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Captive Siren ‘Vanished’

By X. P. Zloy

The Coastal Laboratory for Abnormal Wildlife Studies filed a police report which claimed the previous week a specimen under their care had gone missing—specifically, the siren known as “Specimen 9201223”. The creature had been in captivity at the Coastal Laboratory since last spring until recently. 

The report was filed by the director of CLAWS, who claims the siren had been prepared for reallocation out of the facility. The procedure was meant to be done by carrying the specimen inside a secure cargo container, which was last seen after being loaded into a transport van. Upon arrival at the destination, the container was found empty. It is unknown at which point in transit the siren vanished. 

A routine inspection was mentioned by the police report, but no further details have been released at this time. Several suspects have been taken in for questioning.

After request for comment, a representative from the Coastal Laboratory stated that, “We are doing everything we can to track down the missing specimen and return it to our care immediately. Our parent company, Abnormal Wildlife Control, has already begun the search, and we are confident that the situation will be resolved without further incident.”

Furthermore, it was advised the public “be wary of approaching unpopulated areas of the local coastline without hearing protection, and to avoid boating alone or in lesser-trafficked waters.”

“This is Pixlriffs with Recap News, and I’m here at the courthouse today as preliminary hearings begin for the man who allegedly stole a mermaid, and posted the proof of it online. 

At the Coastal Laboratory for Abnormal Wildlife Studies, research teams study dangerous, unusual, and unbelievable animals and natural phenomena, all in the name of protecting the public. But after several years as a project leader at CLAWS, Dr. M. did the unthinkable; he stole one of the specimens he was tasked to study, and released it into the wild. 

Dr. M. claims that the siren Specimen 9201223, which he refers to as “Martyn,” is a being that possesses humanlike capabilities for thought, emotion, and even speech. Last month he even released over twenty hours of footage online, in a now-deleted tweet that linked to a blog post detailing his experiences at the facilities. In that post, Dr. M claimed that his superiors at the research facility were ‘callous, careless, and deliberately cruel’ in their treatment of the siren, and that they made moves to have the siren ‘euthanized and dissected while perfectly healthy.’ 

While CLAWS has not responded publicly to the claims made in the post, a representative responded to our request for comment, stating that the claims are ‘absurd,’ and ‘the unfortunate result of a mentally-unwell individual.’ They declined to provide further comment when asked about the ongoing hunt for the missing siren.”

“What if he isn’t there?”

Ren looks up at him from collecting discarded plastic cups and paper plates, glancing back at the couch where Doc sits. “What was that?”

“What if he isn’t there,” Doc repeats, staring down into his cheap plastic champagne flute. The side of it is cracked. He’s not sure when that happened. His hands are sticky.

“Who…? Oh, wait, Ma—?”

“Martyn, yeah,” he mutters, then throws back the rest of the champagne in his cup. He should probably throw it out. It’s got to be leaking. 

Ren staggers back over to the couch, sitting heavily with a loud huff. He’s still wearing those god-awful New Year’s Eve party glasses that Tango had brought, which makes it hard to take him seriously when he frowns at him, “Dude, how much champagne have you had? Be honest.”

Doc shrugs. Ren shakes his head and plucks the empty flute from his hand, setting it on the coffee table. The surface is still strewn with the remnants of the party: unfinished snacks and bits of confetti, empty cups and wrinkled napkins.

“It’s just… been a long time,” Doc says, “What if it’s been too long? He’s had enough time apart, back where he belongs, to realize if it was… fucking. Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I don’t think that’s how Stockholm Syndrome works, my dude.”

“You know what I mean,” Doc grumbles. Without something occupying his hands anymore, he finds himself restless. He reaches for the sticky champagne flute again and ignores Ren’s disapproving cough.

“Er, don’t know that I do, actually.”

“Just, like… he could have realized, if it didn’t mean anything to him. Realized that he’s happier never seeing me again.”

“...Doc, baby, no offense, but you’re talking absolute nonsense right now,” Ren says, “I was there too, remember. Well, not for all of it, but whatever,” Ren clears his throat, shifting on the couch so that he can face Doc better, “Point is, you’re being ridiculous. You said he put freakin’ holes in your pant leg when you tried to leave.”

“With claws like that he put holes in everything.”

“You’re still talking nonsense.”

Doc sighs, irritated, and leans back against the couch. The cheap plastic flute pops apart easily from the base, which seems to appease Ren a bit, at least. The stem rolls well between his fingers, but there’s a seam up the side which rubs against his thumb uncomfortably.

“...I just… I can’t escape him. My whole freaking life right now, it’s all Martyn, Martyn, Martyn. All the court cases, and the people trying to interview me, and the… the people always sending me letters, and the emails, and— and it just hurts, man.”

Ren watches him, saying nothing. Doc lets the plastic flute fall from his hand. He squeezes his eye shut, continuing, “And he doesn’t even have to think about me. And yeah, like, he shouldn’t have to, I know, but… god. I miss him. I fucking miss him.”

The room is quiet. Doc is getting sick of the smell of champagne. He can hear the steady ticking of the clock. 

“I do too,” Ren says, quietly. Doc opens his eye, glancing sideways at him. He’s staring at the ground—and he still has those tacky glasses on. Despite himself, Doc can’t help but snort.

“You look stupid in those glasses.”

Ren splutters, taken aback, “Dude. I thought we were having a moment!”

Doc cracks up, wheezing. Ren shakes his head, but he can’t help it when he starts laughing as well. He finally takes the glasses off, grumbling good-naturedly and shoving them into his shirt pocket; the motion sends a cascade of glitter off them, dusting down his front. Doc starts cackling all over again. A bit of that heavy, dreadful weight in his chest begins to dissipate. 

They quiet down after a moment. Doc still leans against the back of the couch, feeling the world spin and bob underneath him, like a rowboat on choppy seas. Ren has gone back to cleaning up the dredges of the party, finally depositing Doc’s dismantled champagne flute into a garbage bag.

“Oh, dude,” Ren starts, and Doc blinks, bleary. He’d almost dozed off there. “I have something for you, actually.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah, it’s—geez. Where did I put it. Hang on.”

Ren wanders off somewhere, and Doc drops his head back against the couch again. This time, he tries not to fall asleep before Ren gets back; it’s still startling when Ren suddenly sits down beside him.

“Here, check it out.”

Ren holds out a… Doc squints at it. A mangled piece of cheap, opaque black plastic. It looks like it might have been the corner of a small cube once. There’s a tiny piece of a green sticker on one side. 

“Found it under the bathroom sink a few weeks back,” Ren continues, dropping it in Doc’s hand, “I think it used to be a Rubik's Cube.”

“Oh.”

Doc stares at it, rolling it around on his palm. “Can I…”

“Yeah, of course my dude”

Doc closes his hand around it. 

THE LIFEFORMS & ENVIRONMENT ACTIVISM FOUNDATION (LEAF) stands with Dr. M. against the COASTAL LABORATORY FOR ABNORMAL WILDLIFE STUDIES (CLAWS) and ABNORMAL WILDLIFE CONTROL (AWC)

Our mission as a Foundation has always been the protection, conservation, and responsible study of all lifeforms, whether they fall within the realms of what is considered normal understanding or not. We are gravely disappointed in the management of CLAWS and AWC for their careless, destructive approach to managing lifeforms and other phenomena that they see as “abnormal,” and are proud to offer our support to Dr. M. as he fights for better legal protections for such lifeforms. 

LEAF wishes him and Martyn the best of luck. To donate to Dr. M’s legal fund for the upcoming trial, click the GoFundMe link in our bio. 

“...So, Mr. Jumbo. How would you describe the intelligence of the siren identified as Specimen 9201223, during your interactions?”

"Well, uh, Your Honor, I think that Mart— er, um, the siren identified as… as, um.”

“You can just say ‘the siren,’ sir.”

“Right. Okay. Uh, I think the siren is as sentient as most eighth graders."

"...Care to elaborate on that, sir?"

"Yes, so, the first time I met him he bullied me very thoroughly about my mustache, which I think carries great significance. Eighth graders get very creative about that sort of stuff! He used a piece of kelp, Your- Your Honor."

“A piece of kelp?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Ren. In your experience as a specimen working with CLAWS, did you ever feel endangered?”

“Your Honor, let me just say one thing. The only reason I’m talking to you right now is because I have a voice. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but let me explain—y’see, at CLAWS, most of the other specimens there weren’t like me, right. I walk and talk like a regular guy. Right here, right now, we’re talking, baby—er, sorry, Your Honor—”

“Please make your point, Mr. Ren.”

“Right, so, like I was saying, I can use that voice to defend myself. Now, if I didn’t? Let’s say I wasn’t able to stand up for myself, if I couldn’t talk like we are right now, if I’d woken up that first night in their custody with, like, seriously bad laryngitis? I’d probably be on the chopping block right beside Martyn—no, not just probably, Your freakin’ Honor. Absolutely.” 

On the first warm day after winter, Doc stands on a small, secluded strip of shoreline, surrounded by pine trees and rugged cliffs. The cove here is protected from the open sea by the shape of the coastline, shallow rocks in the water making it hard for any boats to get near. 

Despite the rise in temperature recently, it’s still a bit cold, and the wind coming off the waves doesn’t help. Doc paces a trench into the sand with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring out at the choppy, empty expanse of ocean. 

After the cold season. When it starts getting warm again. I’ll come back to this spot. I’ll be here. 

That’s what he’d said, right? He’d replayed that moment in his head, over and over in the months since; yet, he can’t help but worry he was… misremembering, or something. So caught up in his own emotions that he’d twisted the memory, gotten the seasons wrong. Or maybe Martyn’s perception of temperature was different, relatively. Maybe it was still too cold for a siren, or worse yet—maybe it had been too warm already, and he was late, by weeks and weeks, and Martyn thought himself abandoned—

Doc stops pacing to brush his hair out of his face, the wind picking up in intensity. It’s fine. He said he would come back as many times as he had to, and he intends to keep that promise. He’s nothing if not stubborn.

…He’s still nervous, though. It’s the first time he’s come back to this spot, and he spent the whole drive making sure no one followed him. He slept in the car, and paid with cash, and kept his head down, avoiding busy areas—hell, he’d borrowed a used car from Bobby for this, just to keep anyone from recognizing his. 

He’s not really sure what he’ll do if Martyn doesn’t show up by the time it gets dark out. He didn’t let himself think that far ahead. 

Doc fidgets with a twisted piece of plastic in his pocket, the rough edges of it catching in his fur. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

The morning drifts slowly into afternoon, the tide going out and leaving more rocks exposed further down the shore. Doc tries to distract himself by combing the beach, but can’t keep his eyes off the horizon, looking for… something. Anything.

He swallows his nerves, pacing up and down the sand. There’s a clump of seaweed laying on the beach, still wet, and he nudges at it absentmindedly with his boot. A tiny crab scuttles out from under it, and burrows into the sand. 

Somewhere, faint above the crashing waves, there’s a sound: a short, rising trill. A series of hummed notes and chirps that flow smoothly into each other. A low baritone backing note that he barely, barely hears. 

Doc whips around, heart pounding. Out by the rocks, he catches a glimpse of a blonde head, a sharp grin—

The figure dives, cutting a sharp line through the waves as it moves, impossibly fast. Doc rushes to meet him. 

He’s up to his knees when a wave knocks him off-balance—the chirpy laughter in response is achingly familiar and contagious. Doc wheezes with laughter as the water soaks through his clothes, bitingly cold, and Martyn drags himself through the shallow tides to meet him where he fell. 

“Took you long enough,” Martyn declares, “you bastard.”

“You asshole,” Doc says breathlessly, wiping his eyes, “I was out here for hours—”

Martyn throws himself into his arms, heavy enough to almost knock him over. Doc holds him close to his chest, ignoring the water dripping from his hair, the sand getting all over his clothes. Martyn’s throat rumbles with that familiar low baritone, and Doc buries his face in the crook of his shoulder.

He’s home. He’s finally, finally home. 

Doc wakes to the sound of someone fighting with the zipper outside his tent; frustrated mutters and little clicks, claws scrabbling at the nylon. He rolls over, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and fumbles with the zipper from the inside until the tent flap falls open.

“G’morning,” Doc mutters, and pats the space next to him. Martyn, grinning, scoots forward, dragging himself across the sand to flop into his arms. 

It’s very early—the sun has only just begun to brighten the sky to a warm green-blue along the horizon. A chilly sea breeze blows in through the open tent flap, and the cold isn’t helped by the sea water dripping from Martyn’s hair; but Doc has grown used to that. His sleeping bag is warm enough, and it’s worth it for the way Martyn murmurs, “Good morning,” into his shoulder, combing his claws gently through Doc’s hair as he wakes. 

Eventually, Doc will extricate himself to sit upright, pulling cold coffee from a thermos in his cooler, scolding Martyn for drying out his gills. Martyn will roll his eyes at him, and Doc will dump water from the cooler over his head, making him splutter and shake his hair out all over his sleeping bag. Eventually, he’ll start a small cook fire for whatever fish Martyn brings him, and they’ll have breakfast on the sand—Doc will tell Martyn about everything that’s changed since the last time he visited, and Martyn will tell him about his progress exploring the area. Eventually, he will have to worry about court proceedings, about laws and testimonies and dozens of decisions that are still dragging through their lives still.

But for now, Doc simply holds him close and closes his eyes again. Far overhead, seabirds call; down further on the beach, waves crash against the rocks. Martyn traces a fingertip slowly across Doc’s horn, and hums something soft and soothing. The day can wait for them, for just a little bit longer.