debut, part one [for Magnus]
If Magnus said this vampire squid was a docile creature one more time, Will was just going to completely lose his shit. She kept saying the word docile like it actually applied to this crazy animal who had gone from happy-go-lucky cephalopod to air-rage squid in a manner of a second, and nearly killed him in the process.
Stupid tentacles were giving him a rash.
Not that Magnus cared. She was apparently getting some kind of perverse pleasure in telling him that he couldn't go to Iceland, insisting that his interest in the psychology conference had nothing to do with psychoanalytic theories and everything to do with Sigrid, who she'd dubbed his internet chat friend in a tone practically dripping with disgust. So it was okay for the Big Guy and Henry to go surfing in Tasmania, but not okay for Will to go somewhere that would actually be beneficial to their work?
Right.
Will stewed over this for a little bit while Magnus dove down to one of the oil rig's maintenance portals, hoping to find an access to the outside in order to send a distress beacon. Since Squidly down there seemed to hate him a whole lot more than it hated Magnus, Will was staying up on the surface as a distraction.
Squidbait, for lack of a better word.
So he sat there on the edge of the wrecked copter and thought about how instead of freezing his ass off in a dive suit in an abandoned oil rig, he could be learning Icelandic phrases, discussing psychoanalytic theories over cocktails and chatting with fresh-faced women with great sounding names like Goodmansdottir.
***
Vampire squid were supposed to be docile creatures. Helen clung to this as she dove deeper, trying her best to fit the helicopter transponder through the narrow grates of the maintenance shaft. Why, only an hour ago she and Will had been loading up their particularly lucky find and gearing the chopper for the flight back to the US mainland. It was to be a quick and easy capture with boundless opportunities for research once she'd gotten the squid back to the Sanctuary in Old City and even Will could go on his bloody stupid trip to Iceland to spend time with Sigrid or whatever her name had been. Truthfully, she'd tuned out a little when he'd started whining about it; it was something approaching unbecoming to be so open about a romantic tryst with someone you barely knew.
And now, barely an hour later, she was free diving over thirty feet in an attempt to get a signal out so that someone would think to come rescue them from the abandoned oil rig. Filing the phony flight plan had seemed a stroke of brilliance before, a way to ensure that their precious cargo would be far away from prying and exploitative eyes, but now it seemed another strike of bad luck. Helen still wasn't sure how the helicopter had gone down and her attempts to think through it logically had been thoughtfully derailed by said vampire squid's irrational display of territorial aggression. She would think through it later, after she'd gotten home and was ensconced in the warmth of her office with a cup of tea and not while swimming so deeply that her head was starting to ache from the change in pressure.
She kicked, trying to focus on the movement of the muscles in her legs and the sure strokes of her arms, muscles working in a glorious concert. Thinking about this, the simple propulsion of her body, would distract her from other, more dire concerns. The squid was nowhere to be seen, after all, and there was no sense in worrying herself over things that could not be changed. A long life tended to cure even the most worrisome human of that aspect and Helen liked to think she'd left undue worry and stress in the past. For now, her hand was just in reach of the maintenance grate, long, manicured fingers brushing against the rusted metal as her other hand gripped the transponder like a life raft.
She'd been stranded at sea exactly once before and as Helen slipped her hand through the grate she thought about that night. April 14, 1912. The North Atlantic. They'd all said the Titanic was an unsinkable ship but Helen had seen the schematics, knew the engineering failings. If only they'd let someone else check the design before setting her to sail. It was a harsh memory, stark amongst the hazy pastels of her life, and she still remembered the way her fingers curled around her life jacket, the way her breath made puffs in the frigid air. She was one of a very lucky few who was pulled from the water that night, hauled into a boat by Molly Brown herself, and from that point on Helen had decided she'd never get stranded at sea again.
That sentiment had lasted for nearly a hundred years but, like all things, came to a sudden halt. Helen pulled at her hand, her memories distracting her for precious seconds and now, it seemed, she was stuck. The harder she pulled the more it seemed to catch and she struggled beneath the water, the sharp grate bruising her knuckles and catching at her fingers. Her lungs burned for want of oxygen and Helen tried to resist hyperventilating, knowing that would only serve to poison her more quickly with the carbon dioxide rapidly building up behind her mask. The mask had gone foggy from condensation and, exhausted from her struggle, Helen went limp. Will would come. He would have to know she'd been down too long.
***
But even though he was stewing over the fact he'd been told no, you can't go, it didn't escape his attention that Magnus had been down there way too long for a free dive. Something had to have gone wrong, and he was doubly sure of it when he heard the creaky hum of some machinery coming to life. Outrage and squid both forgotten, he strapped on his mask and dove in. And he was right to be worried; the air vents had cycled on, pulling Magnus's arm into the vent and trapping her there underwater. He grabbed her, trying to pull her free; she shook her head and pointed to the surface.
No. Will shook his head, hard; he wasn't leaving her down here. His lungs were screaming for air, desperate for oxygen, and he could only imagine how Magnus felt. She'd been down here a lot longer. But it wasn't till the system purged itself and shut off--and Magnus had gone frighteningly limp--that he could work her arm free of the vent and haul her to the surface.
A surface that was much, much different than he expected. Instead of an abandoned oil rig and a useless helicopter, there was open water, soaking rain, and a lush, tropical island shore just within view.
Maybe Squidly had given him another beating with those tentacles and knocked him out when he wasn't looking, because this had to be one hell of a hallucination.
"Magnus?"
Stupid tentacles were giving him a rash.
Not that Magnus cared. She was apparently getting some kind of perverse pleasure in telling him that he couldn't go to Iceland, insisting that his interest in the psychology conference had nothing to do with psychoanalytic theories and everything to do with Sigrid, who she'd dubbed his internet chat friend in a tone practically dripping with disgust. So it was okay for the Big Guy and Henry to go surfing in Tasmania, but not okay for Will to go somewhere that would actually be beneficial to their work?
Right.
Will stewed over this for a little bit while Magnus dove down to one of the oil rig's maintenance portals, hoping to find an access to the outside in order to send a distress beacon. Since Squidly down there seemed to hate him a whole lot more than it hated Magnus, Will was staying up on the surface as a distraction.
Squidbait, for lack of a better word.
So he sat there on the edge of the wrecked copter and thought about how instead of freezing his ass off in a dive suit in an abandoned oil rig, he could be learning Icelandic phrases, discussing psychoanalytic theories over cocktails and chatting with fresh-faced women with great sounding names like Goodmansdottir.
***
Vampire squid were supposed to be docile creatures. Helen clung to this as she dove deeper, trying her best to fit the helicopter transponder through the narrow grates of the maintenance shaft. Why, only an hour ago she and Will had been loading up their particularly lucky find and gearing the chopper for the flight back to the US mainland. It was to be a quick and easy capture with boundless opportunities for research once she'd gotten the squid back to the Sanctuary in Old City and even Will could go on his bloody stupid trip to Iceland to spend time with Sigrid or whatever her name had been. Truthfully, she'd tuned out a little when he'd started whining about it; it was something approaching unbecoming to be so open about a romantic tryst with someone you barely knew.
And now, barely an hour later, she was free diving over thirty feet in an attempt to get a signal out so that someone would think to come rescue them from the abandoned oil rig. Filing the phony flight plan had seemed a stroke of brilliance before, a way to ensure that their precious cargo would be far away from prying and exploitative eyes, but now it seemed another strike of bad luck. Helen still wasn't sure how the helicopter had gone down and her attempts to think through it logically had been thoughtfully derailed by said vampire squid's irrational display of territorial aggression. She would think through it later, after she'd gotten home and was ensconced in the warmth of her office with a cup of tea and not while swimming so deeply that her head was starting to ache from the change in pressure.
She kicked, trying to focus on the movement of the muscles in her legs and the sure strokes of her arms, muscles working in a glorious concert. Thinking about this, the simple propulsion of her body, would distract her from other, more dire concerns. The squid was nowhere to be seen, after all, and there was no sense in worrying herself over things that could not be changed. A long life tended to cure even the most worrisome human of that aspect and Helen liked to think she'd left undue worry and stress in the past. For now, her hand was just in reach of the maintenance grate, long, manicured fingers brushing against the rusted metal as her other hand gripped the transponder like a life raft.
She'd been stranded at sea exactly once before and as Helen slipped her hand through the grate she thought about that night. April 14, 1912. The North Atlantic. They'd all said the Titanic was an unsinkable ship but Helen had seen the schematics, knew the engineering failings. If only they'd let someone else check the design before setting her to sail. It was a harsh memory, stark amongst the hazy pastels of her life, and she still remembered the way her fingers curled around her life jacket, the way her breath made puffs in the frigid air. She was one of a very lucky few who was pulled from the water that night, hauled into a boat by Molly Brown herself, and from that point on Helen had decided she'd never get stranded at sea again.
That sentiment had lasted for nearly a hundred years but, like all things, came to a sudden halt. Helen pulled at her hand, her memories distracting her for precious seconds and now, it seemed, she was stuck. The harder she pulled the more it seemed to catch and she struggled beneath the water, the sharp grate bruising her knuckles and catching at her fingers. Her lungs burned for want of oxygen and Helen tried to resist hyperventilating, knowing that would only serve to poison her more quickly with the carbon dioxide rapidly building up behind her mask. The mask had gone foggy from condensation and, exhausted from her struggle, Helen went limp. Will would come. He would have to know she'd been down too long.
***
But even though he was stewing over the fact he'd been told no, you can't go, it didn't escape his attention that Magnus had been down there way too long for a free dive. Something had to have gone wrong, and he was doubly sure of it when he heard the creaky hum of some machinery coming to life. Outrage and squid both forgotten, he strapped on his mask and dove in. And he was right to be worried; the air vents had cycled on, pulling Magnus's arm into the vent and trapping her there underwater. He grabbed her, trying to pull her free; she shook her head and pointed to the surface.
No. Will shook his head, hard; he wasn't leaving her down here. His lungs were screaming for air, desperate for oxygen, and he could only imagine how Magnus felt. She'd been down here a lot longer. But it wasn't till the system purged itself and shut off--and Magnus had gone frighteningly limp--that he could work her arm free of the vent and haul her to the surface.
A surface that was much, much different than he expected. Instead of an abandoned oil rig and a useless helicopter, there was open water, soaking rain, and a lush, tropical island shore just within view.
Maybe Squidly had given him another beating with those tentacles and knocked him out when he wasn't looking, because this had to be one hell of a hallucination.
"Magnus?"