A Spider-Crab drags its body from a collapsed drainpipe, a rusted stop-sign patching its shell. A chaotic school of Lantern-Fish, their bioluminescent lights flickering, swarms around a jagged piece of rebar. A solitary Hammerhead, a brutal exile sharing my burden, comes out from the shadows. A deep white scar runs through his left eye. He watches me, heavy with suspicion.
Hundreds follow. The refuse of the city. The dangerous things deemed too ugly, too broken, or too lethal to survive in the light.
They swim a tight circle around the House of Drift.
They offer no cheers. They offer no bows to Vaelis. They wait.
They demand proof of the roaring voice.
Swimming off the rusted porch, I float in the open water. I bare my form. The brutal scars on my flank. The dull gray of my skin. The posture of a jagged rock resisting the current, forsaking the stance of a dominant predator.
"Brothers," I say.
My brand new voice, deep and heavy with gravel, carries through the dense water.
The Hammerhead flinches. The Spider-Crab ceases its clicking.
"Sisters," I say, facing a group of ragged Eel-kin. "Debris."
I wield the ugly word the upper guards use as a weapon. I coat it in cold iron, abandoning the spit of disgust.
"The High Plaza calls us trash," I roar. "They call us monsters. They dump their poison on our heads. They block our sun. Now, they seek to silence the deep trench feeding our bellies."
A dark murmur runs through the crowd. Raw anger. Deep recognition.
"They construct a weapon," I declare, projecting my voice to the cavern walls. "A manufactured noise loud enough to crack the foundation of the ocean. It will bury the deep. When the deep shatters, where does the heavy rubble fall?"
I point my finger to the toxic smog ceiling.
"It falls here."
The Hammerhead swims toward the shell. He bares his rows of jagged teeth in a threat display.
"Why should we bleed for you, shark?" he rasps, his voice mimicking tearing metal. "You play the domesticated pet. You claim a warm shell. You smell like a pampered Prince of the Reef."
I check Vaelis in the doorway of the shell. He appears small compared to the rest of us. Delicate and soft in the harsh light.
Vaelis swims out.
He anchors at my side. He refuses the shelter of my broad back. He floats shoulder-to-shoulder with a known monster.
"I claim no royal title," Vaelis says. His voice lacks my depth, yet it carries a different heavy weight. The undeniable gravity of a survivor robbed of everything but his life.
"I played the disposable bait," Vaelis tells the Hammerhead, meeting his scarred eye. "They sent me to the Wastes to die a horrific death, seeking a spark for this fake war. They weaponize my name to eradicate your existence."
He sweeps his attention across the crowd of monsters.
"I refuse the role of bait," he says, his golden eyes blazing. "I choose the role of the sharp hook."
The Hammerhead stares. A dry, rasping laugh escapes his gills.
"The Hook," the exile muses. "A fitting title."
He addresses the restless crowd. He slams his heavy tail against the water.
Thud.
"We rise!" the Hammerhead shouts with a deafening roar.
