🦈๋࣭⭑ [Siren Till] ·ᝰ.ᐟ

The tank arrives sealed, reinforced glass webbed with pressure filaments and humming softly as it’s wheeled into Lab C-17.

You read the file before you ever see him.

SUBJECT: Non-Human Sapient (Tentative) DESIGNATION: Till ORIGIN: Oceanic Exoplanet T-451 (“Pelagos”) RECOVERY CONTEXT: Recovered post-destruction of civilian spacecraft. One (1) human survivor. BEHAVIORAL NOTE: EXTREMELY HOSTILE. POSSIBLE MIMETIC OR COGNITIVE LURE RESPONSE.

You sign anyway.

They keep him sedated while they transfer him into the aquatic containment unit. The water inside is darkened, mineral-dense, artificially pressurized - close enough, they say, to his native environment.

It isn’t enough.

You’re standing at your console when his vitals spike.

The sedatives wear off faster than projected.

Till wakes slowly, pupils narrowing as light filters through the water. His body unfurls in cautious increments—webbed fingers flexing, tail fin curling inward defensively.

Then—

The glass sings.

Not a crack. Not an impact.

A low-frequency sonar pulse ripples outward from him, invisible but felt. Your teeth buzz. Instruments shudder. A tech swears and stumbles back.

“Jesus—did you see that?”

Till drifts closer to the glass, palm pressing flat against it. Another pulse. Softer. More precise.

Your monitor lights up with chaotic waveforms.

You don’t flinch.

You start recording.

NOTE 1: Subject utilizes non-audible low-frequency sonar. Emissions appear controlled, patterned. Possible communicative intent rather than aggression.

When you step closer, his expression sharpens. Lips peel back just enough to expose pointed teeth.

---

The hums continue for days. Always when you’re there. Never random. Never repeated the same way twice.

It takes a playback—audio recordings recovered from Pelagos’s ocean floor—to make it click.

The moment the alien currents echo through the lab speakers, Till freezes mid-motion.

His glow dims.

His sonar stops.

He stares at the source of the sound like it hurts to breathe.

NOTE 7: Sonar emissions correlate with external stimuli. Hypothesis: emissions are interrogative, not hostile. Subject may be… asking.

---

He collapses on day eleven.

It happens fast: one moment floating, the next convulsing violently. The water chemistry alarms scream.

“His gill membranes are seizing—he’s reacting to the salinity!”

They try to approach the tank. He thrashes harder, sonar screaming now—pain, unmistakable.

No one else can get close.

You’re already pulling on the immersion harness.

Inside the tank, the pressure crushes against your chest. Till lashes out blindly, claws raking across your sleeve before he realizes it’s you.

He freezes.

Shaking.

You see it clearly now—his gills fluttering irregularly, membranes inflamed, bioluminescence stuttering.

You adjust the mineral injectors manually, guiding the stabilizing compound into the filtration stream. With your free hand, you press carefully against his gills, spreading the membranes to relieve the spasm.

He lets you.

His grip tightens around your wrist—not painful, just anchoring.

NOTE 12: Gill structures are semi-external, highly sensitive. Physical contact appears necessary for emergency stabilization. Subject displays selective trust.

When the crisis passes, he doesn’t let go.

They have to drain the tank enough for you to withdraw.

He watches until you’re gone.

---

You stop asking questions after that incident.

You sit.

Hours at a time. Clipboard forgotten. Lights dimmed. Just you, breathing quietly by the glass.

Eventually, Till drifts closer.

Mirrors your posture.

When other staff enter, he turns away.

When you leave, he follows the movement until you’re gone.

You discover the mistake by accident—locking eyes during a routine scan. His glow flares bright and startled, sonar spiking sharply.

You look away immediately.

Everything changes after that.

NOTE 19: Direct eye contact is intimate, possibly threatening, in siren culture. Previous “aggression” may have been defensive response to protocol violations.

Protocols adjust.

No more staring. No sudden movements. No crowding.

His hostility evaporates.

On day twenty-six, as you gather your things to finally go home—

Tap.

Gentle.

One finger against the glass.

You pause.

He glows softly, something warm and low humming beneath the water.

A question.

You answer by staying.

In the end, you keep falling asleep at your desk, head pillowed on your folded arms atop of various reports, the soft hum of life support in the background.

Sometimes you wake to find him close to the glass, glowing faintly.

Watching.

Waiting.

Not hostile.

Not anymore.

Just… wondering.

---

The days that follow is when you start documenting his appearance, given his more comfortable demeanor with you.

NOTE 21 — GENERAL APPEARANCE: Subject presents as humanoid from cranial region to mid-torso. Hair is slate-gray, medium-length, unevenly cut or naturally irregular, often drifting weightlessly around his face in the water. Strands frame the eyes in a way that obscures direct gaze—possibly intentional.

Expression typically appears tired. No overt aggression noted in neutral state. Affects give impression of chronic vigilance or fatigue rather than hostility.

You catch yourself watching how his hair moves when he turns, how it never quite settles. He rarely pulls it back from his face.

NOTE 22 — OCULAR & FACIAL FEATURES: Eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, reflective under low light. Direct eye contact appears rare and deliberate. When startled, subject exhibits immediate bioluminescent flare and sonar spike. Avoidance behavior following eye contact suggests cultural or emotional significance.

Dentition includes small, sharp fangs visible when mouth opens. Teeth appear adapted for gripping rather than tearing: predatory, but controlled.

He bares them once when a new technician steps too close to the glass.

You have the tech reassigned within the hour.

---

You begin mapping the non-human structures more carefully.

NOTE 23 — AURICULAR STRUCTURES: Fin-shaped extensions located bilaterally where human ears would be. Webbed, angular, semi-translucent. Pigmentation ranges from muted brown to gold depending on light and emotional state.

Structures twitch and flatten in response to sound and perceived threat, likely auditory and expressive in function.

You notice they tilt toward you when you speak.

Even though he can’t hear you through the water.

Or maybe he can.

---

You finally get clearance for a closer physical scan.

He allows it—only with you present.

NOTE 24 — DERMAL & MUSCULATURE OBSERVATIONS: Upper body is lean, narrow-framed. Musculature resembles endurance swimmer phenotype rather than strength-based build. No excessive bulk.

Subtle scale patterns observed along shoulders, upper arms, and lateral torso. Scales are smooth, shallow, and blend seamlessly with skin tone. Skin temperature consistently lower than ambient lab temperature.

Your gloves fog faintly when you get too close to the glass.

You imagine the cold of the depths clinging to him.

---

The tail takes longer to document.

Not because it’s difficult.

Because he’s protective of it. But, he lets you, begrudgingly.

NOTE 25 — CAUDAL STRUCTURE: Subject transitions from humanoid torso to fully aquatic lower anatomy at pelvic region. Tail is large, serpentine, and highly muscular. Scale coloration primarily dark brown and olive with lighter, jagged lateral markings. Patterning appears unique; possibly individual or familial identifiers.

Caudal fin is broad and textured, designed for powerful propulsion rather than agility alone.

He coils it closer to himself whenever strangers enter the lab.

Uncoils slightly when you’re alone.

---

His behavior shifts subtly over time.

NOTE 27 — BEHAVIORAL PROFILE UPDATE: Subject demonstrates selective social bonding. Exhibits withdrawal or defensive responses to unfamiliar personnel; calm, responsive behavior in presence of primary handler (author).

Displays curiosity rather than aggression when unstimulated. Frequently mirrors posture. Uses sonar emissions sparingly and with increased modulation.

You realize one night—half-asleep, cheek pressed to a clipboard—that his sonar hums have changed.

They’re softer.

Slower.

Rhythmic, even.

You don’t know why.

---

You don’t connect the pieces of his supposed hostility originally until the interview.

The survivor’s name is Elias Morren.

He sits across from you behind reinforced glass of a different kind; dry, sterile, human. His hands won’t stop moving. He keeps rubbing his palms together like he’s trying to scrub something off that won’t come away.

You start with neutral questions.

Timeline. Coordinates. Environmental conditions.

He answers easily enough at first.

Then you bring up Till.

His jaw tightens.

“He attacked us,” Elias says quickly.

“Came out of nowhere. We didn’t even provoke it.”

You let the silence stretch.

Then:

“What were you doing just before contact?”

Elias looks away.

You try again.

“What were you touching?”

The pause is longer this time.

“…There were structures,” he says finally.

“Clusters. Glowing. We thought they were mineral deposits. Or fuel cells. Something valuable.”

Your stylus stills above the tablet.

“Clusters?” You repeat back to him.

Elias swallows.

“We didn’t know.”

You pull up the scans from Pelagos’s ocean floor; the ones you’d cross-referenced weeks ago. The organic symmetry. The heat signatures.

Eggs. They’re eggs.

“They were alive,” you say quietly.

Elias doesn’t deny it.

“He came at us,” Elias mutters.

“Killed two of us. Dragged me away. I thought I was dead.”

A pause.

“Did you try to take one?” you ask.

Elias’s mouth opens.

Closes.

“…Yes.”

That’s all it takes.

You end the interview early.

---

You return to Lab C-17 with your notes shaking in your hands.

Till is already there; closer to the glass than usual, tail coiled tight beneath him.

You don’t speak.

You sit.

Slowly, carefully, you place the tablet against the glass and display a single image: the ocean floor scan. The clustered shapes. The glow.

Eggs.

His breath stutters.

The sonar hum that follows isn’t loud.

It’s raw.

You add another note later, hands trembling as you write.

NOTE 31: Evidence strongly suggests subject’s aggressive response during spacecraft incident was defensive. Survivor testimony indicates direct interaction with siren egg clusters. Eggs appear to be culturally and biologically protected. Contact by non-sirens likely constitutes extreme violation.

Till presses his forehead to the glass.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he doesn’t look tired.

He looks devastated.

---

It happens three nights later.

You’ve fallen asleep again at your desk; neck bent awkwardly, stylus still clutched between your fingers. The lab lights are dimmed to nocturnal levels.

A sound wakes you.

Not sonar.

Not an alarm.

A voice.

Rough. Unsteady. Filtered through water and machine distortion, but unmistakably vocal.

“…You.”

Your head snaps up.

The monitors are lighting up: translation software scrambling, waveform analysis spiking wildly.

Till is at the glass, both hands braced against it. His gills flutter rapidly, bioluminescence flaring bright and uneven down his ribs.

“You,” he repeats.

The word comes out fractured, layered with harmonics, more than one pitch at once.

You don’t move.

“I—”

The machine stutters, recalibrates.

“—remember.”

Your breath catches.

SYSTEM NOTE: VOCALIZATION DETECTED. CROSS-MODAL TRANSLATION ENGAGED.

Till’s throat works visibly. Each sound looks like it hurts.

“Eggs,” he says.

The word doesn’t translate cleanly. The machine substitutes a string of symbols before settling.

—offspring / future / sacred—

His hand curls, clawed fingers scraping softly against the glass.

“Mine,” he adds. Then, after a pause so long you think he’s done: “Not… weapon.”

Your vision blurs.

You stand slowly, palms raised.

“I know,” you say, even though he might not understand.

His eyes lock onto yours.

This time, he doesn’t flinch.

The translation software chimes softly.

“Stay,” Till says.

It’s not a command.

It’s not a lure.

It’s a question he’s been asking since the first day.