familial ties or no.

But as I turned back to the TV, one thing became clear: I did not want brain damage, and while Nero and his Sharpedo had certainly upended my life, part of me did not want to forget what I'd discovered that day in the Water Safari.

"Sign us up," I said.

—

Announcement (which may or may not still be relevant at Chapter 35)

Just FYI (if you care), FLOOD will now be back on a biweekly update. Additionally, once we reach Chapter 35, the book will be on hiatus as I clean up the planning and get back into churning out new content. (That is, if I haven't already done so by the time we reach chapter 35.)

Also, question: Do you think I should start coming up with titles for the chapters? I kinda feel like FLOOD looks like a slog from afar if the chapters don't even have titles, you know?

If you do, will you help me out? Maybe suggest a title for this chapter? Pretty please?