Threat? Challenge? Territory?Her thoughts scatter like startled fish, barely cohesive in their frantic sequence.
I respond in the ancient underwater language, a combination of pressure pulses and bioelectric signals that predates human civilization:Peace. Stillness. Safety.
Her tentacles lash out defensively, one connecting solidly with my torso. Pain blooms across my old wound, but I manage toavoid being wrapped in her grip. A kraken her size could easily crush me if truly threatened.
Who-you-what-you?Her communication is elementary, lacking the nuance of adult speech. Krakens remain with their pods until much older, learning language and customs from the collective. This one is far too young to be alone.
I am a cthulhu. Elder. Friend.I project calm through the bioelectric field surrounding us, a technique my father taught me long ago, before hunters claimed him.Why are you here? Where is your pod?
The kraken’s movements slow as she processes my presence. Above us, more of the ship begins to fragment and sink. I quickly surface and retrieve three more sailors clinging to debris, depositing them on the largest section of intact hull. One clutches a harpoon in white-knuckled terror.
“Stay here,” I instruct in human language, before returning to the kraken.
Her thoughts find more coherence as her panic subsides:Lost. Separated. Selkie found me. Said here safe-waters, but then I saw attack on one-like-me.
Understanding dawns with a cold certainty. The “attack” she witnessed was the theatrical reenactment with the foam kraken. She believed she was coming to the rescue of one of her own kind.
And Sebastian—the selkie—had guided her here deliberately, knowing exactly what might happen.
Not a real attack,I explain, projecting images of human celebration and theater.Pretend-hunt. Memory-ritual. Not a true danger.
Confusion clouds her thoughts as she processes this alien concept.Why mimic killing?
How does one explain human contradiction to a creature of pure instinct? I settle for simplicity:Humans remember through reenactment. They honor the past by reliving it, even the parts that should be forgotten. Now, where are you from?
I sense her location markers and recognize the shoreline she describes as her home—a protected cove nearly eighty miles north where kraken pods have long dwelled in safety.
I can guide you in home-direction, I offer, creating a mental map with current patterns and underwater landmarks.
Cautious gratitude ripples from her consciousness as she absorbs the information.Gratitude. Will seek pod-waters.Her massive form begins to retreat, tentacles tucking close as she prepares for deep swimming.Will remember cthulhu-friend.
As she disappears into deeper water, I turn my attention to the human survivors scattered across the wreckage. Men cling to the largest piece of hull, while others grasp smaller fragments. All require immediate assistance—the shore is too distant for themto reach safely in their current state, especially with the waves shifting unpredictably.
I extend four of my strongest tentacles, each capable of supporting a full-grown human. “Hold on,” I instruct the nearest group. “I’ll transport you to shore.”
Their expressions range from outright terror to desperate relief. One man—Pete, I believe Ashe called him—nods grimly and encourages the others. “Do as the creature says if you want to live, boys.”
It takes three trips to retrieve all the sailors, ferrying them carefully through increasingly choppy waters. By the third journey, exhaustion tugs at my limbs, and the reopened wound throbs painfully.
I hadn’t noticed the kraken’s strike had been so effective.
As I approach the shore for the final time, the weight of many eyes settles upon me. The beach has transformed into a gallery of stunned faces—some frozen in fear, others wide with wonder.
I deposit the final sailors onto the sand, keeping my tentacles submerged enough to retreat quickly if necessary. One sailor stumbles as I release him, and I automatically steady him with a gentle touch. The simple gesture causes several onlookers to flinch.
For a moment, no one moves. The tableau holds—monster and humans, suspended in mutual assessment.
I search for Ashe in the crowd and find her pushing forward, my captain’s jacket still clutched in her arms. Her expression carries no fear, only fierce concern. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her moving toward me while others back away.
Before she can reach me, Marina breaks the silence, stepping decisively into the space between me and the crowd.
“All right, let’s get these men some medical attention,” she announces with the pragmatic authority of someone who has weathered enough storms to recognize which emergencies take precedence. “Tompkins, do you still remember your EMT training? Good—check Pete’s leg. Someone grab the first aid kits from the festival booth.”
She turns to me with a level gaze that contains neither terror nor awe—just practical assessment. “Thank you for saving them.”
Her simple acknowledgment shifts something in the atmosphere, but the moment of potential acceptance shatters as Sebastian pushes through the crowd, his elaborate costume now slightly disheveled but his voice carrying with theatrical precision.
“See the monster among us!” he calls, gesturing dramatically toward me. “This was their plan all along—infiltrate our town, attack during our celebration!”
