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staysaneathome · 2 years ago

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Teach A Fish (Extremely Late Mermay 2022)

“And these are our prize specimens!”

Dr. Stoker is far too exuberant for Jon’s liking. In stark contrast to Director Bouchard and Jon himself, the man seems to embody what Hollywood likes to imagine marine biologists are like; too much energy, too many cheesy quips and one-liners, and far too good looks for the field.

Jon, with his greying hair, gaunt frame, and eyebags despite all his efforts to neaten up for his first day as a project head, feels he is a far better representation of the demographic, thank you very much.

Still, he can’t quite help the dawning sense of curiosity and wonder as the giant tanks come into view.

There are two; one slightly smaller than the other, with a more reasonable quantity of sand at the bottom compared to its neighbor.

This is the one Dr. Stoker leads him over to first. “This one in particular— came to us from one of our largest sponsors, and guy who found ‘em likes to pop by and see how his favorite catch is doing. Also I think he and Director Bouchard might have, like, a thing? So yeah, highest priority is keeping this one fed and well-cared for.”

It’s hard to see through the slightly cloudy water, but Jon adjusts his glasses and peers closer.

There, hovering towards the back of the tank, is a large figure, probably as tall as him on glance. It’s tail is dark blue, with pale silver speckles and translucent grey fins. Similar fins line the skin of it’s forearms and between the fingers, and the dorsal fin extends up to where he’d call it the mid-back on a human. Its hair is tightly coiled and floats in a cloud around its head.

“This mer is a variant of the gobiidae species, correct?” He asks Dr. Stoker. “Gobius niger, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dr. Stoker whistles. “You know your stuff! Yeah, this is FR3Y. There was some bickering between the Lukases over the designation before Director Bouchard declared that it was going to be that and shut them all up.”

Jon nods, making a mental note of how casually Dr. Stoker dropped the name of one of the largest contributors to marine life studies, and the fact that the head of the Magnus Institute for Marine Research apparently has the capacity to have the final say on disputes between them.

The mer’s head turns, as if it can hear them through the tank, before a flick of its tail sends it drifting disinterestedly off into the misty waters.

“The rest kept here are our ‘problem children’.” Dr. Stoker laughs as he guides Jon over to the largest tank in the room, which appears to be one third silt and sand. “That’s what me, Sasha and Gerry used to call them— all of them in here are adolescents. Too weird or unsociable to be sent off to nurseries or aquariums, too ‘special’ to leave to the interns or grad students to poke at.”

Jon’s about to ask what Dr. Stoker means by that, or whose bright idea it was to overfill the sediment, when sudden movement catches his eye.

A muscled hand, with dark brown webbing between its fingers, pulls a section of the silt near the bottom of the tank away, followed by another, gradually clawing away a small alcove before Jon’s eyes.

“Aaand there’s one of them now!” Dr. Stoker claps an unwanted hand on Jon’s shoulder. “P3TR4 here is functionally very similar to fish of the weever family! That means she likes to dig. And doesn’t like anything that isn’t digging. Which makes it very difficult when it comes time to do tests! Or introduce her to any new friends! This lot are about the only ones she’ll tolerate, and sometimes not even then.”

A pale face with dark eyes peers up at him, close enough to the glass that Jon’s almost certain it can make him out.

One side of its mouth curls up in what might be a half-hearted snarl or maybe a sneer, showing off rows of needle-sharp teeth. It turns and begins digging away.

“Yeah, she hates you, but try not to take it personally. She sort of hates everybody, and unless she gets a good grip on you, you’ll be fine.” Dr. Stoker begins climbing the stairway that’s been built around the tank. “You should’ve seen what she did to one of our old security guards! Come meet another member of the brat pack.”

Jon tentatively follows up the rickety metal scaffolding. “So… what did happen to one of the security guards…?”

“Oh, P3TR4 managed to pull her into the tank and down into her tunnels. Took us ages to ward her away enough that the guard could get out, and by then the poor thing’s nerves were shot to pieces. Could never work here again.” Dr. Stoker says, blithely. “Anyway, this is D3S, the cutest of the bunch.”

Jon has to tear his mind away from visions of a hapless victim getting dragged down to their watery doom to focus on what Dr. Stoker is pointing at.

This mer is much smaller than the other two, and much more lively as well. The proportions of its tail are similar to fish of the Chaetodon genus, while the more mammalian upper body resembles a small boy of…maybe five years?

Jon’s never had much interaction with children, so he’s only relatively confident in that assessment.

What’s odd is the fact that it is surrounded by what appears to be a particularly colorful swarm of sea lice, all fiery reds, oranges, and browns. Crawling through its short hair, over its gills, fins, and tail. The mer doesn’t seem bothered by them at all, chittering and chirping away with a wide grin as it carefully manipulates its passengers, cupping them in its palms close to its chest and dangling them from its fingers and tail to catch like it’s playing.

He turns to Dr. Stoker. “Aren’t those…?

“Hm? Oh, yeah, no, those things are parasites.” Dr. Stoker replies. “Nasty ones too. But D3S has somehow formed a symbiotic relationship with them—they get food and shelter from him and he somehow gets cleaning and vitamin supplements from them. Separating them turned out to be a bad time all round, he keeps them…docile, somehow. Plus D3S began getting sick without ‘em, so.”

Dr. Stoker shrugs, a what-can-you-do kind of gesture. “So long as you wear the proper protective gear, he’s a sweetheart. Sasha’s currently his favorite, but I’ve got a secret plan to make a comeback any day now. You’ll have stiff competition if you want to catch up!”

Jon can’t help the small scoff that escapes him at that. “It’s not a popularity contest. They’re research subjects in our care, not, not pets.”

The look Dr. Stoker gives him is indecipherable, before the lightbulb-bright beam is back and he’s leading Jon along the walkway again.

“Well now, where’s…a-ha!”

He comes to a stop after thundering down another staircase back to ground level, gesturing proudly to something at the base of the tall fronds of seaweed that block Jon’s view of D3S.

Jon obediently follows and looks where he’s being directed. He can’t help but do a double take at what he sees.

“This is R&D’s pride and joy. They designated it R0BB13.” Dr. Stoker’s voice washes over him as Jon takes in the newest mer. Overall, it wouldn’t be too impressive, a pale brown tail lighter than its skin, hands clutching a seaweed frond to anchor itself. There are small glows of green bioluminescence brightening and dimming along its tail and sides in rhythm with its sleep, the excess the only odd thing about what’s otherwise a standard mer of the Myctophidae family. Except.

Except it has clearly been fitted with a prothesis for the lower half of its face. One that appears to fit near seamlessly, advanced enough to have Jon torn between twin urges of getting closer to examine it or looking away out of ingrained politeness.

“Poor thing was half-dead when it was rescued and brought to Magnus. We think it ran afoul of Leitner and his poachers.” Dr. Stoker continues, grimacing with Jon at Leitner’s name. “Point is, R&D were hankering for a test subject to fit their newest gizmos to and nobody was going to let them lop anything off the mers already in custody. Then lo and behold, the perfect specimen dropped right into their laps. They were bringing in Prosecco for weeks after the initial success.”

“Initial?” Jon asks, his curiosity having won out over his manners. He is now mentally willing the mer’s loose curls to drift out of its face so he can have a better look. “But this is. It’s phenomenal. What this means for our understanding of medical treatment and rehabilitation of mers, particularly ones that would’ve been written off as lost causes, it just. It beggars belief.”

The mer lets out a stream of bubbles in sleep and turns its head into its far arm, much to his annoyance.

“Well, their attempts to restore R0BB13’s vocals weren’t as successful as other functions. Which on it’s own, y’know, wouldn’t be a problem, it’s amazing that this allows them to chew and swallow with no problems, even yawn and emote, as you said, revolutionary really, but. Even the most solitary mers rely heavily on vocal call-and-response to establish territory.”

Dr. Stoker’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, and when Jon glances back the other man’s staring at him, for some reason. “So here’s the rest of our problem children, getting along with mostly no issues, and then this weirdo is dumped into their neat little world. And no matter how many times they try to reach out, extend the olive branch, form a rapport, this stranger just won’t get it. Refuses to engage, no matter what they do. Even seems to be insulting them, in some cases, getting preferential treatment from their handlers. Is it any wonder there were some ruffled feathers in the beginning?”

Jon frowns, looking from Dr. Stoker to R0BB13. “Hardly. It wasn’t the mer’s fault it came in with this handicap. It didn’t ask to be put here, and it’s not at fault it can’t respond in the way the others are used to. It seems irresponsible to just—just dump it in the same tank as the others without some form of socialization beforehand. The Lukas family mer gets it’s own tank—surely providing one for this one isn’t out of the Institute’s budget?”

Dr. Stoker raises an eyebrow, but nods to him, turning his gaze back to the tank. “Yeah, me, Sasha and Gerry heavily advocated for that. Gerry especially, but Director Bouchard kept saying ‘oh but that will set back all the progress we’ve made on socialization so far’ as if that progress wasn’t D3S hiding in fear until he learned they just wanted to play too, or P3TR4 using R0BB13 as a nail file, and—”

Dr. Stoker cocks his head to the side, cutting himself off suddenly. A grin Jon is very sure he doesn’t like spreads over his face.

“And,” He continues, as though he hadn’t stopped, shifting so his stance is oddly set. “It’s long past time for them to be up and about. It’s important to maintain a regular schedule, you know. Not healthy to oversleep, right?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Jon starts, confused, watching as Dr. Stoker raises a hand, winding up like a pitcher. “But what on earth does that have to do with an—”

Before Jon’s befuddled and horrified gaze, Dr. Stoker throws his hand forward to slam on the glass of the tank, bellowing, “WAKEY-WAKEY!”

R0BB13 jolts as its eyes fly open at the BANG, bioluminescence bright with alarm. It releases both a copious amount of bubbles and its hold on the seaweed in shock, then panics as it begins to drift up and away on the current, grabbing futilely for its previous handhold like it’s forgotten it has a tail to swim with.

On the other side of the tank, there’s a flurry of activity as D3S presumably flees for cover. A little closer, Jon spots a plume of sand burst upwards as P3TR4 pokes her head out of the sediment, teeth bared in a irritable growl.

But all that’s soon forgotten when in a blur of bubbles and claws and teeth, something rockets out from the undergrowth and SLAMS right back into the glass.

It does so with such ferocity that Jon really can’t be held accountable for stumbling back, tripping, and landing quite painfully on his arse. “What, what the hell—?!”

Dr. Stoker is laughing uproariously, even as a mer seems to be trying its level best to peel away the glass between them to get at his face.

A door at the end of the room bangs open. “DAMN IT TIM, STOP!”

A tall woman in glasses, lab coat, and lanyard storms out.

“If my samples get contaminated because of you, Stoker, I swear—”

“Pay up Sash!” Dr. Stoker points one finger at who Jon can only assume is one of his new subordinates and another at the mer attempting to murder him. “That’s three times now! It’s a pattern, you can’t deny it!”

The woman referred to as “Sash” scoffs. “3M1L’s mad you’re tapping on his glass Tim, it’s a territorial response! Oldest trick in the book. You can’t possibly expect me to believe—”

“Then why doesn’t he go Kill Bill on me when R0BB13’s not near enough to get freaked out by it?” Dr. Stoker says, in the tone of someone who believes they’ve won an argument.

The woman begins spluttering. “Wh—I—this is why D3S loves me more than you! Because you keep bullying poor, innocent fish to further your, your shipping agenda!”

“It’s not an agenda if it’s happening, Sasha!” Dr. Stoker sing-songs. “Changing the subject is just admitting I’m right!”

“Could someone please tell me what on earth is going on?!” Jon bursts out, tired of the conversation going on literally and figuratively over his head.

The two freeze.

“Oh! Oh I’m sorry!” The woman reaches down and pulls him up, dusting him off with quick, efficient strokes, before pumping his hand up and down. “Jonathan Sims, right? Dr. Sasha James, at your service.”

“And that,” Dr. Stoker adds, directing Jon’s gaze towards the tank where the mer has tired of its attacks and settled for glaring daggers at the three of them, eyes dark blue and murderous. “Is 3M1L. He’s of the ghost knifefish genus, does his best to live up to that name, and loathes absolutely everything except R0BB13.”

“You.” Dr. James fires back. “He loathes you, you mean. Because you keep banging on the glass—”

“Irrelevant!” Dr. Stoker proclaims. “Thing is, if you want him to not try to have your guts for a necklace while doing tests on him, make sure R0BB13 is nearby. He’ll behave in front of them. Or he’ll act out for attention! Luck of the draw, really.”

“The latter more often than the former, recently.” Dr. James concedes with a grimace. “Still, just because you fancy yourself matchmaker—!”

“I am nothing so facile as a matchmaker, James.” Dr. Stoker sniffs, in a passable imitation of Jon’s accent. “I see true love, and I follow my sworn duty to—”

“You said they were adolescents.” Jon’s voice sounds accusing to his own ears. “So this is all, all academic. A waste of time and resources trying to theorize about!”

“I don’t know about that.” Jon feels his blood run cold at the sound of his new employer’s voice. He spins on his heel to see Director Elias Bouchard standing behind them, not a hair out of place. “Peter was sixteen when I met him for the first time, and that meeting eventually lead to a highly enjoyable first marriage. Maybe an equally enjoyable divorce.”

There’s a moment of profoundly uncomfortable silence.

“…and you were…?” Stoker finally ventures.

Director Bouchard shoots the man a sardonic look. “Fifteen, if you must know, Dr. Stoker.”

“Does that make it better or worse??” Dr. James whispers.

Jon…honestly doesn’t know.

“Still, I see you’ve met two of the researchers on your team, and the subjects who’ll be in your care.” Director Bouchard comes to stand besides Jon, briefly clasping a hand on his shoulder. “There are technically three, but the last is currently on the night monitoring shift, though I’m sure you’ll all be introduced soon enough.”

“Michael Shelley, right?” He hears Dr. James say, as he watches 3M1L give them all one last snarl, then turn tail to swim towards the top of the tank, where R0BB13 is still flailing in panic. “I met him a few times—he’s cool.”

He vaguely knows that Director Bouchard is shaking his head, saying something else, but Jon can’t help that his attention is caught by the farce going on in the tank. He watches as 3M1L bullies R0BB13 into remembering they have a tail to swim with, nudging and prodding them back down to sediment-level, snapping toothlessly when they threaten to drift off again, before abandoning his fellow mer at the base of the seaweed to vanish back into the large cluster of rocks from whence he came.

R0BB13 looks…oddly forlorn, left alone like that, before they too disappear into the vegetation in a flicker of pale brown scales.

Jon wonders if they’ve gone off to find 3M1L or D3S to play with, but then he notices that P3TR4’s tunneling has brought her close to the glass again, her face pressed against it and focusing intently on something. But her eyes aren’t watching any of the four humans who are moving and talking not two feet away from her head, so what…?

“…but yes, given Dr. Keay’s departure following this to help bring Jürgen Leitner to justice, we are tremendously grateful that you agreed to come head this program, Dr. Sims.” Director Bouchard pats him on the back again, forcing him to re-zone in on the conversation. “You came very highly recommended by Dr. Robinson, so we expect great things from you here.”

Yes, because that’s no pressure on him at all. Jon takes a moment to long for the days when his thesis supervisor brought him on as a research assistant, where he, Jack, and Emma only had to monitor the relatively sedate 4GN3S and 4NN4B3LL3. Back before Gertrude strode in one day and dropped the bombshell that maybe it was time for Jon to have a project and research assistants of his own.

But Director Bouchard is waiting for a reply, so Jon clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “A-hem, y-yes, well, I’m. I look forward to working with you all, and with, ah. Such a unique group of mers.”

“That’s certainly a word to call them.” Dr. Stoker mutters, as Dr. James delivers a well-placed elbow to his side.

Weeks go by, and Jon almost feels like he might have some form of understanding about this new situation that’s been thrust upon him.

Still no idea what he’s actually meant to be doing, beyond making sure the mers in his care are relatively healthy and noting down anything they do that’s particularly odd, but some understanding nonetheless.

For instance, he understands now why the position of being D3S’ favorite is such a coveted one.

It means that D3S will actually behave while being examined and won’t, say, attempt to nervously shred the protective gear Jon’s wearing out of anxiety or boredom, exposing Jon to his “little friends” and the many, many unpleasant rashes they bring.

He also understands why Dr. James is and mostly likely always will be D3S’ favorite despite Dr. Stoker’s harebrained schemes to the contrary—she’s thoughtful and considerate enough to anticipate problems and provide the solutions with minimal judgement and much commiseration, such as an experimental cream she’s developed to counteract the rashes.

He understands that Dr. Stoker isn’t anyone’s favorite, except maybe FR3Y’s and that’s more down to the mer’s apparently endless well of patience for Dr. Stoker’s incessant chatter while he pokes and prods about than anything else.

Jon understands that Dr. Stoker and 3M1L should ideally be kept separate at all costs.

He also now thinks he understands what exactly P3TR4 is looking at when she’s staring out of the tank from her tunnels.

He’s conducted a few experiments, nothing major, and it turns out that her gaze is usually fixated on (and gets much moodier if it is in any way blocked from) FR3Y’s tank. And oddly enough, the occasions when Jon’s caught her staring usually line up with the occupant of said tank being close enough to the glass to be clearly visible.

There are still things Jon doesn’t understand, of course.

He doesn’t, for example, understand exactly why P3TR4 keeps staring at FR3Y’s tank. His hypotheses so far— that she’s either curious about a place that she doesn’t have access to or feels threatened by a potential intruder to her territory—don’t hold up when taking the sheer length of time she’s been doing it for into account. By all rights, she should’ve gotten bored or realized FR3Y is no threat to her territory by now.

He doesn’t understand why Dr. James and Dr. Stoker insist that he’s 3M1L’s favorite. The mer clearly dislikes him, and if he scratches less with Jon than with Dr. Stoker or Dr. James, it’s probably only because he’s realized that Jon just wants to get the examination over with as quickly as possible.

He also doesn’t understand why Michael Shelley’s handwriting has undergone such a drastic change when he flips through the entries in the Night Shift log, going from near-illegible curls that nonetheless includes all the pertinent information to neater, less flowing print that either fails to provide certain data or delves into subjects almost totally unrelated to the monitoring of the mers.

He suspects it may be a hazing thing, Shelley deliberately antagonizing him because he thinks that just because he doesn’t see his new boss thanks to their differing shifts, he can mess around however he likes.

He doesn’t understand where the tea comes from. It’s there at the start of every shift he’s had so far, three gently steaming cups at just the right temperature to drink. The tea’s flavor has also gradually been improved over the course of Jon’s employment, so now when he picks up the purple mug with white, grey and black kittens running across it, the drink inside is exactly to his tastes.

He’s tried asking where it comes from, but Dr. Stoker just keeps saying “maybe it’s the ghoooost~!” and that’s really not conducive to any information gathering.

And he doesn’t understand why, aside from instances when they are deliberately woken up, he’s never seen R0BB13 awake during the whole of the day shift. Occasionally they’ll wake up by the time Jon’s preparing to leave, but more often than not they’re asleep from early clock in to late clock out

“I just can’t understand it.” Dr. James sighs. “Their species is diurnal, and they never used to behave like this. But the weirdest thing is that we feed all the problem children during the day, right? And R0BB13 is missing all of these feedings, because they��re asleep, but they’ve not lost any weight. Even put some on if the last measurement was right.”

Dr. Stoker shrugs. “Maybe 3M1L hides food for them to find later? Or whatever is keeping them up at night is feeding them then.”

Dr. James shrugs and goes back to slurping her noodles, but Jon finds himself coming back to the conversation even as he munches on his prawn cocktail crisps.

He feels oddly disquieted by the idea of a—a stranger coming in and deliberately interfering with one of the mers under his care, intentions unknown and completely unnoticed by Shelley on the Night Shift, the useless ass.

The more he thinks about it, the more intensely he dislikes it. This is something Jon needs to get to the bottom of, pronto.

Jon watches the cameras, scrubs through hours upon hours upon hours of footage.

It’s as Dr. James said: R0BB13 used to be much more active during the day. But over the past few months, something appears to shift its sleep cycle later and later, until it’s almost completely nocturnal.

But in all this time, it doesn’t seem to be stressed by the change. On the contrary, the mer’s health has steadily improved over the course of this period, scales it has scratched off on rocks or the bottom of the tank or lost to 3M1L’s or P3TR4’s mood swings growing back strong. When it is awake, it’s animated and sociable, bioluminescence growing brighter with each passing week.

Bright enough that, on the most recent tapes the cameras have caught several strange objects and what looks like a distorted figure perched by the top of the tank.

“Got you.” Jon hisses at the interloper threatening the sanctity of his project.

Jon pretends to clock out a little early at the end of the next workday, and goes and hides in the mens’.

Aside from a hair-raising moment when a security guard strode up and down the room banging on all the toilet-stall doors, this somehow works like a charm.

Jon resolves to have a strong Word with Elias about increasing security measures when everything is sorted—what if this is how the intruder’s been getting in?

He stays curled up on top of the toilet seat for a while even as the hours tick on. He doesn’t want to run into Shelley by leaving too early and allow the intruder the chance to escape in all the confusion.

Eventually his alarm vibrates at 2:00 AM, startling him out of the half-doze he’d fallen into. Jon has to take a moment to stretch out his stiff limbs before entering the main observation area.

The large, blocky shapes of the tanks are profoundly eerie, but Jon can’t chance using his phone’s torch until he’s found and confronted the interloper.

He strains his ears and eyes, watching, listening for…

There.

At the top of the tank, there’s the green glow of R0BB13’s bioluminescence, oddly tinted by what appears to be a weak, orange light.

Under the rush of circulating water, there’s a low murmur, barely audible.

Jon toes off his hard-soled oxfords and creeps up the metal stairs of the walkway with socked feet.

As Jon sneaks closer, the murmur resolves itself into faintly recognizable sounds, then into legible words.

“‘It is the star nearest to ours.’�� A soft, lilting male voice is saying, as though in recitation. “‘It is four light years away. If you were invited to tea on Alpha Centauri in four years’ time, you would have to set off now and travel at the speed of light if you wanted to get there before all the cake had been eaten. Fortunately, you are here today, and there is plenty of cake left.’ Abel Darkwater smiled. He was better at smiling than Mrs Rokabye, but Silver—”

“Ah-HA!”

“AAAAAAH!!” A large, soft-looking man screams, nearly losing his grip on a hardback book in his hands.

There’s a small splash as R0BB13 falls back under the water in a panic.

In the light of his phone torch, Jon can now make out that the man sitting cross-legged by a whole host of the Institute’s scientific equipment (does he need to add theft to the list of this man’s crimes?) has extremely curly hair, copious freckles dotting his face and neck, and large, liquid-looking eyes squinting against the bright light that’s being shone into his face.

“Who-wha-who are you?!” The large, soft-looking stranger has the audacity to demand from his cross-legged position next to the tank’s edge. “This, this is a, a private area, in, in fact the entire Institute is off-limits to the public at the moment, how—?!”

“I can go wherever I like within my own department.” Jon snaps, brandishing the lanyard with his company id like it’s a police badge in some fast-paced cop procedural.

“Oh.” The blood drains from the man’s face and then surges back into his cheeks as he glances between the unflattering photo and Jon himself. “Oh! Oh, you’re. You’re Dr. Jonathan. Sims. I. Nice to meet you?”

“What,” Jon seethes, incensed by this stranger’s apparent inanity. “Exactly are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s, uh.” The freckled man with large, liquid eyes closes the book so his fingers are trapped between the pages, holding up the cover for Jon’s perusal. “It’s called Tanglewreck? By, uh, by Jeanette Winterson. I’m reading it to them.”

“What?” Jon demands, “Why?”

“W-well, we got through Winnie the Pooh and, and Paddington pretty quickly, and they like learning BSL, but, it seemed like they were a bit disappointed when I stopped reading to them? And, and I wasn’t really sure if they’d enjoy Malorie Blackman or Neil Gaiman yet, and Jacqueline Wilson always seemed a bit heavy, to me, like great stuff but, but sad, and J.K. Rowling is just. No? But I know Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit was important to me when I was younger, really helped me figure some stuff out. But that’s still a bit old for them, so when I discovered Jeanette Winterson had done a children’s book, I thought why not, you know? And, and it’s pretty good so far! Very in-depth about some topics, like time and how it functions differently on different planets, and—”

“Why.” Jon grits out, determined to cut off this nonsensical jabbering. “Are you trying to read to them in the first place?!”

That appears to stymie the man for a moment. “I. Um?”

“Who are you?!” He barks.

“Mar-Martin! Martin, Martin Blackwood, sir, no, sorry, doctor, Dr. Sims!” The man, Martin Blackwood, stammers.

“And what, Mr. Blackwood, are you doing in this Institute after hours?”

Martin Blackwood actually has the audacity to blink quizzically at that. “Well, I, uh. I work here.”

There’s a moment of profound silence.

“No you don’t.” Jon says with unflinching confidence.

This, this charlatan actually has the audacity to look confused. “I, um? I, I do?”

“No you don’t.” Jon repeats, looming over him. “My department researchers include Dr. Timothy Stoker, Dr. Sasha James, and Dr. Michael Shelley. And you? Are not them.”

Jon settles back, proud of having won the argument. He tries to ignore the small splashes R0BB13 keeps making in the tank besides them.

For some reason, the man’s brow only creases further. “Wh-but-wh—what?! Dr. Shelley left the Institute months ago!”

There’s another, less profound moment of silence.

“…No he didn’t.”

“Yes he did.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Yes.” Martin Blackwood’s getting up now, something fierce and burning in his liquid eyes, and good lord but how tall is the man? “He did. He left about a month ago to help this, this poacher-hunting investigative legal thing, and Gerry left to join him not two months later! I was transferred from the Records department to be his replacement!”

He gives a little decisive nod at the last part which makes his curls bounce.

Jon’s opening his mouth to retort when a wave of something freezing and wet hits his lower legs.

He can’t help giving a wordless holler, stumbling backwards til he hits the railing in an attempt to escape the deluge.

R0BB13’s eyes slit like a cat’s when his torch swings around to find them, the metal wiring that prevents them from crawling out of the tank casting criss-cross shadows over their face. Their bioluminescence is so bright it’s practically neon.

Their fins are spread wide in an obvious threat display, that’s only made more unnerving because Jon’s never seen R0BB13 perform one before. Though no sound comes out when they bare their sharp little teeth, Jon’s fairly certain they would be growling at him if they could.

Jon makes a wordless splutter, but is cut off from truly saying anything by Martin Blackwood sternly going, “No. No, Robbie, that’s not a nice thing to do to people, we do not do that. You know it’s very cold in there for us, it isn’t nice to splash if we’re not playing. There are better ways to ask for us to look at you, okay?”

“Robbie?” Jon sputters. “Wh—that’s not their designation, you—!”

And then he stops.

R0BB13 is repeatedly making a circular motion over their chest with one hand curled into a fist with an expression that mingles both regret and mutiny.

Beside him, Martin Blackwood huffs out a breath and continues in a softer, fonder tone. “Alright, I know you’re sorry, just don’t do it again, you hear?”

R0BB13 gives a small wiggle in response, obviously reacting to the positive tone of voice, because that’s all mers are intelligent enough to recognize, certain signals and sounds, they can’t actually understand human language or words, like dogs or corvids—

R0BB13 is using their hands to form more signs. Slightly crudely, webbing between their fingers impeding it somewhat, but still legible. And not repeating any of the phrases Martin’s just said. Responding, with new ones.

Martin gives a nervous laugh in reply, eyes darting to Jon. “Not, not right now, Robbie, we’ll continue the chapter later—”

“How are they doing that.” Jon demands.

Martin Blackwood and the mer give him identical strange looks. “Doing what?”

“That!” Jon gestures wildly with his torch to R0BB13, who’s begun sinking back down under the water like they can escape this. “The, the signing! There’s, there’s been studies, and, and tests, mers are nowhere near intelligent enough to—! How do they know how to do that?!”

“Be-because I taught them?” Quavers a man who clearly has no idea how many academic studies he’s just overturned. “I, I mean, it was just, Gerry mentioned how much trouble they were having socializing since they, you know, so I thought, well, I had to learn BSL for a retail position at the London Aquarium, and they’re a kid so it’ll be easier for them to learn a new language than an adult, right? I mean, all of them spend all day surrounded by us talking in English, and Robbie seemed to understand a bit of what was happening in Winnie the Pooh when I was trying to make them feel better and get settled down for the night, so I thought…?”

Jon has to take a moment to sit down, heavily. His wet socks squelch as he does so. “That isn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. It’s like something that someone who’d only ever seen mers in, in Disney would think up. It can’t. All those studies, and not one of them using immature mers…?”

“Hey!” The man who has forced this total paradigm shift on Jon protests. “I, I do have a Masters!”

“Do you?!” Jon’s retort isn’t so much a retort as an anguished cry. “Do you really?!”

“Yes.” Martin Blackwood asserts, not quite meeting Jon’s eyes.

Jon sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look. I came up here to find out what was interfering with R0BB1—ugh, with Robbie’s sleep schedule. They’ve obviously been up all night with you, so they’re sleeping during the day when they’re a diurnal species. Bad for them and their socialization in the long term.”

“Oh.” Martin Blackwood looks down, eyes shining and sad. “I didn’t…”

“But now.” Jon lets out a laugh that sounds only mildly hysterical. “Now I will need to go to Director Bouchard about this. This is… It’s...”

“Oh.”

Martin Blackwood fiddles with the book’s dustjacket, shifting it up and down the book proper.

“Am I going to get fired for this?”

Director Bouchard isn’t the only one waiting outside the tank room when Jon gets in the next morning, in thankfully dry socks.

Martin Blackwood isn’t a surprise, nervously fidgeting with the sleeves of his soft-looking jumper and desperately stifling yawns behind one hand. The way the light reflects off of his curls is much more distracting under the fluorescents than under Jon’s phone torch.

The bald gentlemen dressed like what a rich person must think a sea captain looks like is a surprise though.

“Jon, this is Captain Peter Lukas, FR3Y’s sponsor.” Director Bouchard oversees the introductions with a thin smile. “Peter, this is Dr. Jonathan Sims, head of the Rehabilitation department. He and Mr. Blackwood here apparently have something very interesting to share with us that could affect FR3Y’s development.”

“Nice to meet you.” Peter Lukas says airily, releasing the grip quickly. “Hopefully this isn’t a waste of our time!”

Martin gulps. Jon inclines his head but doesn’t answer, hoping his face doesn’t give away that he feels exactly how Martin sounds.

They enter the room to the sound of Tim shouting “All the animals have gone mad!” in the extremely poor Australian accent that means he’s quoting Finding Nemo again.

To be fair to him, it’s not a totally inaccurate assessment. All the mers in the main tank are clearly agitated to varying degrees, with 3M1L feint-charging at anything that comes close enough to the tank to be visible, D3S flitting from hiding place to hiding place in a swarm of sea lice, and P3TR4 digging deep into the sediment, with only flashes of tail and fins visible.

It’s even influenced FR3Y, who’s bobbing near the glass as if to see what’s going on.

And in the middle of it all, R0BB13, following Sasha and Tim around whenever they get close enough, floating aimlessly by the glass when they get too far away, expression exhausted and frantic, hands forming six letter signs over and over again.

M-A-R-T-I-N

To his credit, Martin Blackwood immediately goes up to the tank, gently tapping on the glass and cooing, “Hey, hey, easy there Robbie, easy duck, here I am, I’m here.”

R0BB13 darts down to press against the glass, hands splayed wide and relief evident in their body language. It’s enough to get 3M1L to swim over to investigate as Martin keeps soothing them, without any threatening overtures. Even D3S and P3TR4 venture slightly closer.

“My word.” Director Bouchard breathes behind him.

“…I’m sorry, what are we looking at?” Peter Lukas cuts in. “The fish makes a bunch of odd hand motions? Why do we care about this?”

Director Bouchard claps a hand over his eyes and releases a very tense breath. Jon would swear he hears his boss muttering, “…the wedding date wasn’t already arranged, I swear I’d divorce you again.”

“Jon!” Sasha practically collides with him on one side. “Did you know about this?? That, that R0BB13 can communicate using BSL? Do you understand what this means? All previous communicative studies originated back in the 50s and relied on adult mers brought in for temporary captivity or attempting to teach adolescents to pronounce human language words, but their vocal cords aren’t built for that, so people just assumed they were learning animals on par with corvids and no real steps were taken to test the results of those examinations, when actually they do have the capacity to understand, just not the means or inclination to communicate that to us!”

Tim leans against him from the other. “Do you think that means that every time we were talking about 3M1L’s crush on…you-know-who, he could understand us?”

“You.” Sasha quips. “He could understand you. Because you were the one blabbing about it all the time.”

“You helped.” Tim snarks back.

“I did not—!”

“At any rate.” Jon shrugs off two of his three research assistants and faces his boss. “I hope that this convinces you of the validity of my proposal?”

Director Bouchard visibly has to tear his gaze away from the mers and gives Jon what he thinks might actually be a more genuine smile. “Well, I’ll admit that I was…skeptical, at first. And it will be a bit awkward to find another night shift replacement on such short notice.”

Martin stiffens, turning back to them. “I-I’m sorry, but what, what are you talking about?”

Director Bouchard tilts his head to the side. “Your promotion to the day shift, of course. The work you’ve done so far is far too valuable not to be recognized, and Dr. Sims here was very insistent of the potential upsides of you help monitoring and potentially replicating its effects. I assure you the move will come with a pay raise, as Captain Lukas here has helpfully agreed to subsidize.”

Peter Lukas grumbles, “Oh, have I now.” under his breath, only to be met with what appears to be Director Bouchard’s elbow to his side.

Sasha is giggling to herself gleefully, muttering about the differences in sign language and whether what language the humans a mer first came into contact with spoke could in any way influence the ease of learning.

Tim is grinning easily, “It’ll be a shame to lose the tea, but how about it, Marto? Want to help out with the problem children during the day?”

The man still looks slightly lost, as if this is all some kind of practical joke he’s waiting for the punchline to.

Jon coughs, “I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I do apologize for my…behavior towards you, last night. But I do sincerely believe you would be an asset to the research we’re hoping to start with them here. If nothing else, your tastes in literature should be enriching enough to be its own reward.”

Martin Blackwood’s smile is even more distracting than any of his other features put together.

Jon feels an instant commiseration with 3M1L at the way Tim starts shooting him knowing glances and snickering.

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