It was a casual night for the rogue unit within Mandaly. He continued to talk to Lena who was still on edge about everything. Though it was easy to spot via mannerisms, handling was out of his control. Instead, he continued to talk. Rant and rave from serious to more light-hearted tones until Lena was finally tired and uttered the words 'I'm going to bed now'.
Without missing a beat he began a quiet escape from the humble abode. Fixing their shirt and tie around his neck, he dulled the hue of his legs. The night blocked him from his goal. He stood under the tree, watching the tracks of the boat dragged away via the owner. Clouds cluttered the sky as far as the eye could see, perfect. Tonight they were meeting again on the shores outside of the city. Southeast of the 'bowl' where the coast extended….no risks could be taken. In Dynamo's hands was a wrapped processor, "Well then, let's see if you're willing to talk now."
Smoke steamed off the ends of his body. Legbuster used them to full capacity, pivoting off the tree and using the pegs of the fence as a stepping stone for one big jump. Enough to go airborne and not trailed by anyone. Smoke and clouds were thick in the winter months, due to the unnatural heatwave snow became rain before reaching visibility. Cold winds and hot winter dreams made for a strong mix in the youth of today.
All of them made stops to and from the bars and clubs holding each other for support before moving to the next spot. Tonight, our focus is not on them. But a humble fisherman who admired their bold natures so much he reflected his own. Wilson was dressed in casual wear, a simple white shirt that was slightly too big tucked into brown khakis and sandals. He fixed the bucket hat upon his head before taking another swig from the bottle in his hand. Ah the youth of today, having a day off was something they didn't need to imagine.
Scratching the back of his head old Wilson adjusted his hearing aid while slipping through the crowds. He shivered at stray winds and drank to stay warm. Further south he strolled to one of his many farms. A bit away from his home in the small district was a lake called Soft-Shell's Broil. He rented the property for a number of years, his boat awaited him ever since he dragged it out the evening prior, "Ah, at least that dumb disease gave some people something good."
A stimulus for fishermen and affected markets was the talks in all of Wilson's circles. Just give your information to these governmental representatives and they can get you in touch for a loan. Wilson could smell a scam when he saw one, and this one was unironically fishy. Desperation got to him as the guidelines entered his palm. They were too vague, too loose; almost anyone qualified. Well, if it was real then good for them, at the cost of their personal data. Lang or whatever their name was running this would have their knees smashed in the Doubhain stretch where he grew up.
Wilson hunkered down and pulled his belt up as stone walkways became cobbled stone. Thirty minutes of continuous hiking down a sloping incline lead Wilson to where he needed to be. Right along the edge of the guard wall and directly east of his abode was a land where moss was grass; a stepping stone path was made for patrons just not to slip for an accidental swim. At the end of the route was a small pond, Wilson's. His boat bounced on the awaiting their master who sat on the mud beside. Inside the vessel was the fisherman's wetsuit. Almost entirely black with silver gauges built alongside the fabric. Goggles were affixed to his eyes as he changed out of his regular clothing and leaving them in his ship.
He took a moment to appreciate the greenery. Few blades of grass bloomed at the ends of flowers with closed bulbs. Fireflies and dragonflies zipped in the air for some added life with tadpoles sticking their heads from the pond feeding on duckweed. "Well...time to get going."
Wilson plugged the empty beer bottle into the ground and boarded the vessel. An oxygen tank slid into the pocket on his back. One powerful push with his burly legs sent the vessel into the shallow end where the motor was ready. Having wrapped his lips around the oxygen tube the diver went backwards into almost zero degree water. His hair's oils were flushed away and his body rejected these climates. A little oxygen entered his goggles to act as a window into the world under ground. Sandy pools and fish roamed in the confines. White grains moved around from shellfish that buried themselves and others surrounded the cages in the center of the small pool.
A few dozen meters down was the cages Wilson placed months apart from each other, over twenty and the size of men laying down sideways. He'd need a crane to pick these up, but for now, he was only marking off which were ready to be sold. Afterwards, he'd sell these to the local fish markets and restaurants around the country. They were contraptions of oxidized iron with holes just big enough for the oysters to feed.
This process went on for several hours. Through each of Wilson's farms across the regions. All of the cages, all of the different lakes that were joined together via an artificial river that sloped down to the sea. Some had oysters and others had crabs and prawns. Essentials to a city that loved seafood. Now as the hours passed and the moon was no longer the sky's prominence, stolen by the burning ball in the sky Wilson was at the last of many.
Of his lowest farms, this one was on the edge of the ocean. His boat went down the last of slow rivers and bobbed on the crash as the engine sent the diver further out to sea. Not too far, twenty meters at most so the sea walls wouldn't crack his skull open as he dove in. He faced the direction he had just come from and looked at the hill he originally came from. Air filled his lungs and he submerged himself to the depths. The texture of what he saw before carried into these lower caverns that barnacles and other small daimon affixed themselves to. Ropeworms disguised themselves among the parasites and shot their bodies out at any leaf which fell; those thin worms made the perfect bait for bigger fish.
But the diver wanted a more profitable approach. Kicking his legs and dragging his arms Wilson went into the deepest pool of them all. Many needed to train before entering subzero waters like these, as the veteran of two decades was acute to. A hundred meters down provided for freezing temperatures for his thirty double cages that sat down there. All of the oysters, clams, and whatever found themselves in the tight seals were all ready for shipment. Each end of the rectangular nets was marked in red magnets Wilson stored in his belt for the cranes to detect. All well was for the day.
At the edge of a seacliff where all of his nets sat, Wilson took a moment to witness what most couldn't. He sat on the edge peering into the depths of a ravine of ink and looked at all of the patches of seaweed, moss, and other wildlife in the location. Lack thereof in recent times. Fish, shellfish it didn't matter. Most migrated after the great uprising of chum. An unknown source, but the layer that hovered above made the light appear red.
How easy was it to destroy nature. It was beyond him. His reward for years of work was almost gone. With a sigh, the old diver stood scratching his gut and was ready to leave. Then he heard it.
A bubble of sound popped. More bubbles were coming up when he turned back to face the ravine. Both big and small, they all clung together as they went to the surface. As a hive. What followed wasn't as magical. Chum. A body no longer recognizable scared the skeleton out of Wilson as another looked back at him. Leathery brown skin and white bones only noticed in chunks as he dove away from the cliff.
A light shone from within like a second sun. Was it a volcanic line? Human nature numbed the idea to escape and told him to figure out the source. Despair at the gruesome sight was gone. Pity for a living creature was overruled. Emotions became second to his own curiosity. For what lied underneath wasn't a natural projection whatsoever. It was something else.
A vehicle of bright orange and black like a giant sausage with stripes. That was the only thing Wilson thought when he saw it with lights along the sides. It didn't have any propeller or engine along the body. What moved the figure were arms. Four giant skeletal limbs pulled the thing along the giant within the ravine. It was careful not to push the body into the jagged ends and continually positioned it away from the walls. At least four of those vehicles were in front of the one Wilson saw all exiting the giant hole in the side of the sea wall.
Wilson had to go. He saw too much. He swung his arms ready to distance himself. His legs kicked in every direction, yet he couldn't move. Something had him.
Faster than a bullet from the bottom of the ravine and helped himself to the oysters in the same breath, "Hey there," the attacker somehow spoke under the sea. A cold, mechanical voice pulled Wilson, "So you're the guy who owns this farm? I assume yes. It is very nice to meet you." When Wilson turned, all he could see was the fin on the attacker's back and silver fangs in their mouth.
"My pavettes have been helping themselves to it every now and then. How about we go and have a long talk on how I can reimburse you? I insist."