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Walking is hard.
There’s this weird kind of balance you have to keep when you walk on two legs– a forward and backwards motion at the same time, a center of gravity that is inconveniently high off the ground. Falling down is inevitable, and that only leads to injury. Not to mention knees. Knees are stupid and knobby and awful, and so easy to bump into things.
Tommy hates legs. He hates them so much.
But, they’re crucial right now. Unfortunately. Because if Tommy was normal and had his tail, he wouldn’t be able to get away from the weird humans in dark masks and jackets who come and peer at him through the glass of his tank.
Tank. Ugh! The word tastes sour in his mouth as he peers over his shoulder to say goodbye to it, glowering at the smudged glass and the tiny sand bottom. There weren’t even any rocks for him to hide behind or sleep on. Just sand that stirred up at the tiniest of movement and made it hard to breathe, clogging his gills and scales and just generally being awful. Clearly, these humans didn’t care about him.
Based on the way they looked at him like they wanted to cut him up into tiny pieces, he had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t supposed to be around very much longer.
The warehouse is big, and dark, his tank lit up brightly in the center of it. Tommy hated the artificial suns– big shining beacons of light, pointed at him 24/7. He barely got any sleep, barely ate, he got sand perpetually in his gills and it sucked.
It had taken three days for him to try and kill himself before the humans could do it.
He’d wormed his way out of the top of the tank– someone hadn’t properly fixed it to the top tonight, lax on their duty. Maybe it was because Tommy had been so lethargic, waiting for an opportunity, saving his strength for when it mattered. Maybe it was because a screw had come loose and he was just lucky. Regardless, Tommy had wiggled his way out of the tank and flopped to the ground behind it, expecting to die. Someone would come along and shoot him with a harpoon gun, or a regular gun, and that’d be that. He’d be sushi.
Instead, though, he’d just laid there. He had a set of humanish lungs, ones that let him breathe as his scales started to dry out and get itchy. He’d wiggled on the concrete a bit, but that had just scraped him up and left stray scales everywhere, so he’d just stayed on the floor, exhausted, and waited.
And then once he was completely dry– his tail had split . Into two.
And then he had legs.
So now he’s here, at the door, staring outside and clutching the door frame with two shaking, terrifyingly human hands as he looks up at the moon. He’s dry and he’s human, legs scraped up from the hard concrete floor and the disastrous first attempt at walking.
Fuck walking. He hates it. But it’s necessary, and he’s so close to freedom now. The night air is chilly and nips at his nose, but the water in the ocean has always been colder than any air he’s ever felt, so hesitantly, Tommy staggers out into the moonlight.
Finger by finger, he lets go of the warehouse door.
No one comes after him.
He wants to whoop triumphantly, wants to grin and sing and dance, but he’s got all new limbs and a heavy set of lungs and he’s fighting to stay upright right now. Like a baby deer, he shuffles forward, long limbs awkward and uncoordinated as he looks around. He’s in some kind of an alleyway, he thinks– there are big metal buckets(?) painted blue and puddles lying around that he avoids. He thinks if he gets wet again, he’ll get his tail back. And while that is preferable, he needs to be at the ocean for it to be remotely helpful. So he sidesteps the dirty puddles of water and carefully, with bare feet, makes his way through the alley and towards some yellow light at the other side. At one point sharp, stinging pain echoes up his legs and he’s unfamiliar with the sensation– he stops and balances against a wall, lifting his feet only to find awful green glass stuck in the bottom of his new appendages. Red blood leaks out from the wounds, and he winces as he picks the glass from them before trudging onwards. The pain is easy to ignore when he sets his mind out to it– all he has to do is think about a harpoon impaling him and he’s good to go, right as rain, move Tommy get out of here run run run–
He can’t run. Any attempt sends him to the ground, and he gathers up an impressive collection of scrapes and bruises up each arm. His legs are mangled.
He ends up on a road. He knows what a road is, what it means– cars and trucks and humans. More humans.
Tommy hates humans.
They’re so mean. They throw trash on the beach and they kill his people and they take mer from the sea and bring them up on land and eat them. Or sell their bits.
He refuses to let that happen to him. So, with care, Tommy shuffles down the road a little bit and painstakingly starts to make his way down and away from the lights of some kind of town, or something. Darkness is better. Darkness means ocean, maybe.
He can smell the salt on the wind. It has to be nearby, but he has no idea which direction.
He walks for hours.
With practice comes perfection– or at least, something more acceptable than falling down every three or so steps. His stride becomes more confident, and Tommy finds that walking as a human is actually quite alright. It’s not swimming, it’s not his tail flicking and finding currents to ride on, fins outstretched, but it’s not the torture he was expecting, either.
His feet do hurt, though. When he looks behind him at some point, he can make out dark stains on the concrete where his new feet and their blood had smeared. He wrinkles his nose– he can smell himself on the wind, the scent of his own blood and it makes him acutely aware of his wounds and the pain echoing up his limbs.
Tommy has to ignore it though. He needs to get back to the ocean, so he keeps walking and hopes it’s the right direction.
The road disappears behind him. Trees loom ahead of him– they’re tall, and they remind him of the kelp forests below the sea. Trees are sturdy, though. He finds this out when he stumbles into one, expecting it to move with him like kelp does, but it stays firmly upright and Tommy gains a new bruise on his forehead.
Despite that unfortunate encounter, Tommy kind of likes the trees. They rustle like the ocean, white noise that fills his ears and makes him grin. He tries whistling at them in return, but something has changed in his throat and made it hard for him to whistle like he can when he has his tail, so he settles for a low, steady thrum in his chest instead. The trees rustle back.
He walks, and walks, and walks.
There’s light filtering through the leaves when he finally sees something. In front of him, the trees break, the sunrise just peeking over the horizon and allowing him some freedom of vision as he squints ahead. The trees break into a clearing, which has some wooden thing in it. Like a boat, but on land? And way more square– it’s like the warehouse Tommy had been in, but smaller and more cozy-looking. There’s metal bits hanging off of the top of it that clang against each other and echo through the trees, chiming gently in the morning mist. When he steps out from the trees, the grass below his feet is soft and green and dewy, sticking to his skin even when he lifts his new feet up and off of it.
Grass isn’t like concrete. It’s gentle and cool, and Tommy happily sits, staring at the big not-warehouse in front of him. He hums again, and the trees whistle back.
He needs to get to the ocean. A not-warehouse means there are surely humans around, but he’s so tired. His eyes droop.
Tommy can’t sleep. He needs to keep walking on his brand-new feet and get back home. He has to. He…
He falls asleep in the grass as the morning sun rises, bloody and bruised and exhausted.
“–call the cops.”
Tommy’s face pinches together. Eugh.
“I don’t know, Wil–”
The sounds around him come through fuzzy, like his ears are underwater again. Tommy scrunches his face and turns it downwards, expecting to get a mouthful of sand in return. He hates it, but it’s better than opening his eyes and seeing the shadowy outlines of men in black jackets ogling at him through the glass. He can just lie here in the water and on the sand and pretend he’s home in the ocean, waiting for a crab or something to come by and pinch him awake.
Instead of sand, though, he gets a mouthful of something soft and fuzzy. Fibers stick to his lips and tongue and he immediately leans back, trying to get it out of his mouth. He spits and makes a noise, lifting his head and feeling weirdly light. There’s no water around him– just air.
Shit. Fuck. His legs!
He opens his eyes and immediately shuts them again.
Shit, it’s bright out.
“Oh fuck, Phil, he’s awake–” The voices filter through his ears again and they’re louder now, more clear. Tommy knows English, can understand just fine what they’re saying, but that doesn’t mean he wants to. He raises his arms and clamps his hands over his ears firmly, keeping his eyes squeezed shut.
Humans found him again. They’re gonna kill him.
He waits. Tommy waits for the cold feeling of a harpoon against his forehead or chest, for someone to rip his arms away from his head and pin them behind his back. He waits for a hand to grip his hair so tightly it makes him scream, but none of that happens.
He feels warm. There’s something heavy over his legs and half of his chest, keeping them all covered. Nobody touches him. Nobody seems to say anything else. The room is quiet.
Hesitantly, Tommy cracks open one eye.
It’s so, so bright. That’s the first thing he notices. The second is the color of the walls– they’re a pale blue, like the ocean down where it’s warm and where sometimes, Tommy sits and watches humans come out with glass-bottomed boats and ogle at the fish. The blue reminds him of home, and all of the sudden, his chest aches like someone’s shoved their fist into it and squeezed his heart with their fingers.
The third thing he notices is the human.
It’s sitting across from him on a chair– Tommy knows the word for that because he found one once, under the water. Plastic, with one leg broken. He’d sat in it and pretended to be human for a while, before letting it float away.
This chair isn’t plastic. It’s soft cloth instead, and there’s a matching one to the right. The human sitting in the chair is leaning forward towards him, yellow hair like Tommy’s own, bright blue eyes that match the walls. Behind him is a weird shelf thing with– are those books? Tommy’s gaze flicks back and forth between the man and the books, and then, down at himself.
He’s lying on a big chair. It’s longer than any chair he’s even seen before. There’s a big piece of fuzzy cloth on top of him, and when he hesitantly lifts it up, he finds two legs beneath it. His legs.
“Hi, mate,” the human says, and Tommy snaps back to him, staring with wide eyes. Is this it? “How’re you feeling?”
Like shit, Tommy can’t say. He just sits there and stares. When’s it coming? When will the human realize?
When he doesn’t answer, the human’s face twists and he leans back, inhaling and then exhaling, long and slow. “You okay?” he asks.
Tommy blinks, and then nods, once. His feet don’t really hurt anymore, which is a plus. When he looks down at his arms, he finds little pieces of colorful something over each cut he’d inflicted upon himself while escaping. He raises a hand to one and picks at it– it lifts off his skin and hurts.
“Woah, woah, hold on,” the human says and he leans forward at the same time, and the weird sticky thing hurt Tommy and the human put it on him so clearly the human is going to kill him–
Tommy reels backwards, opens his mouth, and tries to scream.
Nothing comes out.
Instead, it’s a rasp, low and harsh and grating. He cowers back from the human and hides his face like maybe it’ll help. Maybe the human won’t hurt him with the sticky things anymore.
“It’s okay,” the human is saying. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Liar. He already did.
“Those are to keep you safe, you shouldn’t– don’t pick at them, okay?”
Tommy blinks one eye open. The human is back in his chair, looking very pinched and upset.
“It’s okay,” the human says again, gentle and soft. He reminds Tommy of the grass outside. “You’re alright, mate. Banged up, but alive.”
Alive. Tommy is alive.
Without meaning to, he tears up.
“What’s your name?” the human asks him, and Tommy can’t say anything, he can’t make his weird human vocal chords work, so he just shakes his head and hides his face in his elbow, the weird plastic things covering up the smell of his own blood.
“That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” the human says. “I’m Phil. You were in my backyard. How’d you get there?”
Again, Tommy just shakes his head. The human– Phil– sighs.
“Your feet were pretty cut up,” he continues. “We put some bandaids on them, and cleaned them up for you. I used to be a volunteer EMT, so I think I did a pretty good job. Don’t pick at them though, okay?”
The plastic things are bandaids? Weird. Tommy lowers his arm and finds the human looking at him. He’s not sure what an EMT is, but Phil says it like it means something, so he just nods, once. Phil looks delighted at the response. Tommy plans on getting the strange bandaids off his skin as soon as possible, but that’s for him to know and Phil to find out.
“How’d you end up in the forest, bud?” Phil asks, and then it hits Tommy.
Phil, a human, thinks Tommy is a human. Tommy has legs. Tommy has no gills, no fins, no scales. Tommy looks like a human!
This is perfect. He’ll keep up the facade and get out of here and go to the ocean, and they’ll never know. In response to the question aimed at him, Tommy just shrugs a little bit. Phil does that inhale-big-exhale thing again, this time through his nose.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. That’s alright. Are you hungry?”
Starving. The mere thought of food sends Tommy’s stomach grumbling, but he just shakes his head. Phil raises a brow.
“I can hear your stomach from here,” he says. “It’s okay, we have food.”
Tommy wants fish. Oh, he wants fish so bad. After a second of hesitating, he finally gives a little nod. Sure, the humans can feed him. He’ll need it if he’s gonna keep walking and get to the ocean. Strength, and shit. He’s a big man and all, but every big man’s gotta eat.
“Awesome,” Phil says, beaming. Tommy squints in the pure radiance of his smile, and squirms back into the Very Long Chair as Phil moves and gets up. He’s graceful on his feet, unlike Tommy’s own stumbling, which is to be expected. Phil is human, Tommy is not. But Tommy needs to prove he’s human and that means walking, so as Phil starts towards an opening in the wall, Tommy pushes the big fabric square off of his legs and swings them over to land on the floor. His feet thump, covered in white stuff– more bandaids, then. He scowls at them, but he’ll get them off later. For now, he moves to stand.
“Woah, woah woah woah,” Phil says, and suddenly the human is in front of him and touching him. Tommy immediately reels backwards, falling onto the Very Long Chair with an oof. “You stay here,” Phil says firmly. “Your feet are seriously a mess. Just sit. I’ll get the food.”
Tommy needs to prove he’s human though. He can walk! But as he sits he realizes his feet actually do hurt, especially when he tries to stand up again. They ache, and with a huff he sits, Phil watching him with a small, sad smile.
“Just hang out here,” Phil tells him, and so Tommy leans back into the couch and crosses his arms. He watches the man disappear into the opening, and stares at it, waiting for him to come back with some fish. Or maybe oysters. Tommy would kill for some oysters right now.
As he’s staring, a head pops into the opening. For a second Tommy thinks it’s Phil again, but this human is different. He’s got brown hair that curls and is long in the front, dark eyes. He’s staring at Tommy with endless curiosity, and Tommy in turn hides his face again.
One human he can deal with. Two? No thanks.
“Hey,” a voice says, and this one is new. “You’re up.”
Yes, he is. No, he will not be looking at the human. He hears footsteps enter the room and his entire body stiffens up. Tommy shoves his face harder into his elbow, like maybe the human will get the hint.
“Dad says you’re not talking,” the new human says. “Can you write? I brought a pen and paper.”
Tommy cannot write. He stays hidden. The human crinkles something, and then inhales-big-exhales again.
“My name’s Wilbur,” he says, changing the topic. Tommy fights the urge to roll his eyes. Great. Another named human. “I helped fix your feet up. They were awful– what did you do, step in glass?”
Actually, yes. Tommy hesitates, and then briefly nods.
“Oh.” The human sounds… sad. It makes Tommy lift his head up from his elbow again and he finds Wilbur looking at him from above. He’s just standing there in the middle of the room, shoving it in Tommy’s face that no, not only does he have two legs of his own, but he’s actually good at using them. What a prick. Tommy scowls. “What?” Wilbur asks. “Are you, like, okay?”
Tommy takes stock of himself. Yeah, he’s fine, as long as he stays away from water and gets to the ocean.
“Wilbur!” The Phil-human is back, this time with a plate in front of him and things piled on the plate. It’s a lump of yellow stuff, and Tommy gleefully recognizes it as urchin. He’s not the biggest fan, but he’ll take what he can get! Wilbur whips around and ignores Phil as he steps past, grimacing a little bit. “I told you to leave him alone.”
“Yeah, right,” Wilbur says. “Mysterious kid shows up in our yard, I am not just letting that sit.”
“He’s not mysterious,” Phil says, placing the plate in Tommy’s lap. Tommy… has never eaten food outside of water before. This is going to be interesting.
Phil hands him a weird metal prong, too. Assumedly to eat the food with. Yeah, no thanks. He sets it down by his side– he’ll use his fingers instead. The urchin is warm when he grabs a piece, and not as slimy as usual, but that makes sense. Phil prepared it in the air, not the water. Tommy brings the urchin up to his mouth and pops it in.
The yellow is not urchin. He spits it out instantly, the lump falling from his mouth to the cloth covering his legs. It lies there as Tommy rubs his mouth with one arm, screwing his face up in displeasure.
“Uh–” Wilbur says, and Phil is kneeling by the Very Long Chair in a heartbeat.
“You okay?” Phil asks, and Tommy scowls at him, shoving the plate back. Whatever this is, he does not want it. “Do you not like eggs, mate?”
Eggs? Like fish eggs? These aren’t fish eggs– humans are fucking bonkers. Tommy stubbornly shoves the plate back into Phil’s hands.
“Did you see that?” Wilbur asks, and his voice is amused. “He just threw the fork aside!”
“Wil,” Phil says warningly. “I– okay. It’s okay, kid. Just– you don’t have to eat these.” He sets the plate aside. “Is there something you like? Toast? Bacon? I have some yogurt, I think.” Tommy recognizes none of these names. He shakes his head at each suggestion. Phil’s face scrunches up.
“Just let him raid the fridge,” Wilbur suggests. He sounds a bit gleeful, like he’s curious as to what Tommy will do. Tommy’s not sure what a fridge is, so he’s curious too.
“Jesus,” Phil murmurs, and Tommy’s stomach grumbles again. Wilbur is watching him, and Tommy is watching both him and Phil and eyeing the plate of not-fish-eggs again. After a second, he just sighs, and reaches to grab another piece and try it again. Clearly, these idiots don’t have fish.
“Wait–” Wilbur is next to him in a second as well, and Tommy startles so badly he nearly knocks the plate out of Phil’s grasp.
“Careful,” Phil warns. Wilbur just grabs the metal prong and holds it out for Tommy.
“Use this,” he says. Tommy glances at it, then the food, and then reaches out with his fingers. Wilbur shakes his head and clumsily hands him the prong, Tommy scowling. “It’s a fork, dumbass. Use it.”
In response, Tommy chucks the “fork” at the wall. It clangs against the blue and then falls to the floor.
“Just let him eat,” Phil says, and Wilbur steps back.
The eggs… aren’t as bad on the second try as they were on the first. This time, Tommy’s not expecting urchin, so when he pops a piece of yellow into his mouth, he takes a second and actually tries it. It’s kind of bland and salty, but not as much as urchin. It’s softer, too, breaking apart between his teeth and tongue and making his whole mouth feel warm. After a second, he reaches out and takes some more.
He finishes the rest of the plate in under a minute. He’s changed his mind– eggs are good .
While he cleans off his fingers, he looks up. Phil and Wilbur are staring at him with wide eyes, and slowly, Tommy lets his hand drop from his mouth. Did he do something wrong? Are they mad at him? But after a second, Phil just shuts his eyes and opens them again.
“Okay,” he says, like it hurts to say it. “Okay.”
And then Wilbur starts laughing. Tommy knows it’s at him– he must’ve done something wrong, because Wilbur is laughing and trying to hide it behind his hand but Tommy can hear it. He scowls at the human and tries to gnash sharp teeth at him, but his human teeth are blunt and awful. Wilbur just snickers harder, and Phil stands up.
“Wilbur,” he says sharply, in a tone that has Tommy flinching backwards. “Enough. Go upstairs.”
“Dad, he–”
“I said, enough.” Phil sounds mad. Tommy shrinks back into the couch and watches as Wilbur also seems to deflate, sinking in on himself and shrugging his shoulders. “Fucking apologize, and then go upstairs. Are you kidding me?”
“Christ,” Wilbur mutters, and Tommy glares at him. “I’m sorry,” the human says– to Tommy.
Huh.
He just stares back, and eventually, Wilbur turns on his heel and leaves the room. Phil watches him go before turning back to Tommy, eyes unreadable. Tommy waits for his reprimand– but nothing comes. Phil just forces a smile at him.
“Wait here,” he says gently. “I’m gonna go put this away.”
And then he’s alone.
Okay. He needs to get out of this weird not-warehouse. He’s gotten food, the humans have helped him, that’s great. Now he needs to get out before they put him in a tank and get back to the ocean. Tommy is quick to stagger onto his feet, wincing at the bolts of pain that jolt up into his torso as he does. Doesn’t matter– he needs to go. Every inch of the room is appealing to him, begging for him to get his hands on it and tuck it into a pocket or a bag and bring it with him, but Tommy doesn’t have time for pilfering. He’s gotta go.
On wobbling legs, he staggers towards the opening in the wall. Hopefully, Phil won’t come back and stop him.
He gets out into… another room? What is it with humans and weird twisty cave-rooms? This one is long and narrow instead of open and square, and down at one end Tommy can hear the sound of water splashing and something clinking. That’s where Phil is, he bets, so he stumbles in the other direction. Here, there’s a big rectangle in the wall with a clear part in the middle. When Tommy presses his face to it, he can see green and blue. Outside! Hah!
How does he get there.
Stumped, Tommy taps on the glass in the middle of the rectangle. It doesn’t move. He stretches up and prods at the top of the rectangle, like maybe the top will come off like a tank, but it doesn’t move. Then he finds a weird metal part that moves when he puts his hand on it, so he tries that next. To his delight, the weird rectangle swings inwards, towards him, and outside becomes clear and visible.
Success! Tommy grins, taking another shaky step forward.
“What’re you doing?” A new voice. Deep and drawling, it sounds utterly disinterested, but when Tommy startles and turns so fast he nearly falls over, he finds a third human standing above him. They’re on some sort of weird bumpy floor that goes up, and it means they loom a good couple feet above him. Pink hair is pulled back on top of their head, strands escaping down the sides. They’ve got glass on their face. Tommy squeaks.
“Techno?” Phil’s voice filters through the long room. “What is it?”
“Kid’s trying to leave,” the new human says, taking a couple steps down the bumpy floor and ending up right in front of Tommy. Tommy thinks about bolting, but he doesn’t think he’d get very far.
“What?!” In a flurry of motion, Phil appears. His sleeves are rolled up, his fingers wet. Tommy’s eyes widen at the sight– oh no, he can’t get wet, can’t get his tail back, so when Phil reaches out for him, Tommy flinches and ducks backwards. It gets Phil to stop, hands splayed out in surrender. “Mate, it’s okay, you don’t– you shouldn’t leave, alright? You’re hurt.”
Yeah, and he needs to get back to the ocean. Phil is so dumb. Tommy scowls at him, and takes a step back. The new human is watching him closely, though, so Tommy can’t exactly run here.
“Just come back to the living room,” Phil says gently, like he’s trying to persuade a shark to follow him home for pets. “Sit down, relax. We’re going to get you some help, okay?”
Hah, yeah right. Humans are not helpful. Tommy squeezes his lips together and then swallows hard.
“What’s your name?” the new human asks.
“Techno,” Phil scolds. Ah. Right. Techno is the third one.
“What?” Techno asks, looking over at the other. “I was just askin’.”
“He can’t talk.” And there’s the third human, Wilbur. He’s all the way at the top of the bumpy floor, looking down at all three of them. Phil and Techno look over their shoulders at him at the same time, and suddenly, Tommy sees his chance.
He’s not good at walking or running, but he can sure as hell try. With little hesitation, he flings himself backwards and through the rectangle, outside in a heartbeat. There’s wood under his feet and he races for the grass, wobbling all over the place as he eyes the treeline, if he can make it there–
The floor disappears under his feet and he’s sent sprawling on the ground. Thankfully, it’s grass, so it doesn’t hurt, but Tommy feels just a little personally betrayed by the ground as he tumbles, landing on his back with a huff. There’d been a ledge, apparently, and he hadn’t seen it. He scowls, shifting to push himself up, but Phil is already following him out into the sun and kneeling at his side.
His hand is warm on Tommy’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Phil is saying, as Wilbur shouts something else and the other one, Techno stays quiet. “Okay, come on, inside–”
He ends up back on the Very Long Chair. Wilbur calls it a couch. Tommy wishes he could call him a bitch, but his throat still isn’t working. So he settles for a glare instead, watching all three humans as they discuss what to do with him.
“This is so stupid,” Techno is saying. “We’re going to get arrested for kidnapping.”
“Look at the kid,” Phil says back. “He can hardly walk. He can’t talk. He can’t– do anything.”
Well, excuse him. Tommy is a very good swimmer, actually.
“Which is why we should help!” Wilbur says happily. Tommy scowls harder at him. He doesn’t need help. “He can stay with us. Dad, you know that guy from foster, Techno’s case worker–”
Tommy stomps one foot on the ground, and then immediately regrets it. While he curls up in a state of mild pain, Phil disappears for a moment, and then reappears with a glass of water and a small red thing. He shows Tommy how to put it in his mouth and swallow, and explains it’ll help his feet feel better. Tommy takes it. (He’s careful with the glass of water, making sure not to spill a single drop.)
“Did you have something to say?” Phil asks, once that whole debacle has settled. Tommy nods, blinking at all three of them.
“He can’t talk,” Techno says dryly. “You’re so insensitive.”
“I will feed you to my birds,” Phil tells him with a diabolical smile, and Tommy blinks again. Wilbur slaps Techno on the arm.
“Let him communicate,” Wilbur snaps. All three of them go quiet, and Tommy swallows. He can’t talk. He can’t communicate, theoretically. After a second, Wilbur pipes up again. “How about this?” he asks. “Hold up one finger for yes, two for no, three for I don’t know. I’ll ask you questions.”
That works. Tommy holds up one finger. Wilbur grins.
“Okay,” he says. “Do you have a name?”
One finger.
“Can you tell us?”
Three fingers.
“Why can’t you talk?”
Three fingers.
“Do you want to go back where you came from?”
Two fingers. Very insistently, two fingers.
“Is there somewhere you want to go?”
One finger. Again, very insistent. All three humans exchange a look.
“Do you know where that is?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy bites his lip. Then, he holds up one finger, then three, and wobbles his hand. “Kind of?” One finger.
“Do you have any family?” Phil pipes up. Tommy sits there for a second, then raises a second finger. The three humans go quiet again.
“Do you want us to call the police?” Wilbur asks. Tommy isn’t quite sure what the police are, so to be safe, he keeps his two fingers up and shakes his head for good measure. “There we have it,” Wilbur says, leaning back in his seat. “He can stay here.”
“No he can’t,” Techno says, looking at the other human. “Wilbur, he’s–”
Tommy waves his hands around and then points to Wilbur. They watch him carefully, and then he raises one finger.
“Yes?” Wilbur asks. Tommy nods. “To what? You staying here?” Tommy nods again. Yes! He wants to stay here, doesn’t want any other humans getting involved– then, when the moon comes out again, he can run and find the ocean. It’s a perfect plan.
“Well fuck,” Phil mutters, scratching his chin.
“Do not tell me you’re considerin’ it,” Techno says.
“Look,” Phil says. “It’s been a very exciting day. We can call the cops tomorrow and figure this out. For now, kiddo here is still hurt, he’s not going anywhere.”
“We live in the middle of nowhere,” Wilbur pipes up. “The cops will take forever to show up anyways.”
“I cannot believe you two!” Techno says. Tommy grins at him, and then sticks his tongue out. Techno gapes at him. Wilbur absolutely howls with laughter, and if Tommy could, he’d be laughing too. In his case, he just lets out little puffs of amused air.
“Tomorrow,” Phil says placatingly. “Tomorrow, Techno. It’s okay. He’s safe now.”
And weirdly enough, Tommy kind of believes him.
They show him the “guest bedroom.”
Tommy’s not sure what a bedroom is, but he has to have help getting up the stairs– the bumpy floor is called stairs, imagine that! Wilbur is the one that helps him up, Techno in front and Phil trailing behind. He’s never climbed stairs before. It’s very hard, but the railing is helpful even though Wilbur calls him a pussy for using it so much. Tommy just hits him when they get to the top, and considers them both even.
(The stairs are an issue for leaving tonight, but he thinks if he sits and scoots, he can make it down himself without issue.)
The guest bedroom is a pale green color, a big “window” in the wall showing the grass and trees, and a flat rectangle of soft cloth in the middle. Tommy lies on it, and swears he’s never felt anything so soft in his life. There’s another opening in the wall that leads to a tiny room with some hanging fabric in it, which Phil calls “jackets.” There’s a “dresser” and a “desk” and so many new things with words that Tommy is having a hard time remembering all of them.
There’s a bookshelf, too. Tommy knows what books are– he even has one! Had one. He had one in his bag, the pages clumped together and ink running. He’s surprised to find these books have a bunch of pages, not just one big clumpy one, and the ink is formed into small lines. He sits there with one in his lap and runs his fingers over it, staring down at the lines, mesmerized.
“Do you think he can read?” Techno asks Wilbur. Tommy is pointedly ignoring them both as they sit on the “bed.” Phil disappeared about twenty minutes ago.
“Shh,” Wilbur says. He’s been watching Tommy with starry eyes this whole time as he’s explored, poking at things and wobbling around the room on his shitty human feet. “He’s figuring things out.”
“I mean, if he can’t read, he looks like, what, thirteen? That’s pretty concernin’–”
“We can deal with it when Sam comes,” Wilbur hisses, and Tommy glances up at that. Who’s Sam? Another human? Good thing he won’t be around tomorrow when this so-called Sam comes to visit. He scowls at the two humans on the bed. Techno scowls back. Wilbur just meets his eyes with a brilliant grin. It shifts as they look at each other, and Wilbur gasps. “Oh! I want to show him my guitar!”
Guitar? Tommy watches as Wilbur flings himself off the bed and disappears out of the guest bedroom, leaving him and Techno alone. He looks at Techno next, who eyes Tommy with distrust.
“I don’t like you,” Techno tells him warily. Tommy grins at him, all teeth.
Wilbur returns within the minute, a weird wooden thing in his hands. It’s long and has metal bits on the end, strings looping down across the front. Tommy reaches out for it, but Wilbur shakes his head and keeps it in his own grasp.
“No, watch,” he says, settling on the bed with the wooden thing in his lap. “This is my guitar.”
There’s that word again, guitar. It must be the name for the wooden thing. Techno even looks mildly pleased as Wilbur takes a breath, and then strums one hand downwards against the metal bits and string.
Tommy is enthralled.
It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before. It reminds him of whalesong, mournful in the distance, echoing through the depths of the oceans and calling mer home. It’s wonderful. It’s the saddest thing Tommy’s ever heard. Wilbur plucks at the strings of his guitar and it’s beautiful . The sound reaches into Tommy’s heart and holds it, cradling it gently and comforting every part of him– it’s as if the pain in his arms and legs goes away in an instant, soothed by the presence of the noise.
Tommy sits entirely still the whole time Wilbur makes the sound happen. When he takes his hand away from the guitar, it stops.
“Like it?” Wilbur asks. Tommy blinks at him, then throws himself up onto the bed beside Techno, who flinches, but shifts to make room for him. Tommy frantically holds up one finger– yes . Yes, he liked it. “Want me to play more?” Wilbur asks, a spark glinting in his eyes.
Another frantic finger. Yes, yes, yes, Tommy wants him to play more .
“Really?” Techno mutters, but he doesn’t even sound upset. More like he’s complaining just to complain, and Wilbur shoots them both a grin as Tommy leans on the bed and cups his chin in his hands. He shuts his eyes this time when Wilbur plays, imagining the crashing of ocean waves as he listens. It’s beautiful.
Maybe humans aren’t all that bad.
Tommy is supposed to be leaving.
Night has fallen– the moon is high in the sky, but he’s having a hard time convincing himself to leave. Phil had given them all food, earlier– on plates, with the same metal prong as before. He’d tried to use it this time, copying what Wilbur and Techno had done at the table as he’d sat in a human seat and ate human food. It was all just so interesting– and they were nice, these humans. Phil patiently told him what was on his plate and how to eat it. Wilbur helped him figure out the fork, and Techno even leaned over and picked up the miniature green trees for him when Tommy dropped a couple on the floor.
He misses the worried looks Phil gives him whenever his back is turned, and the quiet knowing ones passed between all three humans. He’s too enamored with their life to worry about them now, and with Techno and Wilbur as his entourage, he explores the rest of the “house.” Apparently it’s not a warehouse, just a regular house, and Wilbur shows Tommy all sorts of things. Their pantry, the porch, the wind chimes. He shows him Wilbur and Techno’s rooms, and then Phil’s room, and the bathroom. (Tommy avoids the bathroom. Too much water in there.) They spend the whole evening exploring, until finally Tommy is so tired his eyes are drooping and Phil is ushering them upstairs.
Wilbur gives him a pair of sweatpants and a big soft shirt to sleep in. Tommy’s not sure why– his shorts and shirt were fine! But Wilbur insists, so Tommy drags on the weird sweatpants (it takes him a good twenty minutes) and pulls on the shirt (another ten). Eventually, he’s lying in the soft bed that Phil had shown him, staring at the window across the room. He thinks the rest of the humans are asleep– he’d watched the last bit of light under the door disappear probably ten minutes ago.
He should leave. He should get up and quietly sneak out, and go look for the ocean.
One more day can’t hurt though, right?
He wants to hear Wilbur’s guitar again. And maybe try and figure out books. And ask Phil to make him more eggs. And– he wants to learn. There’s an ache in his belly for the sea, but these humans think he’s one of them, so he’s safe for right now. They’re so nice to him, and he’s comfortable. Phil had even explained how the bandaids on his feet and arms were so he didn’t get sick.
They’re too nice. Could it be a trap?
No, Tommy thinks. No. It can’t be a trap. Doubt lingers, however, even when he thinks about all the nice things. Phil had promised nothing bad would happen to him. He believes Phil.
He’ll stay one more day. He’ll get his fill of human culture, and then tomorrow night, he’ll sneak out. Besides, tonight he’s really tired. And the bed is so soft– just as soft as the kelp back home. Tommy stares out at the bright full moon, and quietly slips into darkness.
Tomorrow comes.
Tommy wakes up in slow bouts of comfort, the warm sun sneaking over him and making him stretch lazily in its beams like a turtle. Tommy likes turtles, even though he rarely sees them. Swimming up freshwater streams is risky, and he’s only done it a couple times. But he does like turtles. He wakes up and feels good, he feels rested– the tank back in the warehouse had never let him sleep like this. Groggily, Tommy stumbles out of his bed and opens the door (look at him, using all these new words and things!) and carefully scoots down the stairs on his butt. He doesn’t trust himself yet on those.
Downstairs is mostly empty. He can hear someone in the kitchen and smell something cooking in the air, but Tommy takes this moment of time to explore on his own. The living room is empty, the couch where he’d woken up yesterday crumpled up still, and he finds himself lingering by a picture on the wall. It’s a picture of Phil, Wilbur, and Techno, although they all look a bit younger than they do now.
They’re standing on a beach, in front of the ocean.
Something in Tommy twinges.
“Wow, I feel old,” someone says quietly, and Tommy flinches, ready to wheel backwards. But when he turns it’s just Phil, raising his hands quietly in surrender with a sad sort of smile. “It’s okay, bud. Just me.”
Tommy chews on his lip. Phil smiles again at him, less sad, more… Tommy can’t tell. Something else.
“That picture was taken right when we bought the house,” Phil says casually, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. “Down at the cliffs. There’s this little path that leads right down there, and Wilbur and Techno were so happy. They were little then. Maybe about your age?” Tommy nods, although he’s not really sure how old he is. Nobody ever bothered to count, not even Tommy. “Maybe when your feet are better, we can take you down there too.” Oh no, Tommy is going to be racing down there tonight. Good to know the sea is right close by, though. “Hungry?”
Tommy nods. He is hungry, stomach rumbling, and so they both head into the kitchen. Phil gives him some sliced up meat and tells him it’s called bacon, and then Tommy mimes eating with his fingers until Phil gets the hint and starts cooking him some eggs. At this point, Wilbur stumbles downstairs, and pours himself a cup of something dark and steaming.
“No,” he says, when Tommy grabs for the cup to try it. “No coffee for kids.”
Tommy is not a kid. He pouts. Wilbur doesn’t give in though, so Tommy eats his eggs and bacon in a sullen silence. It’s good.
Techno staggers into the kitchen sometime long after Tommy has finished eating and instead started playing “knife fingers” with Wilbur. (Phil doesn’t approve of the game, but every time he turns around they stop playing, so it’s fine.)
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Phil says as Techno comes in, pouring himself a cup of the same dark liquid Wilbur had. Techno just grunts, and Wilbur snickers.
“Nice hair,” he says, and Techno just rolls his eyes. Tommy mimics the action, which makes Wilbur laugh. Tommy likes it when Wilbur laughs.
He also likes Wilbur’s guitar, so after a second he bounces up and down in his seat and starts to hum. All three of them go quiet and look up at him– Tommy smiles wider and bounces more, humming harder. He pointedly looks at Wilbur.
“Huh?” Wilbur is staring at him. “What?”
Tommy hums, and then raises his hands and mimics the weird motion Wilbur did to make the guitar sing.
“He wants you to play,” Techno translates, and Tommy nods frantically. Yes, he wants Wilbur to play! He never wants Wilbur to stop playing.
“Alright, alright,” Wilbur says, laughing quietly as he slips out of the chair. “Meet me out on the back porch, okay?” Tommy nods, getting up from his seat as well, and Phil nods as he shuffles towards the door.
“It’s okay, mate,” he says. “You can go outside.”
Hesitantly, Tommy reaches out and opens the door with the handle. There’s a second door made of weird see-through stuff that he pushes open next, glancing back. Phil nods encouragingly, so Tommy steps out gently onto the wooden space that they call a porch. It’s shady and cool still from the nighttime, but the sun has risen enough to cast rays down on the other end. He steps out onto it, eyeing the wind chimes and the forest.
“It’s so nice out,” Techno says from behind him, and Tommy jumps a little but stays where he is. Techno nudges past, going to sit on the weird set of ledges that lead down to the grass.
After a moment, Tommy follows.
They both let their feet soak in the sun for a few minutes, Tommy’s still bandaged up and Techno’s bare. Techno is holding the dark drink, eyes closed and head tilted back, so Tommy mimics the pose. They sit like that until Wilbur bangs the door and comes outside, settling on the wood and holding his guitar. Tommy is quick to scooch up next to him, watching him with wide eyes as he strums absently at the strings.
He loves it. If he leans close enough to Wilbur, he can feel the vibration in his chest from the music, and he hums along when he can. It’s amazing. He ends up pressed against Wilbur’s side, head on the human’s shoulder and one hand on the body of the guitar as Wilbur plays. He feels so perfect here, and Wilbur just smiles and says nothing. Not even when he shifts the guitar into Tommy’s lap, showing him how to hold it right and how to pluck the strings. Neither of them talk– they just let the music speak, and Tommy adores it. Techno sits with them for a while, finishing his drink and then finger-combing through his hair and tying it back from his face.
It’s so, so wonderful.
Maybe Tommy will stay another day.
He’s considering it. He’s legitimately considering it, until a different kind of vibration and noise hits his ears. He can’t place it for a second– he doesn’t understand why his heart starts racing and he flinches, why his body is sent into an automatic panic. He sits up, and Wilbur stops strumming the guitar. In the sudden silence, Tommy can hear the sound of the truck.
They’re coming to take him away .
He never should’ve trusted them. Tommy is staring at Techno and Wilbur with wide eyes as it settles in, watching them look at him with confusion. How can they look at him like that? When they were the ones that sent for the people to take him away? How did they figure out what he was, where he came from? When did they even– Phil. Phil must’ve called them. The truck noises get louder and closer and Tommy flinches, pulling away from Wilbur as his chest starts to heave up and down.
“Kid?” Wilbur asks, sounding concerned. Tommy scrambles backwards, and Techno reaches out for him– only for the door to open and Tommy nearly shrieks.
“Sam’s here,” Phil says casually, and Tommy watches as he takes in the scene. Concern crosses his face– but Tommy doesn’t have time for that.
He needs to get to the ocean.
In a flash, he’s up on his feet. He thinks he can run well enough now, and he’s had some practice walking around the house, so as much as he hates these human feet they’ll have to do as he bolts down the ledges and into the sunlit yard. He can hear shouting behind him, Wilbur, Techno, and Phil all saying something as he runs. What had Phil said? A little path down to the water, right? Tommy can smell the ocean still, and he scans the treeline. There. A tiny break in the bush, a well-worn path that starts to slope downwards as he ducks onto it. He can still hear shouting.
He doesn’t stop. He lets his human legs take him, gravity doing it’s work as he flies down the worn dirt path and weaves through trees that shrink into shrubs, into rocks, into sand. Here. Here it is. He trips more than once, ripping bandaids off his skin as he goes, and behind him he can hear rough breathing and the pounding of footsteps.
Oh, sea stars, they’re chasing him.
Fueled by adrenaline, Tommy rockets out of the brush and onto the sand. He’s not expecting it to be as slippery as it is– he slides and wobbles, his human feet nearly coming out from under him as he pants and finally, for the first time in weeks, sets his eyes on the ocean. His whole body croons, aching for it, tugging him home. He gets a grip in the sand, balances just right, and goes.
It’s a long stretch, and then the sand firms up. Seaweed tickles his toes and without hesitation, Tommy plunges himself into the waves. They’re freezing– they’re welcoming him. Behind him, someone screams, long and loud, but Tommy doesn’t care. He staggers into the water and lets it claim him.
He disappears underneath, and takes his first real breath. No more filtered water. No more air. Just him and the salt and the sand, his tail worming and twitching as he gets used to it once more. One twitch sends him rocketing out into the surf and he whistles and clicks in absolute, utter joy. He’s strong here– here, he is the king and he can run and run and run and no-one will ever catch him again. He pushes out past the tides and pauses where it gets deeper, breathing hard as his body tries to make up for the lack of air on the run down here.
Without thinking, he glances back.
His eyesight is infinitely better underwater. Nothing is fuzzy, nothing is hidden from him.
He watches two human legs stand there in the water. It quickly becomes four. Tommy scowls and flicks his tail, hiding deeper in the waves. His chest hums and thrums, and for a second, he feels bad. He misses Wilbur’s music.
He’s too far out for them to catch him– he’s sure of it. So hesitantly, after a second, Tommy pokes his head up above the waves.
He can hear him. Both of them are screaming. Not his name. They never learned his name, but they’re shouting anyway. Tommy can tell from this distance they’re wading into the water still in their pajamas, almost up to their stomachs. He watches Wilbur raise his hands to his mouth as he shouts out for Tommy. He sounds pained. He sounds wrecked and nervous and scared .
But they called the mean humans to come and get him. Didn’t they?
Are they just sad because they lost their golden ticket?
“Please,” Wilbur shouts, and Tommy catches the words over the rushing of water and waves and his own joyous freedom. “Please, please, come– come back, we didn’t–”
Hah. No way in hell.
“Kid!” Techno shouts, his low voice carrying over the water. “Kid, it’s too cold this time of year, you’ll drown!”
Tommy can’t drown. Are they stupid? They must’ve known about him, right?
“Please!” Wilbur shouts, and he sounds kind of choked up.
“I’m going in,” Techno says loudly, and Tommy’s eyes widen. No, wait. He’s human, and the water is cold this time of year for them. Wilbur clearly protests as well, but Techno is charging into the water despite that with a determined look on his face. Even after he passes the point where he can’t touch, he keeps going.
There’s a fucking riptide. This idiot.
Tommy could just let him drown. It’s going to happen if he leaves– Techno is going to be pulled out by the current. While it looks like he can swim, he can’t swim like Tommy. And they sound so sad. Wilbur is yelling for Techno now too, starting to come out into the water further.
They are both idiots. Tommy grits his teeth (so sharp now yes so sharp how wonderful ) and disappears back under the waves. It’s not hard to find Techno. He sends off splash signals like a dying fish, and so without hesitation Tommy grabs his leg with both hands, ignores his stupid wriggling, and tows him out of the riptide and back to shore. Stupid idiot probably didn’t even know there was a riptide. Tommy scowls the whole way, glancing up every once and a while to make sure he’s not drowning Techno. Maybe he pulls him under once or twice– just to scare him, you know? Revenge for calling the bad humans on Tommy. Once they get close enough to shore, Tommy lets go of his leg and waits for him to find the bottom. He prepares to bolt again, tail twitching, but as he looks up he catches Techno’s eyes from above the water.
He looks shocked. He looks like a drowned rat. Their eyes meet, and Tommy hesitates.
Techno mouths something. Tommy can’t hear it underwater, so he flicks backwards a few feet and pokes his nose and ears above the surface. They’re properly mer now, shiny and big and finny. Red, just like his tail.
Techno is gaping at him, gasping for air.
“What the heck,” he says. Wilbur’s voice is shouting in the distance. “I– kid?”
Tommy clicks at him. Techno just stands there, the water lapping around his chest. They have this standoff for a solid minute.
“We didn’t know,” Techno mutters, breaking the silence. Tommy shrinks back. He’s not sure if he believes him, but again, based on the way Techno is looking at him, maybe it’s true. He whistles at Techno. Hesitantly, Techno whistles back.
“What’s going– oh, fucking shit–” Wilbur gasps, coming up behind Techno. Tommy ducks underwater, taking another few tail lengths back from them, and then pops up again. Wilbur is staring at him with a wide-open mouth– he’s gonna catch bubbles, Tommy thinks, and then giggles. He warning-whistles at Wilbur.
“I know,” Techno mumbles.
“That’s why he was skittish,” Wilbur says quietly. Techno just swallows.
“Explains about everything else, too,” he drawls, and for some reason, Tommy laughs.
It’s silly. It’s dumb. He’s going to get out of here and never come close to shore again, but for some reason he’s clicking-hum-laughing as he flicks his tail and rattles his earfins. Wilbur and Techno are staring at him as he does and Tommy rattles them harder in his amusement, until he’s leaning back in the water and rolling over onto his belly.
“We didn’t know,” Wilbur says, and he sounds so stupid and pathetic. He looks stupid and pathetic! Both of them have their hair plastered to their faces, their clothing wet and clinging to them, and shocked expressions on their faces. “We didn’t know,” Wilbur repeats. “We thought– we thought someone was hurting you, we–” He pauses, and then wipes his face with the back of his hand. “We wanted to help.”
Of course they did. Tommy is sent into another spiral of laughter again, and ends up just floating on his back, staring up at the sun. He chirps.
Techno whistles back.
Maybe Tommy will stick around for a bit. Just a little. Maybe he’ll try and learn some human words or figure out a way to talk to them– let them know his name, for one. Maybe he’ll make sure none of them drown in the riptide, maybe he can stick around just long enough to hear Wilbur play his stupid human guitar and make whalesong. Maybe they won’t tell. It’s wishful thinking, but Tommy thinks it anyway.
Splashing interrupts his dreaming thoughts, and when he shoots upwards, there stands Phil.
“What the fuck ,” he says.