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Wednesday, October 5th, 2253 – 6:02 am

Jeremiah's Apartment

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The soft chime of the wall clock tugged Jeremiah out of the half-doze he'd slipped into at the kitchen counter. Stale, bitter coffee coated his tongue, and a dull ache pressed behind his eyes — a lingering echo of dreams filled with firelit wings and ash drifting down like snow.

With a groan, he shoved back his chair and rubbed at his face. His small apartment was still dim with early morning, the air holding the faint tang of old grounds and spice from last night's dishes. He crossed the short stretch of living room to where Billy's tank sat like a glowing reef in the corner.

The water shimmered with its faint, steady blue glow, the filter humming a rhythm almost too quiet to hear. Jeremiah tapped his knuckles against the glass.

"Morning, buddy. Ready to head to the shop?"

Inside, Billy stirred with sluggish reluctance. The little kraken uncurled from the cracked plastic hull of the sunken ship that served as his 'room'. Tentacles dragged across the sand as he hauled himself partway out, mantle drooping, golden eyes blinking up at Jeremiah without their usual spark.

The exuberant burst of joy that normally greeted him — that fizzy warmth through the bond that made mornings bearable — never came. Instead, Jeremiah felt a heavy wash of fatigue seep across their link. It was sour at the edges, unbalanced, carrying a quiet throb of something that bit sharper than tiredness. Shame, maybe.

Jeremiah crouched beside the tank, forearms resting on the rim. "Still upset about last night?" he asked quietly. He tried to muster a smile, even forced a note of cheer into his voice. "Don't beat yourself up. The System said those berries were safe — how were we supposed to know they'd hit you like that? Happens to the best of us."

Billy gave a half-hearted twitch of one tentacle, the gesture weak, almost reluctant. What came through their bond was no better: the dull, throbbing echo of a hangover, laced with shame. Jeremiah winced, the realization hitting him. It hadn't only been the berry haze clouding Billy's judgment. The little kraken must have eaten some during their sweep, more than enough to fog his focus and leave him raw now — weighed down by the memory of how close his recklessness had come to burning them both.

"Hey," Jeremiah tried again, softer this time. "I don't blame you. Not for a second. We made it out, didn't we? And without you, we'd have never stumbled onto the Ferrospark Beetles. Without them, we'd have never been able to save the flock."

For a moment, Billy held his gaze — unblinking, golden eyes heavy with something that felt far older than the little body that held them. Then came a sharp, almost human huff, and he slipped backward into the hollow of the toy ship. His mantle disappeared last, leaving only the slow sway of water and a pulse of stubborn rejection as he pulled their bond tight, shutters slamming closed.

The sudden quiet in his head left Jeremiah's chest hollow. He rested his forehead against the glass, sighed once, and let it go. Pushing wouldn't help. Sometimes he still forgot just how sharp Billy was becoming — how quick he learned, how deeply he felt. That intelligence seemed to stretch a little further every day, and with it came moods Jeremiah wasn't always sure how to navigate.

At last, he straightened. With a flick of thought, the familiar ripple of System light shimmered across his vision. Billy's status screen hovered above the tank in crisp, cold lines.

—✦—

Billy Bridge

Species: Polaris Kraken

Bond Level: [Tier I] - ☆☆

Bond Points: 35/250

Beast Skills - <3/3>: N/A [✚]

Grade: G - 8.05

Mental - (G): 2.25

Physical - (G): 0.7

Supernatural - (G): 5.1

—✦—

Jeremiah studied the numbers, noting the steady growth. The tiny kraken was smarter, tougher, and more resilient than when Jeremiah had first held his bowl. It should have been reassuring. He'd even broken into G-8! Instead, it only deepened the knot of worry coiled in his gut. Growth was good, yes. But growing meant changing.

He dismissed the screen with a thought and gathered his satchel. One last glance at the shipwreck showed no sign of movement, only a faint ripple of water.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath, "you take the day off."

Before heading out, Jeremiah stepped into the hall and rapped on the door across from his own. It swung open a moment later to reveal Mr. Roger in a faded undershirt, his broad frame filling the doorway. The sailor's weathered face split into a grin the instant he saw him.

"Mornin', lad! You're up early."

Jeremiah shifted awkwardly, one hand still on his satchel strap. "Uh — hey, Mr. Rog—David. I, um… I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

One dark brow arched, amused. "Favor, is it? What kind?"

"It's Billy," Jeremiah admitted. He rubbed the back of his neck. "He's… not feeling great today. I might be out late, and I don't want to leave him alone too long. Would you mind… checking in on him? Just for the day?"

For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across the old sailor's face. Then the grin returned, broad and warm. "Of course. Be glad to. I'll keep him company, don't you worry."

Relief loosened the tension in Jeremiah's shoulders. "Thanks. Really. I appreciate it."

David chuckled, leaning an arm against the doorframe. "Go on, lad. You've got a shop to run. Leave things to me."

Jeremiah offered a grateful nod and turned toward the stairwell. As the door shut behind him, he adjusted the strap of his satchel and drew in a steadying breath.

Time to face the day. The shop wasn't going to run itself.

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Billy sulked in the cool hollow of his little shipwreck, mantle pressed flat against the cracked plastic walls. The water filter hummed overhead in its steady rhythm, a sound he usually found soothing. Today, it only made the silence feel heavier. His tentacles curled tight against his body, shame simmering at the edges of his mind. He hated the sour weight of it, hated how it pressed down and made his thoughts thick and slow.

A knock rattled through the apartment door.

Billy's eyes narrowed, and he sank deeper into shadow, curling tighter into the hollow. Jeremiah must have changed his mind. He was coming back to scold him, maybe drag him along to the shop after all. Billy pressed his mantle down hard against the sand on the ship's floor, as if burying himself deeper might make him invisible.

The door creaked open. Footsteps crossed the room.

"Morning, lad. Where've you gone off to, hm?"

Billy froze. That wasn't Jeremiah. That was Uncle Roger.

For a heartbeat, a spark of excitement pulsed through him, bright and sharp, like the bubble of a rising current. His tentacles twitched toward the edge of the ship, but then the shame returned, heavy and sour, dragging the spark down into the hollow with him. He turned his head away, refusing to budge.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

A shadow fell across the water. Billy peeked out just enough to see Uncle Roger's eyes, bright and steady, peering into the little plastic wreck.

Billy let out a stream of bubbles that popped against the surface in sharp little bursts. His intent was clear enough: Go away. Leave me alone.

Uncle Roger's brow furrowed, the frown soft but unmistakable. He didn't push. He only nodded once, like he understood, and straightened. Billy watched through the crooked doorway as the old sailor crossed the room. A cabinet squeaked open, and something clinked against porcelain. Moments later, Uncle Roger walked back into view, kettle in one hand, a small plate in the other.

The plate glistened.

Billy's stomach gave a loud, traitorous growl.

Two shrimp lay on the dish, their shells bright coral and blue. The scent hit the water almost immediately — faint, salty-sweet, promising. Billy's eyes widened, then narrowed. He flicked his mantle and turned his head. No.

On a normal day, Jeremiah would have fed him by now. Ever since the shop opened, Jeremiah always gave him breakfast with the puppies, sometimes even a lick of cream from the glorious eclairs. But Jeremiah wasn't here. He'd left Billy behind.

Uncle Roger settled into the chair beside the small coffee table in plain view of Billy, kettle whistling faintly as he poured steaming tea into a mug. He cradled it in his scarred hands, took a slow sip, and when he noticed Billy's eyes peeking from the shadows, he smiled.

Billy puffed up, mantle flaring wide, tentacles splaying in stubborn indignation. He knew what Uncle Roger was doing. Trying to lure him out with food. Billy wasn't going to fall for it!

Billy chose to ignore the many (many) times he had, in fact, fallen for it. Billy had been young and foolish then!

The shrimp glistened anyway.

Minutes dripped past. The kettle cooled. The apartment filled with the warm, earthy scent of tea leaves. Billy's stomach growled again, louder, a bubbling roar that echoed in the large tank. He pressed his tentacles tight against his mantle, as if that could muffle the sound.

When he dared to peek again, Uncle Roger was still there. Same chair, same calm presence, like he'd never moved. Except now there were two pots of tea on the table. Waiting.

And the shrimp.

Billy's eyes widened in horror. The shrimp's edges had softened. Their shells, once sharp and gleaming, were beginning to sag, to lose that bright firmness he loved.

Limpy shrimp.

A shudder ran down his mantle. Billy hated limpy shrimp!

But if he didn't eat them soon… that's exactly what they'd be.

His stomach growled again, louder this time, and Billy nearly whimpered.

He pressed himself flat to the plastic wall of his shipwreck, torn between pride and hunger, watching the shrimp slip further and further into ruin.

Uncle Roger grinned into his tea as the tiny kraken's golden eyes kept flicking back toward the plate, retreating into his toy ship only to peek out again a moment later. The poor thing looked like he was fighting a full-scale battle between pride and appetite. Uncle Roger let the silence draw out, the smell of the shrimp thickening in the water until it was almost cruel. At last, he leaned forward, picked up the plate with exaggerated care, and sighed.

"Well now," he said, voice carrying a note of mock regret, "if you really don't want them, lad, I suppose I won't force you. Shame to let 'em go to waste, though. Guess I'll just take these back to the kitchen."

He pushed himself up from the chair, making as if to turn away.

The response was instant.

Billy shot out of the shipwreck like a harpoon, tentacles flailing, mantle puffed in frantic indignation. A burst of bubbles rolled across the tank as his eyes tracked after the shrimp.

Uncle Roger threw his head back and laughed, the sound warm and rumbling. "Knew it!" He chuckled as he crossed to the tank instead, plate in hand. "Knew you couldn't hold out."

He leaned over, ready to drop the shrimp into the water, but Billy had other plans. The little kraken surged upward, and the tank itself rippled as his bubble armor snapped into place with a liquid shimmer. In a heartbeat, he breached the surface, riding a sphere of water that lifted him free. Droplets rained across Uncle Roger's arms and the floor as Billy hovered, the shrimp plate reflected in the gleaming dome.

Uncle Roger's eyes went wide, then wider, before a booming laugh spilled out of him. "Maker's bones, lad! That's a new trick! Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

Billy swiveled toward him, smugness radiating so plainly it needed no words. A pair of tentacles flicked forward, and the shrimp slid neatly off the plate into his watery bubble. He tucked them close and began to eat, cracking the softened shells with practiced precision.

Uncle Roger shook his head, still chuckling, and carried the empty plate back to the table. "Show-off," he muttered fondly. He settled back into his chair, tea steaming between his palms, and watched as Billy devoured his prize.

For a moment, the kraken hovered uncertainly above the tank, gaze darting between the cool safety of the water and the steady figure of the old sailor. Then, with a determined flick, Billy drifted across the short gap and plopped down on the table with a splash of droplets, bubble wobbling but intact.

Uncle Roger didn't speak, only smiled — gentle and patient, his scarred hands steady around the mug. The silence stretched, companionable now.

Time passed in the soft clink of porcelain and the faint crackle of shrimp shells. When at last Billy finished, wiping the last morsel against the curve of his bubble, Uncle Roger set his cup down with deliberate care.

"Jeremiah told me you weren't feeling well today," he said quietly.

Billy stiffened, tentacles curling in tight against his mantle. His gaze darted toward the tank, as if measuring the distance for a quick escape.

Uncle Roger lifted one hand in a placating gesture, his tone easy. "Don't bolt on me, lad. I'm not here to pry. If you don't want to talk about it, I won't force you." He leaned back in his chair, eyes soft with the weight of years. "But in my experience, talking to someone helps. Even if the other person's got no answers, even if all they do is sit and listen… it can take a load off your shoulders."

His mouth twitched into a grin. "Or your tentacles, as the case may be."

The words lingered in the warm air, waiting.

Billy hesitated.

The air smelled of tea and shrimp shells, faint and briny, clinging to the table's wood. The hum of the filter pressed steadily at the edges of the room. Billy lay heavy in his bubble, tentacles slack, mantle sagging.

Uncle Roger waited. No urging, no words. Just his broad hands wrapped around a cooling mug, his gaze steady and patient.

Billy twitched. A pulse of intent flickered outward — jagged, sour — then drew back again. Another ripple followed, heavier this time. His tentacles uncurled and began to move.

One traced a curve through the air: a wing. Another flared out sharp, jagged. His mantle ballooned, puffed wide, then collapsed flat. Heat bled out of him — fire, searing, then panic. In Roger's mind it came like flashes, half-sensations more than pictures: wings catching light, leaves turned to ash, the taste of fear.

The old sailor's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt. Just nodded once, slow, like a man catching the rhythm of a song.

Billy's gestures quickened. He darted up, bubble rippling as though chasing some unseen prey — then stopped short, tentacles curling in on themselves, mantle trembling. The emotions that pulsed out were sharper now: wild exhilaration, the lurch of a drop, then a crushing weight of shame.

His eyes narrowed, golden and unblinking, braced for reproach.

Instead, Roger took a long sip of his tea, set the cup down, and spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "So that's how it was, eh? Thought you were flying, but found yourself falling."

Billy froze. The water around him stilled. His mantle quivered faintly, confusion rippling through him.

Roger chuckled, soft and low, and tapped thick fingers against the table. "Don't look so shocked, lad. I've seen enough men take the same knock. You catch the wind, think it'll carry you forever — then the storm teaches otherwise. Happens. To everyone."

Billy sagged again, mantle pressing flat against the wood. His thoughts pressed outward, not in words, but a dull throb of intent and emotion: But I ruined it. I made him run. I almost —

Roger leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice quiet. "So… what next?"

Billy stilled, staring up at him. His tentacles tangled themselves in an anxious knot, mantle flickering with confused color. That wasn't what he'd expected. No scolding. No command. Just those two words, sitting heavy in the air.

Roger leaned back in his chair, folding thick arms across his chest. His voice came low and steady, carrying the weight of someone who'd steered green sailors through storms and worse.

"You've told me what happened. You've told me where you think you failed. But I'll ask again: what next? You gonna hole up in your wreck, sulking till the tide carries you wherever it pleases? Or are you gonna take the wheel yourself and make damn sure the next run goes different?"

Billy twitched at the words, mantle rippling with unease. Tentacles writhed across the tabletop, tracing restless spirals as the emotions inside him tumbled and broke like waves against a reef. A fresh projection flared through the space between them — fire, fear, the bitter sting of failure — but this time it came threaded with something smaller, quieter. A glimmer, like the faintest spark clinging to damp tinder: determination.

Roger's mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Aye. There it is." He tipped his chin in approval. "You don't have to get it all right, lad. Not today, not tomorrow. You just have to be willing to try again. That's the only way any of us learn."

Billy hesitated, mantle pulsing once, then gave a sharp bob of his body — a tiny nod, quick and firm.

"Good." Roger tapped a finger against the wood, each rap deliberate. "That's all you need. Don't waste yourself drowning in guilt over waters already sailed. You take what you've learned, and you use it to chart a steadier course next time."

The little kraken tilted his head, golden eyes still uncertain. But the crushing shame that had weighed down every motion no longer pressed so hard. Tentacles uncurled, stretching wider, curling faintly at the tips in something close to relief. The sour ache in his soul lingered, faint and stubborn, yet it mingled now with something sturdier — resolve, just a spark now, but still real.

"What next?" Roger asked again, softer this time, more coaxing than challenge.

Billy thought about it. His mantle swelled, then dipped, then he raised two tentacles high in mock dramatics — like wings, but steadier this time. The projection that followed carried both hesitation and hope: Next time… I'll do better.

Roger's grin widened, teeth flashing as his laugh rumbled like distant surf. "That's the spirit, lad."

Billy puffed up at the approval, his little body glowing faintly with warmth. He still didn't feel whole, not yet, but the sour weight had eased. It was like Uncle Roger had said. Talking — even like this — had helped.

They stayed there a long while after, the silence companionable now. Roger shared stories of storms and far-off coasts, of ships that creaked like old bones and men who drank too much rum. Billy answered with flicks of tentacles, bursts of curiosity, or the occasional smug bubble of approval when Roger exaggerated a tale.

By the time the morning sun spilled across the apartment's small window, Billy was perched contentedly in his bubble again, mantle draped in quiet ease. Uncle Roger still sat with him, tea long gone cold, grin tugging at his lips as he watched the little kraken finally relax.

The day had only just begun, but already, Billy felt lighter.

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