FISH OUT OF WATER

Lyonsia clambered out from the salty ocean waves, from the deep abyss as if awakened from a dreamless sleep, each droplet cascading off her shimmering scales like liquid silver. Seraphine followed. A plume of mist curled around her talons, and the land beneath them, frail and crooked, was stripped of the vibrant life she’d dared to imagine.

The beach stretched before her, an expanse of golden sand, deceptively inviting beneath the smog sky. Yet, when she takes a hesitant step forward, the grains shifted beneath her feet to reveal a plastic bottle crushed beneath her talons. She cannot see the litter, but small plastic bits jab into her delicate fingers as she crawls. The sun beats down with an unforgiving intensity.

She shivers and longs for the depths where shadows entwined, where the light could not befall her, where the unforgiving landscape of apocalypse wouldn't reach their filthy fingers into the water. But a pull tugs at her heart like a fishline, something primal that beckoned her closer to the fringes of civilization. The cries of distant gulls echo like tortured souls, reminding her of the price of curiosity.

A legend flickers in her mind. Tis said a seagull is the departed soul of a dead soldier, owls the souls of women, doves recently departed souls of unmarried girls.

Is there a bird for the souls of people like me?

She inhales deeply, allowing the scent of brine to fill her lungs. Maybe there isn't. Maybe when she dies, she will dissolve into sea foam like most things did.  

“There is so much for us to discover, my love,” Seraphine whispered from beside her, coral-pink tendrils fluttering softly in the breath of a chilling breeze. “I've heard of advanced technology on land, how they are relics of hope. If we find them, perhaps they can drag our people out of this mess.”

The chart of the unkind world was laid bare by the flawless channel of Seraphine's supple voice. Oh, how Lyonsia longed to believe in the whisper of hope woven into Seraphine’s words, to envision the gleam of machinery and the spark of life renewed.

She suddenly became hungry for it, for its fat bees carrying nectar from flowers and for the birds singing in clusters of hazel. Robots that would fly overhead with giant nets that’d scoop all the trash smothering the ocean and take it far, far away. Lyonsia adjusted the harness carrying their egg, and she thought about the fry within. Would Altum too experience the joys before the great restful one? A world that wasn’t choked in soot and garbage?

Food, Lyosina wanted them to know Nauticava food. How her hands missed the feel of crab meat dusted with flour. Her ears missed the crack of scallop shells and her eyes missed the rainbow of fruits and vegetables sealed in jars on the shelves. Not just the cataracts, but the apocalypse had bled color from everything, leaving nothing but a storm of gray.

“There was no radioactive sludge, no trash. I often fell asleep to a current floating through my open window. It’s true. It was like that once.” she whispered to the egg. Memories of bright-eyed children laughing, colors shimmering in joyous abandon, danced like specters at the corners of her mind.

Oh, sea, where has your vibrancy fled?

“It’ll be like that again, the world heals, afterall…” Seraphine chimed in. Lyosina smiled and nodded to her thoughtful words. Maybe not in her lifetime, or Altum’s, but perhaps future generations would experience bountiful coral reefs and clear blue skies once again.

“I just hope Altum will be given that.”

But as they began their exploration, searching for whatever remnants of brilliance awaited them beyond the corpse of yesterday, reality clawed relentlessly at the edges of longing. The world above ground resembled a twisted shadow of days gone by; ruins sprawled around them like bones scattered from a long-forgotten grave. Natural life had retreated, leaving behind a landscape of metal carcasses and husks of once-proud structures, crumbling pillars reaching skyward in silent screams of protest against the heavens.

Soft sand under her webbed talons gave way to pockmarked rubble and shards of glass, and from there, Seraphine hooks her arm by the elbow to lead her. Now, Lyonsia's senses sharpened, they were in the heart of the catastrophe. She could tell by the air, thick with the scent of rust and rot. Every odor painted a picture of decay, punctuated by the faint, acrid tang of something—was that smoke? 

“Can you hear it?” Lyonsia asked, putting her face to the sky at the faint hum that vibrated through the air. “I think… I think I hear voices.”

“It’s just the wind, love,” Seraphine reassured her, brushing a stray tentacle strand away from Lyonsia’s face. “Don't fret..."

As they maneuvered through the wreckage, the eerie quiet of their surroundings felt all-consuming. Yet there, just to the right of where a yawning crater in the earth lay, a thrum began weaving into the silence like a heart beating anew. Lyonsia turned her head toward the sound, intrigued. “No. It's more—like—music,” she said slowly, her brows furrowing as if wrestling against her own thoughts.

“Is it?” Seraphine questioned, a tinge of hope sparking in her voice. “Let’s see what it is.”

As they walked, the notes began clarifying, blossoming into a soft and melancholic melody, the echoes curling around them like a shroud. Each note carried the weight of grief, as if the world itself mourned for what had been lost. As they neared the source, the music developed texture, weaving together the voices of the remaining few who had not succumbed to the dismal weight of existence, with one kindly guitar harmonizing with them all. A congregation, they entered quietly—the two women stepping tentatively into an unexpected sanctuary where survivors gathered.

Before them stood hardened souls swaying gently to the tune. Age had worn deep lines into their faces, and every movement, though simmering with life, was burdened by years of sorrow. The survivors were draped in ragged cloaks, remnants of bold colors dulled with soot and time. Their haunting harmonies painted the air with tales of love, friends, and ancient joys that had yet been forgotten, melodies clinging like tendrils of smoke to the corners of the abyss beyond.

“Though you’ve left this realm behind, in circuits and code, your spirit we find. We sing for you, creators dear—in joyful tones, we hold you near.”

Their talons had been wedged in the rocks, they couldn't move, the sorrowful beauty of their song made their spirits crave to linger, to absorb the emotions swirling within that dismal cavity of existence like a sponge. But Lyonsia pulled her lover gently, whispering “We cannot stay, dear—this is not for us to see…”

Seraphine wanted to fight it but understood Lyonsia's hesitation, the dread that dripped from her voice like molten lead. “It feels wrong, Lyo, to turn our backs.”

A clash of emotions danced in the silence between them. “I know,” she sighed. “But we don't know them. They don't know us. They could be dangerous, some of these robots are radioactive, I've heard,”

The last warm notes hung like ghosts, vanishing into the crown of despair that surrounded them, simmering down into campfire chatter. The guitar-wielder, which had the appearance of a sea bunny, (albeit browner and much, much larger) paused, his giant ears twirling in their direction. He wore a puzzled expression, and swiftly jerked his head up, nose twitching.

“G-Guys, there's…We're— We're being watched,”

They'd been caught.