Mister Pompadour doesn't waste time getting back to his feet. His footfalls are gaining again, but she has space; she has a chance. The cat helped her for whatever selfish, cat-serving reason they may have had. What can I do, though?
You're just going to leave the cat to fend for themself? You're such a terrible, self-centered person.
Pressure bears down on Avery's chest. She digs teeth into the fat of her lip and the taste of iron floods her mouth. Keep running.
A plain, blue sign hovers above, hung from the ceiling on metal chains. White letters spell out exhibit names or important locations: "Gift Shop" and "Eastern Reef" are there with an arrow leading straight on. "Restrooms" too, pointing right — down the immediate hallway.
Could I get out through the bathroom window? He wouldn't be able to fit... No, he could just— Those spinning, metal balls pop to the front of her mind. No, that won't work.
Powder. What about the powder? At once, ideas collide and spark. A chain reaction of thoughts that coalesce into something coherent. As if, this whole time, she's been tipping ingredients into a cauldron, driven by half a recipe and the gut feeling of a master alchemist.
Tamika's tank: I can just hop into it and sink to the bottom! No way that powder can phase through water.
She makes the decision. Purpose propels her forward: the carpet and ceiling are just brushstrokes of white and blue, broken up by rainbow streaks where fish might be.
A door labelled "Employees-Only" comes into view, set just before the visitor's entrance to the Eastern Reefs. Avery barrels through it. She hops down a short flight of stairs and slams into a second, much heavier door. It doesn't burst open. Instead, its hinges whine and pop; oppressive, humid air rolls out of a small opening that grows wider by the second. Groaning, Avery shifts against the door and pushes with all the strength her legs can manage. At three seconds, the gap is big enough. She slips through. Just as the heavy door slams, the man bursts through the first. Avery spares a moment to search for a lock: none, not that lucky then. She gulps against the dryness of her mouth. Maybe the weight of it will buy me a little time.
The maintenance area is cramped. Pumps, protein skimmers, and other machines with other names crowd around walls; a metal-grated walkway winds overhead, too close for comfort. She darts left, down a narrow hallway that ends in a stairwell made of the same metal material.
Her legs burn; tight muscles and ligaments complain about the lack of pre-run stretching. She pushes it out of her mind. Behind her, the — apparently not-so-heavy — door explodes outward. Mister Pompadour is there: shoulder bearing the brunt of the door's weight like it's nothing more than a flimsy piece of plywood. She whips her head forward. The stairwell is only a few more steps away.
I can make it.
She stretches her arm out in front of her, grasping. Her fingers wrap around the railing the moment it's in reach and — in a well orchestrated series of movements — she repeatedly yanks back, springing up three steps at a time. Three sets of three steps, then she careens over a landing; she slams the concrete wall on the other side, forearms first.
Pain flares from wrist to elbow: bruises to deal with when death isn't a step away. She pushes off the wall and yanks herself up the second flight of stairs.
The entire walkway judders on the last step. She trips; her body sprawls over metal grating. The pitted, rust-covered surface digs scrapes into the skin underneath her clothes: up and down her legs, stomach, and arms.
He's right behind you, get up.
Everything judders again. Past the grating below her, mister Pompadour sends the walkway into a new fit of shaking each time he climbs step. Her heart quickens; it thunders inside her chest like a timpani. She scrambles to her feet and tears off down the way she came — just further off the ground than before.
In between bouts of shaking metal, she runs. Left, straight, zigzags. Whichever direction the walkway leads. Ahead of her, a short stretch of stairs climb up to the tank's access platform. The spot she first met Tamika.
I can make it!
Mid-sprint, she fumbles with her jacket, trying to slip it off. Reaching the first step, the jacket is off and flaps around in her grasp. She yanks herself up to the landing. God, I hope this works.
Water stretches out before her; dark, churning, but also glinting as waves catch diffuse moonlight at the right angle. She beelines toward it. Mister Pompadour's weight lands somewhere close behind, probably just off the steps. She refuses to look.
His voice booms, oddly muted with all the nearby water. "Stop! Don't—"
She plants a foot on the edge of the walkway and kicks off: a cacophony of clanging metal drowns out his words and she flies. Over the small diver's platform and its ladder; over several feet of undulating water; then no where. She freezes midair at the apex of her leap. Hovering betwixt gravity and her dying momentum.
Gravity wins: her body plummets sneaker-first into the tank. Grasping her jacket in both hands, she casts it above her head and flips a familiar, instinctive switch inside her mind. Water envelopes her lower half — yet, no cold. No wet, soggy clothes. Concentrating on everything but her jacket, she passes through the water as if it doesn't exist.
Then her jacket hits.
Her arms rip upwards; pain tears through her left arm's tendon and, deep within that shoulder, something pops. Fire erupts inside. Black narrows her vision to pinpoints and her eyes roll back.
No. You're going to die if you pass out here. Stay awake.
Jacket fabric bubbles up like a parachute and her rapid descent jerks into a drift. She fights for consciousness; her eyes flutter and water starts to seep into the clothes she's still wearing; cold supplants heat in uneven splotches against her skin.
Please stay awake, Avery.
It's a familiar voice, yet not her own. Her eyes snap open; the muddling darkness clears. Pain tries to force her eyes back closed, but she grits her teeth and clings to the edges of her jacket.
Moonlight spills through pyramidal skylights to cast shifting beams into the water. All around her, the shafts of light catch unfiltered particulate as it swirls in invisible currents. A rainbow of coral clings to the face of artificial crags; even more nestles into the floor's gravely substrate.
It's easy to appreciate the wonder — well, it should be. If she wasn't falling toward the ground at considerable speed she probably could. Instead, she kicks her legs. Flails them for any chance at slowing her fall.
It does nothing: her legs pass through the water like it's not there. She lets her lower half fade from her concentration and water rushes into the fabric of her pajama pants. Frost pierces her bones. A gasp escapes her mouth, but water absorbs any sound it would make and air bubbles tumble toward the surface.
Spines of coral wind upward toward the moon. Many, long and sharp and ready to impale her. I'm going too fast!
Crunch.
She crashes down on a bush-like, red coral. Its spines tear holes in the legs of her pants and wisps of blood curl up from raw scrapes. It's not enough: the spines crack — she falls, unhindered to the ground below. The entire exhibit shudders; her body tumbles over sharp rock and she skids to rest on her dislocated shoulder.
Bruised and broken.
No fish are around — spooked by the noise. Avery plants a palm on shifting, crackling substrate; gravel and crushed coral dig into her skin. She tries to plant her left palm beside her right, but her shoulder screams at the slightest movement. She winces.
We have to call someone.
Avery pushes herself up to her knees, trying to keep her left arm pinned to her side. As she shifts, it doesn't matter. Lightening shoot down her limb to constant agony.
She screams, pushing against the gravel. Giant bubbles tumble away from her open mouth. Until she's there: finally up on all working threes. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. One more push. That's it.
A moray eel slithers by, brushing over one of Avery's legs. Long, slick, and cold. The feeling sends a shiver up her spine and leaves her skin feeling slimy.
It's going to kill us, punch it.
Instead of sitting with the urge, Avery raises her knees one by one to rest on the balls of her feet. They're not an it... And they're not going to kill me.
Some gravel and bits of coral tumble away from her knees, drifting toward the ground. The rest cling to shallow burrows in her skin.
Punch it.
With a water-muffled groan and a burst of bubbles, she does an awkward, one-handed shove and shimmies her feet closer to underneath her. Her hand leaves the ground; she straightens up to finally stand. Legs tremble under her weight, but — despite being the bleeding mess they are — they don't give. She slaps the pockets of her pajama pants, forgetting they don't even have them. Where's my phone?
In her jacket, of course. Where's that, though? Urgency creeps into her breathing and she casts her head about wildly.
There. Navy fabric waves within the water's current, pierced through by a jagged, red spear. The remnants of the coral that almost broke her fall somehow still affixed to the crag it calls home.
Panic, adrenaline; whatever it is, it forces her forward despite the pain. She stumbles over to the jacket and rips it down. Its fabric tears, leaving it in nearly two pieces — only connected by a handful of threads.
She digs around in the pocket she can reach. Inside, her fingers brush against the familiar, glossy brick. Oh, thank god. She finagles it out of the pocket, only losing her grip once.
At the top of the phone's display, a blue light pulses every few seconds. A notification. And it hasn't shorted out, or whatever electronics in water tend to do.
Will it still work if I unlock it?
Fire burns deep inside Avery's head; no sleep, all the recent stress, overexerting herself. Using her power as granularly as she is now too. It's all weighing down her thoughts — keeping them murky and imprecise. She looks up to the surface, trying to judge the distance. What did that ad say about the phone being water tight? Up to thirty feet?
There's a figure at the precipice of the diver's platform. Under his sweat laden pompadour, the man looms over her. It's an odd feeling. An intense uneasiness that makes her stomach churn amid a heart-hammering fear. Like she's being watched, but the watcher already has a sword at her throat. He taps on his phone a few times and brings it up to his ear.
She does the same. With a trembling finger, thumb, and a silent prayer that the phone doesn't immediately short circuit, she clicks the screen on. It burns to life and the waiting notification slides into view.
Mom: Where are you at, honey? Work ran late and —
Only the start of the message, but enough to cause guilt to join the cacophony of emotions inside her. She hovers a finger over the notification. I don't have time, sorry mom...
Calling up the number pad, she taps in nine-one-one; the receiver starts ringing.
She whips her head up and — at that moment — the two of them lock eyes. His blue eyes still pierce through all the water between him and her, and his lips curl into a frown. He's talking. Other than his lips, his face barely moves. Locked in a foreboding expression.
Avery chews on her bottom lip; each new ring from the receiver spurns a new thought. She's never had to call in an emergency before. What if I'm overreacting? What if I pass out before they get here? What if I pass out before they even answer?
Shifting clouds reveal the entirety of the moon's waning crescent. Past the pyramidal skylights, it hangs near his head. Brilliant beams of moonlight drown out Avery's sight. Everything, except for the man and his eyes. Eyes that pierce through overwhelming light and the shadowy tug of unconsciousness alike. The eyes of a cold death set to see her to her end, either by his own hands or by watching her slowly drown at the bottom of this tank.
He slips the phone into his pocket and climbs up from the diver platform. Up the ladder and gone. Just like that. She stares at the spot his last foot slipped past the concrete edge. What? What's he doing?
The receiver crackles and a woman's voice comes through. "Nine-one-one, what's the emergency?"
Avery forgot the thing was still ringing. Water swallows up her voice and it reaches the phone in a distorted, burbling hum. "Uhm — Sorry. There are people here trying to hurt me. I'm in a safe spot, but one just walked off. I've got no idea what he's doing."
"Excuse me? I can't hear you."
Avery cups her dislocated arm's hand over the receiver. "I — gah! — I'm at the aquarium and there are people trying to kill me."
A bored tone tints the dispatcher's voice. "Which aquarium?"
"Cordia."
"There are two aquariums in Cordia, which one?"
"The Cordia Aquarium! Please, hurry. One of the guys just left to do something. I don't know what. He was talking to some other people on his phone, then he disappeared."
The dispatcher rolls her eyes — her voice makes that clear. "Okay. Have you seen any of the others? What do they look like?"
"Just the one: he has a blonde pompadour and coveralls. Is that enough?"
Some keyboard clacks come through the receiver. "Plenty."
"So you're sending people? When will they be here?" Another jolt of pain shoots through Avery's shoulder. She lets out a sound: part gasp, part hiss. "Tssha — can you send an ambulance too? My shoulder is messed up."
"Five minutes? I'm not really sure. You know that you'll be in big trouble if this isn't a real emergency, right?"
Frustration melts the ice still clinging to Avery's bones. "I'm not lying! Why would you think that?"
"People trying to kill you at an aquarium? It's pretty unlikely."
"Are you sending the police or not?"
"Yeah. Making conversation, now. I'm kind of just killing time until the next call comes in."
Avery slaps her thumb down onto the red disconnect circle. The receiver clicks off. "What is with tonight." She says, water distorting her voice again and bubbles tumbling out.
Mister Pompadour doesn't waste time getting back to his feet. His footfalls are gaining again, but she has space; she has a chance. The cat helped her for whatever selfish, cat-serving reason they may have had. What can I do, though?
You're just going to leave the cat to fend for themself? You're such a terrible, self-centered person.
Pressure bears down on Avery's chest. She digs teeth into the fat of her lip and the taste of iron floods her mouth. Keep running.
A plain, blue sign hovers above, hung from the ceiling on metal chains. White letters spell out exhibit names or important locations: "Gift Shop" and "Eastern Reef" are there with an arrow leading straight on. "Restrooms" too, pointing right — down the immediate hallway.
Could I get out through the bathroom window? He wouldn't be able to fit... No, he could just— Those spinning, metal balls pop to the front of her mind. No, that won't work.
Powder. What about the powder? At once, ideas collide and spark. A chain reaction of thoughts that coalesce into something coherent. As if, this whole time, she's been tipping ingredients into a cauldron, driven by half a recipe and the gut feeling of a master alchemist.
Tamika's tank: I can just hop into it and sink to the bottom! No way that powder can phase through water.
She makes the decision. Purpose propels her forward: the carpet and ceiling are just brushstrokes of white and blue, broken up by rainbow streaks where fish might be.
A door labelled "Employees-Only" comes into view, set just before the visitor's entrance to the Eastern Reefs. Avery barrels through it. She hops down a short flight of stairs and slams into a second, much heavier door. It doesn't burst open. Instead, its hinges whine and pop; oppressive, humid air rolls out of a small opening that grows wider by the second. Groaning, Avery shifts against the door and pushes with all the strength her legs can manage. At three seconds, the gap is big enough. She slips through. Just as the heavy door slams, the man bursts through the first. Avery spares a moment to search for a lock: none, not that lucky then. She gulps against the dryness of her mouth. Maybe the weight of it will buy me a little time.
The maintenance area is cramped. Pumps, protein skimmers, and other machines with other names crowd around walls; a metal-grated walkway winds overhead, too close for comfort. She darts left, down a narrow hallway that ends in a stairwell made of the same metal material.
Her legs burn; tight muscles and ligaments complain about the lack of pre-run stretching. She pushes it out of her mind. Behind her, the — apparently not-so-heavy — door explodes outward. Mister Pompadour is there: shoulder bearing the brunt of the door's weight like it's nothing more than a flimsy piece of plywood. She whips her head forward. The stairwell is only a few more steps away.
I can make it.
She stretches her arm out in front of her, grasping. Her fingers wrap around the railing the moment it's in reach and — in a well orchestrated series of movements — she repeatedly yanks back, springing up three steps at a time. Three sets of three steps, then she careens over a landing; she slams the concrete wall on the other side, forearms first.
Pain flares from wrist to elbow: bruises to deal with when death isn't a step away. She pushes off the wall and yanks herself up the second flight of stairs.
The entire walkway judders on the last step. She trips; her body sprawls over metal grating. The pitted, rust-covered surface digs scrapes into the skin underneath her clothes: up and down her legs, stomach, and arms.
He's right behind you, get up.
Everything judders again. Past the grating below her, mister Pompadour sends the walkway into a new fit of shaking each time he climbs step. Her heart quickens; it thunders inside her chest like a timpani. She scrambles to her feet and tears off down the way she came — just further off the ground than before.
In between bouts of shaking metal, she runs. Left, straight, zigzags. Whichever direction the walkway leads. Ahead of her, a short stretch of stairs climb up to the tank's access platform. The spot she first met Tamika.
I can make it!
Mid-sprint, she fumbles with her jacket, trying to slip it off. Reaching the first step, the jacket is off and flaps around in her grasp. She yanks herself up to the landing. God, I hope this works.
Water stretches out before her; dark, churning, but also glinting as waves catch diffuse moonlight at the right angle. She beelines toward it. Mister Pompadour's weight lands somewhere close behind, probably just off the steps. She refuses to look.
His voice booms, oddly muted with all the nearby water. "Stop! Don't—"
She plants a foot on the edge of the walkway and kicks off: a cacophony of clanging metal drowns out his words and she flies. Over the small diver's platform and its ladder; over several feet of undulating water; then no where. She freezes midair at the apex of her leap. Hovering betwixt gravity and her dying momentum.
Gravity wins: her body plummets sneaker-first into the tank. Grasping her jacket in both hands, she casts it above her head and flips a familiar, instinctive switch inside her mind. Water envelopes her lower half — yet, no cold. No wet, soggy clothes. Concentrating on everything but her jacket, she passes through the water as if it doesn't exist.
Then her jacket hits.
Her arms rip upwards; pain tears through her left arm's tendon and, deep within that shoulder, something pops. Fire erupts inside. Black narrows her vision to pinpoints and her eyes roll back.
No. You're going to die if you pass out here. Stay awake.
Jacket fabric bubbles up like a parachute and her rapid descent jerks into a drift. She fights for consciousness; her eyes flutter and water starts to seep into the clothes she's still wearing; cold supplants heat in uneven splotches against her skin.
Please stay awake, Avery.
It's a familiar voice, yet not her own. Her eyes snap open; the muddling darkness clears. Pain tries to force her eyes back closed, but she grits her teeth and clings to the edges of her jacket.
Moonlight spills through pyramidal skylights to cast shifting beams into the water. All around her, the shafts of light catch unfiltered particulate as it swirls in invisible currents. A rainbow of coral clings to the face of artificial crags; even more nestles into the floor's gravely substrate.
It's easy to appreciate the wonder — well, it should be. If she wasn't falling toward the ground at considerable speed she probably could. Instead, she kicks her legs. Flails them for any chance at slowing her fall.
It does nothing: her legs pass through the water like it's not there. She lets her lower half fade from her concentration and water rushes into the fabric of her pajama pants. Frost pierces her bones. A gasp escapes her mouth, but water absorbs any sound it would make and air bubbles tumble toward the surface.
Spines of coral wind upward toward the moon. Many, long and sharp and ready to impale her. I'm going too fast!
Crunch.
She crashes down on a bush-like, red coral. Its spines tear holes in the legs of her pants and wisps of blood curl up from raw scrapes. It's not enough: the spines crack — she falls, unhindered to the ground below. The entire exhibit shudders; her body tumbles over sharp rock and she skids to rest on her dislocated shoulder.
Bruised and broken.
No fish are around — spooked by the noise. Avery plants a palm on shifting, crackling substrate; gravel and crushed coral dig into her skin. She tries to plant her left palm beside her right, but her shoulder screams at the slightest movement. She winces.
We have to call someone.
Avery pushes herself up to her knees, trying to keep her left arm pinned to her side. As she shifts, it doesn't matter. Lightening shoot down her limb to constant agony.
She screams, pushing against the gravel. Giant bubbles tumble away from her open mouth. Until she's there: finally up on all working threes. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. One more push. That's it.
A moray eel slithers by, brushing over one of Avery's legs. Long, slick, and cold. The feeling sends a shiver up her spine and leaves her skin feeling slimy.
It's going to kill us, punch it.
Instead of sitting with the urge, Avery raises her knees one by one to rest on the balls of her feet. They're not an it... And they're not going to kill me.
Some gravel and bits of coral tumble away from her knees, drifting toward the ground. The rest cling to shallow burrows in her skin.
Punch it.
With a water-muffled groan and a burst of bubbles, she does an awkward, one-handed shove and shimmies her feet closer to underneath her. Her hand leaves the ground; she straightens up to finally stand. Legs tremble under her weight, but — despite being the bleeding mess they are — they don't give. She slaps the pockets of her pajama pants, forgetting they don't even have them. Where's my phone?
In her jacket, of course. Where's that, though? Urgency creeps into her breathing and she casts her head about wildly.
There. Navy fabric waves within the water's current, pierced through by a jagged, red spear. The remnants of the coral that almost broke her fall somehow still affixed to the crag it calls home.
Panic, adrenaline; whatever it is, it forces her forward despite the pain. She stumbles over to the jacket and rips it down. Its fabric tears, leaving it in nearly two pieces — only connected by a handful of threads.
She digs around in the pocket she can reach. Inside, her fingers brush against the familiar, glossy brick. Oh, thank god. She finagles it out of the pocket, only losing her grip once.
At the top of the phone's display, a blue light pulses every few seconds. A notification. And it hasn't shorted out, or whatever electronics in water tend to do.
Will it still work if I unlock it?
Fire burns deep inside Avery's head; no sleep, all the recent stress, overexerting herself. Using her power as granularly as she is now too. It's all weighing down her thoughts — keeping them murky and imprecise. She looks up to the surface, trying to judge the distance. What did that ad say about the phone being water tight? Up to thirty feet?
There's a figure at the precipice of the diver's platform. Under his sweat laden pompadour, the man looms over her. It's an odd feeling. An intense uneasiness that makes her stomach churn amid a heart-hammering fear. Like she's being watched, but the watcher already has a sword at her throat. He taps on his phone a few times and brings it up to his ear.
She does the same. With a trembling finger, thumb, and a silent prayer that the phone doesn't immediately short circuit, she clicks the screen on. It burns to life and the waiting notification slides into view.
Mom: Where are you at, honey? Work ran late and —
Only the start of the message, but enough to cause guilt to join the cacophony of emotions inside her. She hovers a finger over the notification. I don't have time, sorry mom...
Calling up the number pad, she taps in nine-one-one; the receiver starts ringing.
She whips her head up and — at that moment — the two of them lock eyes. His blue eyes still pierce through all the water between him and her, and his lips curl into a frown. He's talking. Other than his lips, his face barely moves. Locked in a foreboding expression.
Avery chews on her bottom lip; each new ring from the receiver spurns a new thought. She's never had to call in an emergency before. What if I'm overreacting? What if I pass out before they get here? What if I pass out before they even answer?
Shifting clouds reveal the entirety of the moon's waning crescent. Past the pyramidal skylights, it hangs near his head. Brilliant beams of moonlight drown out Avery's sight. Everything, except for the man and his eyes. Eyes that pierce through overwhelming light and the shadowy tug of unconsciousness alike. The eyes of a cold death set to see her to her end, either by his own hands or by watching her slowly drown at the bottom of this tank.
He slips the phone into his pocket and climbs up from the diver platform. Up the ladder and gone. Just like that. She stares at the spot his last foot slipped past the concrete edge. What? What's he doing?
The receiver crackles and a woman's voice comes through. "Nine-one-one, what's the emergency?"
Avery forgot the thing was still ringing. Water swallows up her voice and it reaches the phone in a distorted, burbling hum. "Uhm — Sorry. There are people here trying to hurt me. I'm in a safe spot, but one just walked off. I've got no idea what he's doing."
"Excuse me? I can't hear you."
Avery cups her dislocated arm's hand over the receiver. "I — gah! — I'm at the aquarium and there are people trying to kill me."
A bored tone tints the dispatcher's voice. "Which aquarium?"
"Cordia."
"There are two aquariums in Cordia, which one?"
"The Cordia Aquarium! Please, hurry. One of the guys just left to do something. I don't know what. He was talking to some other people on his phone, then he disappeared."
The dispatcher rolls her eyes — her voice makes that clear. "Okay. Have you seen any of the others? What do they look like?"
"Just the one: he has a blonde pompadour and coveralls. Is that enough?"
Some keyboard clacks come through the receiver. "Plenty."
"So you're sending people? When will they be here?" Another jolt of pain shoots through Avery's shoulder. She lets out a sound: part gasp, part hiss. "Tssha — can you send an ambulance too? My shoulder is messed up."
"Five minutes? I'm not really sure. You know that you'll be in big trouble if this isn't a real emergency, right?"
Frustration melts the ice still clinging to Avery's bones. "I'm not lying! Why would you think that?"
"People trying to kill you at an aquarium? It's pretty unlikely."
"Are you sending the police or not?"
"Yeah. Making conversation, now. I'm kind of just killing time until the next call comes in."
Avery slaps her thumb down onto the red disconnect circle. The receiver clicks off. "What is with tonight." She says, water distorting her voice again and bubbles tumbling out.
