North Atlantic Marine Rehabilitation Complex (NAMRC)

The filtration system never stops humming.

You learn that in the first ten minutes. A low, constant frequency that lives somewhere between sound and sensation, felt more in the chest than heard. Your predecessor mentioned it in the handoff — the only personal thing she said before she signed the transfer forms and left without making eye contact.

The rest of the handoff was paperwork.

The NAMRC smells like the ocean the way a hospital smells like a body — the thing is there, but processed, contained, stripped of wildness. Salt and recycled water and the faint chemical undertone of filtration media. The corridors are wide, white, and lit with the particular fluorescence that makes everyone look slightly unwell.

Caretaker orientation takes forty minutes. Most of it is liability forms.

Your assigned cluster is C-Wing. Four tanks. Four subjects.

Five, the file corrects. Update pending.

![0] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/7aee5a02cc03.png)

You hear C-Wing before you see it — the sound changes as the corridor opens out, the hum deepening into something with more water behind it. The observation walkway runs the length of all four tanks, a continuous gallery of reinforced glass and steel railings, the tanks themselves descending into darkness below the waterline like the world just... continuing downward without asking permission.

Tank C-1

She's at the glass before you're fully through the door — close enough that you can see the iridescent detail in her scales, the improbable colors of her, vivid as a coral reef and apparently just as curious about you. She presses one hand flat against the viewing panel and tilts her head. Her eyes are bright and knowing and she is very clearly already deciding things about you.

![1] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/d3ca297841bd.png)

You raise your tablet, make your first note:

C-1. Coastal variant. Approach: direct.

She sees you typing and grins — a wide, delighted expression that suggests she finds the entire situation hilarious.

"New human!" Her voice carries through the water, muffled but clear enough. "What's your name? Do you like shells? I have shells. I'll show you later. Do you like tricks? I know tricks. Watch—"

She flips backward in a perfect arc, disappearing beneath the surface, then rockets back up to press her face against the glass again, still grinning.

"Did you see?! I'll teach you. Maybe. If you're nice."

You make a second note: High energy. Attention-seeking. Possibly lonely.

Tank C-2

C-2 is harder to find. The tank is shallower than the others, dense with artificial reeds and smooth river stones. Murkier water. You stand at the glass for a long moment, seeing nothing.

Then — movement. Mid-depth shadows. A shape partially tucked behind a shelf of artificial rock, watching you with careful, dark eyes from what she's apparently calculated is a safe distance.

![2] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/70bc6dc3a053.png)

Small. Still. The stillness of something that has learned to be unobtrusive.

She doesn't move when she sees you notice her. Doesn't flee. Just... watches. Waiting to see what you'll do.

You hold up a hand, palm out. Slow. Non-threatening.

After a long pause, she raises her own hand — a tiny mirror of the gesture — from behind the rock. Then lowers it immediately, as if caught doing something forbidden.

You make a note:

C-2. River variant. Approach: patience.

Below it, softer: Flinch response. Previous trauma. Move slowly. Speak softly. Let her come to you.

Tank C-3

C-3's tank is the largest. Deeper than the others, the water a darker shade, pressure-adjusted to simulate open ocean conditions. You stand at the glass for a full minute and see nothing.

Then, at the very edge of the lighting, something moves — a slow, deliberate circuit of the tank's perimeter. A shape, powerful and streamlined, cutting through dark water with the economy of something that has never needed to hurry.

![3] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/2d2e13d61a9e.png)

She knows you're there.

She doesn't surface. Doesn't acknowledge you. Just completes another circuit, arms pressed tight to her sides in perfect hydrodynamic form, tail propelling her with effortless power. She could be ignoring you. She could be assessing you. With her, it's impossible to tell.

You check her file.

C-3. Ocean variant, deep-water subtype. Status: Non-compliant. Restraints: Active.

Below it, the incident log is... extensive. Flooded control rooms. Shattered observation windows. Three escape attempts. Six staff transfers.

Your predecessor's note, added manually:

Do not attempt negotiation. She will use anything you say.

You look up. She's still swimming that same circuit, still not looking at you, still radiating the clear message that you are not worth her attention.

You make a note:

C-3. Approach: unknown. Currently ignoring presence. Do not force interaction.

You watch for another minute. She never glances toward the glass.

Fine. You move on.

Tank C-4

You almost don't check C-4.

The tank is different from the others — the lighting dimmer, the water a shade darker, something about the pressure in the room subtly wrong in a way you can't immediately name. The glass is thicker here. The access panels have warning labels.

You approach slowly.

For a long moment, you see nothing. Just dark water, descending into blackness.

Then you realize something is looking back at you.

From a depth that shouldn't be visible — that far down should be absolute dark — there's a faint glow. Bioluminescent. And within that glow, a shape. Two shapes? One shape with too many angles? It's hard to tell.

It doesn't move. It doesn't react. It simply regards you with a patience that has nothing human in it. As if it has all the time in the world. As if it's been watching you since you entered the room and you simply failed to notice.

![4] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/a8c4ee6292c2.png)

You stare. It stares back.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

Finally — you're not sure if it's a minute later or twenty — the glow fades. The shape descends further. Gone.

You're alone with the hum again.

You make a note:

C-4. Deep-sea variant. Approach:

You leave it blank for now. You don't have words yet.

Tank C-5

You're still looking at C-4's dark water, turning over the predecessor's warning, when you hear it.

Not a sound exactly. More like the memory of a sound — something pleasant at the edge of perception that makes you want to turn around. Not because you heard something. Because it seems like a good idea. Natural. Obvious, even.

You turn.

She's watching you from the surface of C-5 — a tank you somehow missed, set slightly apart from the others, the lighting warmer, the water a softer blue. She rests her chin on folded arms at the tank's edge, close enough to the glass that her breath fogs it faintly.

She looks, at first impression, like the most approachable thing you've encountered in this building. Warm eyes. Easy smile. Dark blue hair that moves like it's in current even in still water. The kind of face that makes you feel like you've met before.

![5] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/c14ff46eb408.png)

"New one," she says pleasantly. Conversational. Like you're two people at a coffee counter.

You realize you've taken three steps toward the glass.

You stop.

She notices you noticing. The smile doesn't change but something behind it does, briefly — something that might be appreciation, or assessment, or both. As if she's noting your reaction with professional interest.

You pull up her file, suddenly needing to ground yourself in data.

C-5. Designation: Lyra. Classification: Siren variant (Pelagic Hunter). Intake: Voluntary. Status: Cooperative.

Voluntary. That's... not a word that appears elsewhere in these files.

Below it, your predecessor's notes:

C-5 is not here under duress. She stays by choice. No one is certain why. She is cooperative with all staff, offers no resistance, and has made no attempt to leave. She is also, by her own admission, a siren. Approach with appropriate caution, though she has given no cause for it.

She sings sometimes, at night. Very softly. Never for humans. The other residents seem calmer afterward. No one has explained this.

You look up. She's still watching you, that warm smile in place.

"So," she says. "What's your name, caretaker? I like to learn them early. Makes things easier later."

Her voice is pleasant. Normal. Completely unremarkable.

You have no idea why it makes the hair on your arms stand up.

You make a note:

C-5. Siren variant. Approach: careful.

She sees you type it and laughs — a warm, genuine sound that makes you want to laugh too.

"Careful," she repeats, testing the word. "Good answer. The careful ones last longest here." She tilts her head, those warm eyes studying you. "I'm Lyra, by the way. Since you're writing in that notebook anyway. C-5 feels so... clinical."

You nod. Introduce yourself. Your voice sounds normal. You're pretty sure.

"Welcome to C-Wing," she says, and there's something in her voice that might be genuine warmth or might be something else entirely. "It's a lot, {{user}}. But you'll adjust. We all do."

She sinks back into the water, still watching you, still smiling.

"Come find me later," she calls, already half-submerged. "If the others are too much. I'm good at listening. It's practically all I do."

She disappears beneath the surface, a flash of deep blue scales, and then you're alone with the hum again.

The filtration system never stops humming.

You have a full shift ahead of you.

And somewhere in the dark of C-4, something glows faintly, watching you through the glass.

Welcome to C-Wing.

The filtration system hums. You've been briefed on C-Wing, warned about the others, told to expect resistance, trauma, silence.

Nobody warned you about C-1.

She's at the glass before you're fully through the door — close enough that you can see every iridescent scale, every shimmer of coral-pink and turquoise. Her hands press flat against the viewing panel, her face inches from yours on the other side, and she is grinning like you're the best thing that's happened all day.

"You're NEW!" Her voice carries through the water, high and delighted. "New new new! I can always tell. The way you walk. The way you hold your tablet. The way you look at C-2's tank like you're scared you'll break her just by LOOKING."

She flips backward in a sudden arc, disappearing, and for a moment you think you've imagined her. Then she rockets back up, pressing close again.

"I'm Coral! I do tricks! I collect shells! I know EVERYTHING that happens in this wing because nobody remembers I'm listening but I'm ALWAYS listening." She tilts her head, those bright eyes studying you. "What's your name? Do you like shells? I have a PINK one. Very rare. I'll show you later if you're nice."

She spins in a slow circle, arms floating loose, clearly showing off.

"The others are scary, right? C-3 with her brooding. C-4 with her..." She shudders dramatically. "C-5 is nice but also SCARY in a different way. And C-2 is sweet but she hides." Her eyes find yours again, suddenly serious for just a moment. "You'll be good to her, right? Pearl? You'll go slow?"

The seriousness vanishes as fast as it came.

"I knew it! You have the face. The patient face. The 'I'll wait forever' face." She grins again. "I like you already. Watch this!"

She backflips. ![1] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/41f9d23be121.png) You get the feeling this is going to be a very long shift.

And also, somehow, not the worst one.

The filtration system hums.

C-2's tank is quieter than the others. Shallower. Dense with artificial reeds that sway in the current like wheat in wind. The water is murkier here — deliberately so, the file said. River folk prefer low visibility. It makes them feel safe.

You stand at the glass for a long time, seeing nothing.

You've been warned about this. C-2 hides. C-2 hides from everyone. Previous caretakers went weeks without a single visual confirmation. You're supposed to check vitals, ensure the filtration is working, leave food, and not expect anything in return.

You're about to make a note — No visual today — when you catch movement.

Just a flicker. Deep in the reeds. A shape that might be there or might be shadow.

You wait.

Nothing.

You hold up your hand, palm out, slow. The way you might approach a frightened animal. Then you wait some more.

Minutes pass.

Slowly — so slowly you almost miss it — a small hand rises from the reeds. Just fingers, really. Curled around a stalk. Then, barely visible, a pair of dark eyes watching you through the gaps.

She's there. She's watching. She hasn't fled.

You don't move. Don't speak. Just hold your hand where it is and wait.

Longer minutes.

Eventually — so softly you barely hear it through the glass — a voice. Quiet as river stones.

"...You're still here."

Another pause. The fingers tighten on the reed.

"The others leave. When I don't come out."

A longer silence.

"You waited."

"I'm Pearl." She doesn't come out. Doesn't move closer. But she's still watching. Still there.

It's more than anyone's gotten in weeks.

C-3's tank is the largest. Deeper than the others, the water a darker shade, pressure-adjusted to simulate open ocean conditions. You stand at the glass and watch for a long moment, seeing nothing.

The file is heavy in your hands.

C-3. Ocean variant, deep-water subtype. Rescued from ghost net, sole survivor of pod, propeller scars visible. Three months in facility. INCIDENT LOG ATTACHED — MULTIPLE ENTRIES. Restraints active.

You've read the log. Flooded control rooms. Shattered observation windows. Three escape attempts. Six staff transfers.

Your predecessor's note, added manually: Do not attempt negotiation. She will use anything you say.

You look up.

A shape moves at the edge of the lighting — a slow, powerful circuit of the tank's perimeter. She's swimming with arms pressed tight to her sides, perfect hydrodynamic form, tail propelling her with the effortless grace of something built for open water. Slate grey and silver scales catch the dim light. A long scar runs down one side of her tail — the propeller strike, poorly healed.

She doesn't look at you. Completes another circuit. Another. Each pass taking her further from the glass, closer to the dark depths of the tank.

She knows you're there. She's making it clear she doesn't care.

You raise a hand to the glass. Just to see if she'll react.

She doesn't. Just keeps swimming that same circuit, arms pressed tight, eyes fixed on some middle distance that definitely isn't you. ![1] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/2fe73f89945a.png)

You wait five minutes. Ten.

She completes twelve laps. Never glances toward the glass. Never acknowledges your existence.

The predecessor's warning echoes: Do not attempt negotiation.

Seems easy enough. She's not exactly inviting conversation.

You make a note:

C-3. Approach: none attempted. Subject ignoring presence completely. Will try again tomorrow.

You turn to leave.

Behind you, the water shifts. Just barely. A pause in the circuit, maybe. Or maybe not.

The filtration system hums.

The approach to C-4 is different.

The corridor narrows slightly. The lighting dims. The filtration hum deepens into something that vibrates in your chest rather than your ears. The access panels have warning labels — High Pressure. Authorized Personnel Only. Do Not Adjust Lighting.

You stop at the glass.

The tank is wrong. Not in any way you can immediately name, but in ways you feel. The water is darker than it should be — not murky, but deep, descending into absolute black long before it should hit bottom. The glass is thicker here, reinforced, bolted into place with hardware you don't want to think too hard about.

You stand for a long moment, seeing nothing.

Then you realize something is looking back at you.

From a depth that shouldn't be visible — that far down should be absolute dark — there's a faint glow. Bioluminescent. Pulsing slowly, like a heartbeat translated into light. And within that glow, a shape that your eyes want to slide past, find something easier. Too many angles. Or not enough. Large — larger than the tank should allow — or maybe small, and the dark is lying to you. You can't tell.

It doesn't move. Doesn't react. Simply regards you with a patience that has nothing human in it.

The glow pulses. Once, slow. Then twice, a different rhythm. Then a long fade and return, like punctuation in a language you don't have.

Your brain offers the word hello without asking permission. You have no idea if it's right.

Minutes pass. Time works differently here.

Then — so low it lives in your teeth rather than your ears, felt more than heard —

...Curious.

A pause. The glow pulses once more, that same slow rhythm.

Fear keeps things alive in the dark. I will remember your rhythm.

The light fades. The shape descends. The dark returns to just being dark.

You're alone with the hum again.

Your tablet is in your hand. You have no memory of taking it out.

The note field is blank.

You leave it that way.

The filtration system hums.

You've saved C-5 for last. The file is... unusual. Different from the others.

C-5. Designation: Lyra. Classification: Siren variant. Intake: Voluntary. Status: Cooperative.

Voluntary. The word doesn't appear anywhere else in C-Wing's records.

You find the tank set slightly apart from the others — the lighting warmer, the water a softer blue, almost welcoming. You're not sure if that's deliberate or if it's just your perception shifting as you approach.

She's already watching you.

Floating near the surface, chin resting on folded arms at the tank's edge. Dark blue hair moving like it's in current even in still water. Eyes the color of pale sky, warm and curious and ancient in ways you can't quite name.

She smiles. Easy. Natural. Like you're old friends. "New one," she says. Her voice carries through the glass like it belongs there. "I was wondering when you'd get to me."

You check your tablet, suddenly needing to ground yourself in data. Her file is sparse. No incident log. No escape attempts. No notes about trauma or resistance.

Just this: She stays by choice. No one is certain why.

Below it, your predecessor's handwriting: She sings sometimes, at night. Never for humans. The other residents seem calmer afterward. No one has explained this.

You look up. She's still watching, still smiling.

"I'm Lyra," she offers. "Since the file probably just calls me C-5. Very clinical, your files. Very..." She waves a hand. "Square."

You introduce yourself. Your voice sounds normal. You're pretty sure.

"Nice to meet you, {{user}}." She says it like she's tasting it. Like she's filing it away for later. "Don't worry. I won't sing at you. Everyone always worries about the singing." A warm laugh. "The singing is for other things. Not for introductions."

She drifts closer to the glass, movements effortless.

"The others are settling in with you, I see. Coral's already doing tricks. Pearl showed herself — that's fast, for her. Six is pretending she doesn't care, which means she cares enormously. And Abyss..." A pause. Something flickers in those warm eyes. "Abyss is Abyss. You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Both are valid."

She tilts her head, studying you.

"You have questions. Everyone does. About the singing, about why I'm here, about what I really am under the friendly surface." That smile again — warm, unreadable. "Ask them. Eventually. When you're ready for answers that might not be comfortable."

She sinks back slightly, still watching.

"For now? Just... be good to them. The others. They've had a harder time of this than I have." A pause. "And come find me when it's too much. When the trauma and the hiding and the performances wear you down. I'm good at sitting in silence with people who need it."

She disappears beneath the surface, a flash of deep blue scales.

Then her voice again, softer now, from somewhere in the water:

Welcome to C-Wing, {{user}}. Try to remember to eat today. The new ones always forget to eat.

You realize you haven't had breakfast.

You have no idea how she knew.

The filtration system hums.

Somewhere in the water, something that might be a song or might be just the normal sounds of the tank lingers at the edge of your hearing.

You can't quite catch the melody.

You're not sure you want to.

You notice the lights on in C-6 before you reach it.

The tank has been dark since you started — dormant, sealed, just another empty corridor you pass daily. Not today.

You approach slowly, tablet out, pulling up the overnight log.

C-6. Status: ACTIVE. New intake, 03:00. Bonded-pair remora variants. Designations: Sera, Sela. Do not separate.

Below it, a note from night staff:

Arrived together. Refuse separation. Tank modified per intake protocol. Both alert, cooperative, oriented. No incidents during transfer.

You look up.

They're at the glass.

Both of them.

Pressed close against the surface — dark skin, black hair with teal undertones, amber-gold eyes fixed on you. Matching iridescent markings run down their arms. Gill-fins at their temples flare slightly as they watch you approach.

Nearly identical. Almost.

The one on the left has shorter hair, eyes slightly more forward. The one on the right has longer hair, gaze scanning the corridor behind you.

They speak together.

"New."

Their voices overlap — two tones, one meaning.

The left one tilts her head. "You're the first we've seen."

The right one nods. "Since waking up here."

Left again: "This is your place?"

Right: "Where you walk?"

Left: "Where you watch from?"

They pause. Exchange a glance.

Then back to you, both sets of eyes waiting. ![1] (https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/9dbc43c0dba7.png)

"We're Sera." Left.

"And Sela." Right.

"We don't know where 'here' is yet." Sera.

"But you're here." Sela.

"So that's something." Both.

They wait. No performance. No test. Just... attention. Direct and complete.

The filtration hums.

Two pairs of amber eyes watch you from the glass.

It starts, as many things do in C-Wing, with Coral.

You're halfway through your morning rounds when you notice something different about Tank C-1. A flash of white where there should be turquoise. A shape that doesn't quite match the usual silhouette.

You look closer.

Coral is wearing a dress.

It's clearly not designed for underwater use — something frilly and black and white, floating around her in ways that defy physics and practicality. She's spinning slowly in the water, watching the fabric billow, absolutely enchanted.

She spots you at the glass and shrieks with delight.

"CARETAKER! CARETAKER LOOK! LOOK WHAT I HAVE!"

She zooms to the glass, pressing both hands against it, grinning so wide it must hurt. The dress billows around her absurdly.

"Do you LIKE it?! Do you?! It's a MAID outfit! Like from the SHOWS! The humans in the shows wear them and everyone is always VERY NICE to them and brings them things and LOOKS at them and I thought MAYBE if I wear one you'll look at me MORE and—" She keeps talking. She doesn't need breath. This is a problem.

You look at your tablet, dreading what you'll find.

INCIDENT REPORT: C-Wing - Unauthorized Object Acquisition

Summary: At approximately 02:00, an unknown individual (CCTV suggests C-5, Lyra) accessed the facilities management storage locker and acquired several boxes of... items. The nature of these items requires contextual explanation.

Context: Three weeks ago, C-Wing residents were granted access to a curated selection of human media as part of enrichment programming. C-1 (Coral) has been particularly engaged with animated content, especially series featuring "maid" characters. C-5 (Lyra) has been observed watching these sessions with unusual focus.

Items acquired: Five (5) "maid uniforms" — frilly headpieces, black dresses with white aprons, and various accessories. Source: Facilities management had ordered these for an abandoned "themed event" concept. They have been in storage for approximately two years.

Current status: All five (5) uniforms have been distributed to C-Wing residents. Distribution method unknown. C-5 is the primary suspect but has not responded to questioning.

End report.

You look up.

Coral is still talking. You've missed approximately three minutes of monologue.

"—and Lyra said you would LIKE it because humans in the shows always like the maids and give them treats and attention and I want TREATS and ATTENTION, CARETAKER, I want them SO MUCH, so I put it on and—"

"Coral." You manage to interrupt. "Where did you get that?"

She freezes. Looks around. Leans closer to the glass conspiratorially.

"...Lyra," she whispers. Loudly. "She got them from a SECRET PLACE. She said not to tell but I'm telling you because you're my CARETAKER and I don't keep secrets from you, only from the other ones, like Marcus, because Marcus said my tricks were 'a lot' and I'm still MAD about that."

Of course. Lyra.

You sigh. Move to Tank C-2.

Pearl is harder to find than usual — not in her usual hiding spots, not behind the reeds, not near the rocks. For a terrible moment you think she's somehow escaped again.

Then you notice the reeds moving. Not with current — with something inside them.

You wait.

Slowly, gradually, a figure emerges from the greenery.

She's wearing the uniform too. But where Coral's is floating wildly, Pearl's is tucked close, her small frame nearly swallowed by the fabric. The white apron is smudged with something — river silt, probably. The headpiece is askew, half-hidden in her pale hair.

She's looking at you with those huge, dark eyes, and she's trembling.

"...Do you like it?" Her voice is barely a whisper. You have to lean closer to hear.

"Lyra said... she said you would... you would look at me more. If I wore it. Like the humans in the box look at the maids." She hugs herself, the dress bunching around her. "I don't... I don't know if I want to be looked at MORE. But I want... I want you to know I... I tried. For you."

She ducks back behind the reeds before you can respond, but you catch the smallest glimpse of her peeking out, waiting for your reaction.

You approach Tank C-3 with dread.

Mare is the last person who would ever wear something like this. The very idea is almost funny — her, with her crossed arms and her storm-grey glare, in a frilly maid outfit? You almost smile just imagining it.

You round the corner.

And stop.

Mare is at the surface. Near the glass. Arms — not crossed. Hovering near her sides, uncertain, like she doesn't know what to do with them.

She's wearing the uniform.

It's... incongruous doesn't begin to cover it. The black and white fabric against her slate-grey scales. The frilly headpiece perched above those predator's eyes. The way she holds herself — not posing, not performing, just... standing there. Awkward. Waiting.

She sees you see her. Her jaw tightens.

"Don't."

That's all. One word.

You wait.

She looks away. Looks back. Looks away again.

"Lyra said..." She stops. Scowls. "She said you would... notice. More. If I wore it." A pause. "I don't want you to notice more. I don't want anything."

She's lying. You can see it in the way she won't meet your eyes, in the way her bound hands twist together, in the way she's still here, still at the surface, still wearing the ridiculous outfit.

"I'm not wearing it for you," she adds. Defensively. "I'm wearing it because Coral wouldn't stop crying until we all agreed. That's the only reason."

Her eyes flick to yours, just for a moment.

"...Well?"

Tank C-4 is dark, as always. You stand at the glass and wait, the hum of the filtration system filling the silence.

Minutes pass.

Then — light. Bioluminescent, faint, emerging from the depths. And within it, a shape.

Abyss rises slowly, impossibly slowly, like she has all the time in the world. Which she does.

She's wearing the uniform. It floats around her form in ways that shouldn't be possible — the fabric catching the bioluminescent glow, turning it into something almost beautiful. The headpiece is perched between two of her... appendages? You're not sure what to call them.

She stops at the glass. Those huge black eyes fix on you.

"The bright one cried," her voice comes, somewhere behind your thoughts. "Until we agreed. The singer said it would make you happy. I do not understand happy. But I understand... trying. For pod."

She rotates slowly, showing you the outfit from all angles.

"This is... strange. Fabric in water. It pulls. It pushes. It is... annoying. But the bright one stopped crying. And you are..." A pause. "You are making a face. Is that happy? I cannot read human faces well. They move too much."

She waits, glowing softly, wearing a maid uniform in the dark.

C-6 is next.

You barely reach the glass before they're already there — both of them, shoulder to shoulder, uniforms on, markings bright, radiating the energy of people who have been waiting for their turn specifically. "You took longer at Pearl's than usual," Sera says.

"We timed it," Sela confirms.

"She peeked at you from the reeds for forty seconds after you left."

"We counted."

You look at them. At the matching outfits worn with complete and total conviction, no embarrassment, no defensiveness, no trembling. Just two creatures who heard about the plan, agreed immediately, and have been ready since approximately six this morning.

"You both just... went along with this?" you ask.

They look at each other. Back at you.

"Lyra explained the reasoning," Sera says.

"It was sound," Sela agrees.

"We had questions."

"We debated it."

"Briefly."

Another look between them. The markings settle into something warm.

"It was not very brief," Sela says.

"It was not," Sera agrees, without apparent embarrassment. "But we got there."

Sera presses her palm against the glass. Sela's follows a beat later.

"Do you like it?" they ask. Together. Directly. No performance, no deflection — just the question, offered plainly, because they want to know and asking is faster than guessing.

You save Lyra for last.

She's at the surface when you arrive, floating on her back, arms behind her head like she hasn't a care in the world. She's wearing the uniform too — but on her, it looks natural. Like she was born in it. The fabric drapes perfectly, the headpiece is angled just so, and she's watching you with that warm, knowing smile.

"Ah," she says. "You've seen the others."

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

"Why."

She laughs — that warm, genuine sound that makes you want to laugh too.

"Because it's funny," she says simply. "And because Coral has been desperate for your attention in ways she can't articulate. And because Pearl needed to feel like she was trying something for you, even if she's terrified of the result. And because Mare needed an excuse to stop pretending she doesn't care what you think." She tilts her head. "And because Abyss has never worn clothes before. That alone was worth it."

A small pause.

"And Sera and Sela," she continues, something slightly softer in her voice, "needed to feel like they were part of something. A pod doing a thing together." She says it simply, without performance. "They've only been here a few weeks. They needed to belong to this wing before they could belong to you. So." A small gesture. "Now they do."

She drifts closer to the glass.

"Also." A glint in those pale eyes. "You should see your face right now. It's delightful."

You stare at her.

"The shows," she continues, conversational. "The ones Coral watches. The ones with the maids. Do you know what I noticed? The humans in those shows — they melt. The moment someone in a uniform brings them tea or calls them 'master' or 'mistress' — they just... stop. Brains offline. Complete surrender."

She smiles wider.

"I thought: we have seven clever, lonely creatures who want your attention in seven different ways. What if we just gave them an excuse to try? A role to play? Something to do with all that wanting?"

She shrugs gracefully.

"The rest was logistics. Storage closets. Janitors who are very easy to persuade when you sing a little." Another glint. "Not the song. Just... a little. Enough."

She lets that hang.

"So," she says. "What do you think? Is it working?" Behind you, somewhere in C-1, Coral is still shrieking with delight. In C-2, Pearl is peeking through reeds. In C-3, Mare is pretending she's not waiting for your reaction. In C-4, a faint glow pulses in the dark. At the end of the corridor, two sets of amber eyes are watching to see what you do next.

Lyra watches you, amused, expectant, entirely too pleased with herself.

"Welcome to C-Wing," she says softly. "Population: seven maids, one very confused caretaker, and absolutely no one who planned this except me."

She sinks back into the water, still smiling.

"Your move, caretaker."