Amity Reef Research Trip

by Emptyspaces0879

Summary:

“There’s a lone orca who guards the wrecks. Name’s Quint.”
“Lone?”
“If he’s not expecting you,” Brody said, serious now, “I’d advise you don’t go. He doesn’t like company.”
“Orcas don’t live alone.”
“He does.”

Chapter 1

He wasn’t supposed to be this close to the surface.

The elders always warned him: stay below, stay out of sight, humans don’t see you as kin. But that never stopped Hooper from drifting toward the shallows whenever he thought no one was watching. The way sunlight danced through the water there, the way it warmed the rocks and lit the seagrass like fire—it felt like another world.

One summer day, the tide was low and the humans were out. Loud and clumsy, splashing along the beach, tossing balls and dragging their strange little crafts into the surf. Hooper watched from behind a jutting rock shelf, peeking through the kelp.

One of the children broke away from the group.

A boy, about his age, maybe six or seven, waded into the water alone, talking to himself. His limbs looked too long for his body, and his hair stuck up from the salt. Hooper should’ve retreated. Should’ve slipped into deeper water and vanished.

But the boy didn’t look dangerous.

He crouched near the rock edge and dipped something red and shiny into the shallows. It bobbed uselessly onto its side. He frowned and tried again.

Hooper edged closer, trying to stay low but it was too late.

The boy spotted him.

They both froze.

For a long moment, neither moved. The boy’s eyes widened. Hooper braced for the scream, recoiling in fear before retreating.

Merfolk were near-identical to humans, but there were tells. Darker eyes. Sharper teeth. Gills.

But instead of fear, the boy slowly lowered the toy into the water and pushed it toward him.

A peace offering.

Hooper blinked. Hesitated. Then darted forward, holding the toy in both hands, inspecting it with fascination. There were tiny rope coils moulded to the deck, a pretend anchor, a painted name on the stern. He chirped softly without realising.

The boy grinned.

They did this for days after. Hooper came back, always cautious, always half-expecting an ambush but it never came. The boy brought new things—balls, buckets and spades, a waterlogged comic. Hooper returned with coral bits, shiny stones, a fishbone flute that barely worked. They never spoke a word in the same tongue, but it didn’t matter.

Until the boy’s father came.

It happened fast. An older boy stood nearby, smirking as the younger looked back in betrayal and heartbreak. Then came shouting, a second man waded into the surf, a harpoon slung over one shoulder. Tall, red-faced, teeth bared like a predator. The boy tried to block his path, yelling something, but his father pulled him aside.

Hooper didn’t wait. He dropped the toy, kicked into deeper water, and vanished into the blue.

He never went back to that beach but the feeling stayed with him: that brief, impossible moment of being seen not as a monster, but as a mirror.

And maybe that’s why, all these years later, he still couldn’t leave humans alone.

---

He swam through the coral gates of Amity Reef, the water warm and shimmering as it filtered through sunlit arches. Waving tendrils of anemone swayed lazily, and fish flickered between coral spires in flashes of gold and green.

The reef was bustling with families, couples, and travellers, all preparing for the Summer Solstice.

It was idyllic, and a drastic change of pace from the overpopulated, unfriendly reef he called home between expeditions. Hooper liked it immediately.

He’d been told Amity was a safer place to study humans, it had plenty of sunken ships with artefacts ranging from centuries-old wrecks to modern detritus. A living museum, really.

As he swam down the sandy main street path, he spotted an officer, easily identified by the shell headpiece nestled in his hair, giving directions to a young couple. The officer’s lionfish spines flared slightly with the current.

“It must really be summer now,” he said, looking over Hooper’s tail after the couple swam away. “You’re one of the first mako back in the reef.”

“Matt Hooper,” he said, adjusting the pouch slung over his shoulder. “I’m with the Terrestrial Institute.” He held out a hand.

The officer shook it. “Chief Martin Brody.”

“I’m passing through on a research trip,” Hooper continued. “Where can I find the shipwreck graveyard?”

Brody’s expression shifted. Not hostile, exactly, but wary.

“Northeast shelf,” he said after a pause, pointing out the direction. “Three miles past the reef line. Stay in the light gaps or you’ll get lost.”

“Thanks.”

Brody hesitated. “Does he know you’re coming?”

“Who?”

“There’s a lone orca who guards the wrecks. Name’s Quint.”

“Lone?”

“If he’s not expecting you,” Brody said, serious now, “I’d advise you don’t go. He doesn’t like company.”

“Orcas don’t live alone.”

“He does.”

He felt a prickle of curiosity run down his spine. The word lone stuck in his head like a hook. Orcas didn’t live alone. Not by choice.

Hooper lingered for a moment, staring out toward the open blue beyond the reef. He could feel the water shift cooler, where the sun didn’t quite reach. Somewhere out there, the wrecks waited. And something else, too.

“Well,” he murmured, “now I have to know.”

With a grin and a flick of his tail, he dove into the deep.

---

Hooper swam fast, exhilarated. The water was warm in the light gaps, the wide columns of dappled sun slicing down from above, gleaming along the silver-blue of his tail. He angled his body to ride the thermals, letting the currents guide him in long, smooth arcs.

He liked the feeling of motion, of speed, of pressure in his ears and salt in his gills. Every part of him was alive.

Below, the seafloor changed, soft coral and sand changing into something harder. Silt gave way to jagged rock and buried structures. Shadows shifted strangely in the deeper places where the light couldn’t reach. But he stayed within the glowing trails of sun, weaving through the light as if it were a map only he could read.

He expected some change in the current or light but the first clue came small.

A nail.

Just a rusted, bent thing, half-buried in a patch of sand.

He slowed, doubled back, and kicked lightly to hover over it.

Then he found the second thing: a snapped length of rope, frayed at both ends, caught in the crook of a reef finger. He scooped it up and turned it over. Human made. Nylon. Not that old.

A little thrill ran through him.

More followed. A tin can, crushed flat and webbed with algae. A tangled metal cage from a fishing trap. A length of chain, trailing like a spine over the edge of a ledge.

The water here grew quieter. The current less playful. And with it, the temperature shifted cooler. His gills flared once, adjusting.

He was close.

The rise in the seafloor brought it into view: the edge of the graveyard.

Dozens of shapes lay half-buried in sediment and soft rock, some jutting like ribs from the sand, others collapsed into themselves. There were twisted hulls, rusted beams, plant-eaten silhouettes of ships that had no right to be here.

Hooper’s breath caught. He hovered for a moment at the boundary, heart pounding with awe. The sheer scale of it. The sense of being on the edge of something forgotten.

S.S.Titanic eat your heart out. 

He drifted forward, slowly now.

A warship listing to one side loomed ahead, its name long gone, its deck split clean down the centre. Schools of fish flitted through shattered windows. He passed a row of broken crates, their contents scattered like bones.

He reached for his pouch, unfastened it, and began carefully tucking artefacts inside—a cracked compass face, the remains of a radio handset, the barrel of a corroded gun. All of it degraded, ghostly. Beautiful.

He muttered notes to himself under his breath, flicking his tail to stay buoyant. “Late-stage corrosion… iron hull, probably WWII-era…”

He was completely in his element.

It wasn’t dark yet, not really. But something about the quiet pulled at him.

He glanced behind him. Nothing.

Still, his instincts stirred, soft and low in his gut. Not enough to flee. Just enough to notice.

He shook it off.

This place was a researcher’s dream. He was lucky to be here. He had permission, he told himself. Chief Brody didn’t stop him and the orca probably didn’t care. They weren’t territorial creatures but then again, they didn’t usually live alone.

He felt the sudden weight of the water around him. As if something out there had turned toward him.

Watching.

Measuring.

In the distance, past the edge of the next wreck, something moved.

He froze.

But nothing followed.

Then something caught his eye: an intact denim jacket draped over the edge of a broken flybridge, swaying gently in the current.

He darted toward it and snatched the garment with both hands. It was remarkably intact though faded along the seams and pinpricks of rust on the metal buttons. He turned it over, marveling at the weave of the fabric, the way the threads had frayed and held.

He looked around, as if he might be caught doing something as strange as wearing it.

Then, slowly, he slipped his arms into the sleeves.

It was oversized, the shoulders too broad for his frame, but it felt right. Heavy in a comforting way. His smile bloomed wide and he spun around in the water, preening himself.

He trilled softly, the sound echoing off the ship’s hollow bones.

The weight of it moved differently than seaweed or kelp, and it tugged slightly as he turned, like it was still tethered to some long-lost body on land.

He bent down to the shattered console beneath the window. Plastic and steel had warped under pressure and time, but some compartments remained sealed. He pried one open with careful claws, revealing a cluster of objects—a soggy booklet, a rusted silver lighter and a pair of sunglasses.

He snatched the glasses and held them to his face. It had both the shaded lenses intact. The graveyard was incredible. He tucked them into his pouch along with the other trinkets and a flattened photograph. The ink had almost gone, but he could just make out shapes. Humans, posed and smiling on a deck like this one. One had his arms around another. Their faces blurred. Their happiness not.

A quiet ache bloomed in his chest. Human lives. Human stories. Forgotten, buried, waiting to be remembered.

He reached deeper, careful now, wondering what other secrets this little wreck might hold. A hat? A watch? Maybe a—

Something slammed into him hard.

A burst of movement. A hand closed around his throat, partially obstructing his gills, and drove him backwards into the flybridge wall. His skull hit metal. Black spots danced through his vision. Instinct kicked in, his fangs bared, tail whipping, but he was pinned.

The jacket floated askew around him like a flag.

A face loomed into view.

He had mottled skin, scaring down his arms, and eyes, dark and feral, narrowed in fury.

“Get. Out.”

Hooper thrashed, claws scraping at the orca’s wrist. His body twisted, trying to break free, but the larger merman barely budged. He was all mass and muscle, like a great leviathan carved from the deep.

“I’m not… hurting anything!” Hooper gasped.

“You’re trespassing.”

“I’m researching—” He snarled out as the grip tightened, just for a second.

“You’re leavin’,” the orca growled, releasing Hooper from his grip.

The mako crashed back, gasping, coughing, his gills flaring wildly as he righted himself in the water. His body was still coiled for a fight, but the orca didn’t attack again. He just loomed there, powerful and unmoving, a wall of fury.

“You come back,” he said, voice low, almost calm now, “and you won’t leave whole.”

Then, without a ripple, he turned and disappeared into the deeper dark beyond the wreck.

Hooper floated, frozen. The denim jacket drifted loosely from one arm. His pouch hung heavy at his side.

His fingers moved without thinking, grabbing whatever he could reach, stuffing them blindly into his pouch before kicking off the wreck and retreating.

Back to Amity Reef.

He didn’t stop swimming until the light returned, the water grew warm again, and the laughter of reef dwellers echoed through the coral.

He’d found the orca and been spared.

He should’ve been grateful. Should’ve counted himself lucky to leave with all his limbs and only a bruised throat.

But if there was one thing Hooper loved, it was to push his luck.

The wrecks were too rich. The orca too strange. Too alone. Too angry.

Hooper would go back.

He had to.

Notes:

I’ve slowed down but I’m still writing stuff! I’ve got a few chapters written already but I wanted to get this one out before I go to the Jaws 50th anniversary meet-up at the weekend.

There will be porn don’t worry!

Although Zebrafish aren’t native to New York, the thought of Brody with the spines and visibly not native was too cute to ignore…

Fanart by wiildthiing

Chapter 2

Hooper came back the next day.

No hesitation. Just a stubborn, thrumming sense of purpose and a carefully rehearsed plan.

Stay low. Stay quiet. Stick to the shadows. Quint might’ve been strong, but he wasn’t fast. A mako could outpace an orca if it came to it, especially in open water.

He held his pouch a little tighter as he reached the edge of the graveyard.

This time, he didn’t rush. He moved slowly, freezing every few metres at the faintest shift. A swirl of sand. A fish darting. A strand of kelp drifting at just the wrong angle.

The boat with the flybridge from yesterday loomed ahead, calling to him. That wreck was newer than the others, less devoured by time and coral. He needed to know more. Not just for the Institute but for himself, too.

He counted his heartbeats to stay focused. He was so close now.

Almost there.

He gritted his teeth and pushed himself into the flybridge, angling through the broken window with a careful twist of his shoulders. Inside, he pressed his back flat against the floor, tail curled, trying to make himself as small and still as possible.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

He stared up at the ceiling, at the fractured beams and drifting particles of silt, and watched the trail of his bubbles rise. Each one caught the light before vanishing into the shadows above. He waited, muscles taut, heart thudding dully in his chest.

Any second now, he expected a shadow to pass overhead. That sudden weight of presence; he braced for it.

But nothing came.

Minutes passed.

Finally, he let out the breath he’d been holding and righted himself, gliding carefully into the space. The water inside the bridge was cool and quiet. Loose objects stood proudly amongst the stillness.

Hooper adjusted the strap of his pouch and let himself relax a little.

He moved toward the console. That seemed the best place to start. Yesterday, he’d found a tin that might’ve belonged to the captain. Today, he could find something that told him where this boat had come from.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the control panel, taking in its beauty. Buttons and levers stuck out at odd angles, starting to rust into place. The wheel was dented and cracked, but it protected a large compartment he’d missed yesterday.

He pried it open with a grunt.

Inside were a set of laminated charts, a flare gun, and a logbook wrapped in plastic. Hooper's eyes lit up, and he pulled it free with a reverence usually reserved for relics much older than this, turning it over carefully in his hands.

He opened the cover, carefully peeling back the first few pages. Some were stuck together, warped and soft at the corners, but the ink had mostly held.

Dates. Positions. Weather reports. Routine notes, for the most part.

He scanned the entries, focusing as he translated the passages.

May 3rd – Took on two new hands. Rusty’s cousin and a young guy named Billy. Billy can barely coil a rope right but he’s eager. Wants to make a life out here. Says the sea doesn’t scare him. We’ll see.

May 7th – Slow day. Picked up a few black sea bass and a stubborn blue. Weather turned at noon. Billy didn’t stow the gear right and nearly lost a crate overboard. Rusty chewed his ear off. I didn’t step in.

May 11th – Caught a shark about 10 feet off the bow. Nothing like the old days but enough to remind us who's out here.

May 14th – Dropping the nets near the shelf again tomorrow. Told Billy we’ve got a tradition for first-timers. Gift is in the hold, just in case. Hope he likes it. Could use something to cheer him up. Think the kid’s homesick.

He flipped forward. There were no more entries. The ink cut off mid-page.

He read the last note again: Gift is in the hold, just in case.

The mako turned, eyes scanning the blocked passage that led to the lower deck. Below this wreck, somewhere beneath that twisted hull and bulkhead, something was waiting.

Not treasure. Not an artefact. A gift.

This wasn’t just research anymore. It was a story. A fragment of someone's life. One he'd accidentally stepped into.

Hooper reached back, carefully tucked the log into his pouch, and slid out of the flybridge.

The ship groaned faintly as it settled.

He drifted downward, past the hull, to where the main deck curved into shadow.

And there it was—a hatch, the door barely hanging on one hinge.

He hovered beside it.

It was deeper than he expected, and the light barely touched it.

He braced his hands against the rim, took a breath, and slipped inside.

The change was immediate.

The light from above faded fast, swallowed by the dark. The space was smaller than he’d thought. More of a crawlspace than a room. His fins brushed the walls. Every movement stirred up silt that muddied the water.

He blinked hard, letting his eyes adjust.

The hairs along his arms prickled before his instincts could fully scream it: Quint was in there with him. Silent. Waiting.

The orca’s presence rolled through the space like a pressure wave, draining what little warmth remained from the water.

“I warned you,” Quint said, voice low. “Told you once. That was generous.”

Hooper’s chest rose and fell too fast, gills fluttering in sharp, shallow bursts. He was frozen in place. Heart hammering. No good angles. No cover.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, raising both hands slowly.

Quint moved closer, slow and steady like a hunter closing in. “You’re not welcome,” he said. “So maybe it’s time I leave a mark that makes you remember that.”

Hooper’s eyes darted up. The hatch was still within reach.

His panic flared, but something hot and reckless rose with it. His lip curled.

“You wanna teach me a lesson?” Hooper snapped. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

Then with a flick of his tail, he surged up and out of the hatch, narrowly dodging the orca’s hand as it slammed against the rim.

The wreck groaned around them.

Hooper shot through the water, the chill of the lower deck giving way to open light as he bolted, heart pounding, eyes wide but adrenaline sparking like lightning in his blood.

He didn’t look back, but he felt the water shift behind him, a cold rush of mass and movement.

Quint was in pursuit.

The graveyard blurred around him, hulking silhouettes of ruined ships, twisted masts and crumpled beams. Hooper dodged between them, veering sharply into a gap between two collapsed hulls. The water here was murkier, littered with debris, but he could still move faster in tight spaces than any orca.

An old fishing trawler half-buried in silt loomed ahead. Hooper darted into a hole in its cargo hold, scraping his arm on a jagged edge. Pain flashed bright and white, but he kept moving.

Behind him, the wreck shook. Something slammed into it, hard. The whole structure shuddered. Bubbles exploded upward as metal groaned and warped.

Another crash against the hull made Hooper speed up, rounding a large cargo box to find half-collapsed metal steps covered in algae. He twisted up and shot down a narrow corridor where light barely reached. Behind him, another thud, closer this time.

Quint wasn’t just chasing him; he was hunting him.

Hooper burst out through a porthole, shot straight up into the light, then dove sharply again, disappearing beneath the keel of a shattered yacht. His muscles burned, but adrenaline drove him.

He turned sharply, just in time to see a massive shape flash past overhead.

Hooper veered, nearly slamming into a rotted beam.

Ahead, he spotted the jagged smokestack of a sunken tugboat. If he could reach the chute and wedge through, Quint wouldn’t be able to follow.

He darted low and slipped inside the broken hull, pressing against the beams. His breath stuttered, gills flaring raggedly as he tried to stay still.

Above, he heard the slow, deliberate drag of claws on wood.

“I can smell the blood,” Quint’s voice rumbled, echoing cold through the wreckage. “You cut yourself.”

Hooper clamped a hand over the scrape on his arm, forcing himself not to twitch.

“You’re fast. I’ll give you that,” Quint continued, voice closer now. “But you don’t know when to quit.”

A fist punched through the hull beside him, claws swiping blindly. Hooper jerked back just in time, the tips grazing his shoulder.

He kicked hard, angling up into the smokestack’s narrow chute. Behind him came a roar and the violent crash of wood as Quint slammed through the boat, splintering the timbers as Hooper scrambled up the tight passage.

Quint followed, shoving himself into the chute, the smokestack shuddering with the force of his bulk. Hooper felt the rush of water at his tail as claws nearly caught him again. He twisted, forcing himself upward, resisting the urge to look back.

With one last burst, he shot free of the smokestack into open water. 

He made it.

Below, Quint was stuck chest-deep, shoulders jammed against rusted metal. His claws raked furiously, flailing for purchase that wasn’t there, his teeth bared in a furious snarl.

Their gazes locked.

Hooper’s pulse thundered, every instinct screaming to flee, but he couldn’t resist one final act of defiance. 

A laugh burst from him, sharp and reckless, bubbling through the water as he lifted both hands to his face. He stretched his mouth wide, grinning until his cheeks ached, and stuck his tongue out like a smug child.

Then he flipped backwards in a taunting flick of his tail and bolted for the reef, laughter still spilling behind him.

---

“I told you not to go,” Chief Brody scolded, arms crossed as he loomed beside the small cove that served as the reef’s infirmary.

Hooper winced as a smear of healing paste was pressed into the scrape on his arm. “You advised me not to go. That’s different,” he muttered.

The other merman tending to him clicked his tongue. His tail, thick and olive-brown with pale blotches, gave small, tense flicks. A tautog. Native to Amity Reef.

“Well, after this little stunt, I’d say maybe listen next time,” Hendricks grumbled as he wrapped a length of kelp-fibre bandage snugly around Hooper’s forearm. “You’re lucky that’s all he gave you.”

“It’s superficial,” Hooper said, waving his hand dismissively. “No stitches. No permanent damage. Just some paste and a story.”

Brody’s brow furrowed deeper, unimpressed. “You coulda lost an arm.”

Hooper leaned back slightly. “But I didn’t.”

“You will,” Hendricks muttered, tying off the bandage with a final tug.

“It’s too rich with human history not to go back,” Hooper insisted, bright-eyed despite the scrape and the scolding.

Brody and Hendricks exchanged a long, incredulous glance.

“I’m serious!” Hooper said, sitting up straighter, already gesturing with his uninjured arm. “There were intact logs about gifting customs as well as relationship dynamics. You don’t see that kind of detail in wrecks that young. Divers usually strip that stuff first, to figure out why the boat went down.”

“You mean the kind of divers who don’t get chased by territorial orcas?” Hendricks said dryly.

“Exactly,” Hooper said, completely missing the sarcasm. “I beat him to it.”

“You barely beat him at all,” Brody cut in. “You came back bleeding.”

“And with data,” Hooper countered, lips twitching toward a grin.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Hendrick added.

“But what a way to go.”

Hendricks gave the bandage a final pat, then sat back on his fins. “Try not to rip that off in the next few hours.”

“I’ll stay put,” Hooper said, though the glint in his eye made it an obvious lie.

Hendricks sighed. “I’m gonna check north of the reef. You need anything, you call.”

Brody nodded and watched the younger officer leave in a slow, undulating arc, tail flicking lazily behind him.

The moment he was gone, Brody swam closer, sitting beside Hooper. For a beat, he didn’t speak.

“You sure you’re alright?” Brody asked quietly.

Hooper blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “Yeah... why?”

“Quint’s not a typical orca…” Brody looked out toward the reef, then back to him. “But he’s not a killer.”

Hooper glanced down at the knicks on his chest, then back at the officer.

“You were in his territory,” Brody said gently, but pointedly.

“There are things in that graveyard that could advance human understanding by decades,” Hooper said, more earnestly this time.

“I know.” Brody’s voice was calm. “But you’re poking something that bites. You know it.”

“I’m a mako,” Hooper replied, mouth twitching. “I bite back.”

Brody’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t smile. “You’re fast, but he’s bigger. You won’t win if he catches you.”

“I’m not trying to fight him,” Hooper sighed.

Brody nodded slowly, though his jaw remained tight. “Don’t lose a limb trying to drag back someone else’s junk.”

Silence fell between them, the reef murmuring around them with distant clicks and currents.

Then Hooper looked sideways. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

Brody let out a breath, a soft exhale through his nose, like he knew something Hooper didn’t. “I don’t think you’ll listen if I did and he hasn’t complained about you yet.”

Hooper blinked. “He… what?”

“He comes to the reef sometimes,” Brody said, more casually now. “Stocks up on supplies. Makes the locals nervous, but he’s pleasant enough.”

Hooper scoffed, incredulous. “That’s hard to believe.”

“I’ve heard he’s partial to Salmon,” Brody hinted. 

Hooper snorted, despite himself. “Right. Maybe I’ll bring him a fillet next time.”

Brody gave him a look. “Just try not to cause more trouble.”

Notes:

The Jaws 50th Anniversary meet-up was a great time. I've been so inspired, I'm reediting this in my hotel room!

Chapter 3

Hooper returned the following night, sans salmon. After their last two encounters, he doubted showing up with a fish would suddenly win the orca’s favour and he hadn’t come to bargain.

He hovered just beyond the graveyard’s edge, the wreckage calling to him like a siren. He told himself he was only here for the gift aboard the fishing boat but his pulse betrayed him. Shamefully, what he really wanted was the thrill. The scrape of claws too close. The shine of sharp teeth bared. The rush of being hunted.

He slipped into the graveyard, every shadow heavier in the dark. The wrecks groaned faintly in the current, their twisted ribs arching like the bones of ancient giants. His gills flared as he came to the trawler’s hull. If he was quick, he could dart in, grab what he needed, and be gone.

Hooper peered past the gunwale, anticipation fizzing in his chest—

“You just don’t listen, do you?”

His heart sank.

Quint rose out of the hatch, blocking his path. Arms crossed. Eyes flat, unblinking.

“I’m just swimming here!” Hooper sputtered, a weak excuse.

“You’re in my territory. Again.” Quint said, unimpressed.

“You’ve got the Mariana Trench of human research sitting here,” Hooper gestured at the ruins. “How could I stay away?”

“Merfolk usually ask before they start digging around.”

“You’d have let me if I asked?” Hooper asked, genuinely surprised.

“No.”

Hooper huffed. “Okay, well… at least let me examine this boat. There’s something in the hold that might help me understand the human relationships on board.”

Quint moved forward, slow and deliberate, crowding into Hooper’s space. The water warmed between them. Hooper could smell the iron tang of the orca’s skin, sharp and primal, and it made his mouth water.

“Get the hell outta here,” Quint rumbled, jaw tight. “There’s nothing about humans worth knowing.”

Hooper didn’t move. 

Quint’s gaze locked onto his, dark and steady. The wrecks groaned faintly in the distance, a low metallic echo between them.

Neither blinked. Neither backed down.

A bead of sand drifted lazily past Hooper’s cheek, catching the dim light before sinking out of sight.

Hooper’s lips curled into the faintest smirk.

Then, without warning, he flicked the fin of his tail, kicking up a cloud of silt and bolted.

Quint growled low and sharp, but Hooper was already streaking to the far side of the graveyard, heart racing.

He couldn’t grab the gift now, not like this. It needed to be handled with care, and if he tried, Quint would just wait at the hatch, snatch it from his hands, and smash it to pieces purely to make a point.

No, he’d have to come back. Next time with salmon and maybe something else the orca might find tempting.

For now, he’d settle for another round of cat and mouse. Let Quint chase him. Let him learn the twists, shadows, and shortcuts of the graveyard a little better. Every lap around the wrecks would make the next visit easier.

He curved around a barnacle-crusted crow’s nest and dipped down, skimming the length of the hull before slipping through a gap in the gunwale.

When he glanced back, he was excited to see Quint was hot on his fin, cutting through the water with terrifying precision, eyes dilated and focused entirely on him.

His research trip had, more than likely, doubled in duration solely because of the orca chasing him around the graveyard. He should be annoyed but his heart was hammering like he’d just had a close brush with a human diver.

Hooper darted into the rotting windows of a flybridge. Scraps of fabric swayed in the current as he shot through the other side and dropped low into seagrass. From here, two options: skirt a cargo ship’s flank or dash for a cluster of massive wooden boxes.

Somewhere behind him, a low rumble rolled through the water, a warning, or maybe amusement.

Hooper’s grin returned.

He went for the boxes.

Flitting from one to the next, he wove between them like a reef fish through coral. The boxes were big enough for a mako to hide behind, but not for an orca to manoeuvre easily. Twice, he doubled back, circling around so Quint’s looming silhouette passed in the wrong direction. Each time, the orca adjusted faster.

On the third pass, Quint’s head appeared around the far end of a box like he’d been waiting for Hooper to come that way all along.

The mako jolted, whipping backwards into a narrow lane beneath two boxes. His belly scraped the silt as Quint’s arm reached, claws dragging the sand in an attempt to pull him out. Hooper twisted free, the silt clouding behind him.

Another low growl rumbled through the water.

Not slowing, Hooper cut left toward a toppled mast, ducking behind it just long enough to peek out. Quint swept past, scanning the opposite direction. Perfect.

His triumph barely bloomed before the orca doubled back, turning with impossible speed. Their eyes locked across open water. Hooper’s grin sharpened as he spun tail and shot toward the cargo ship.

It lay at a tilt, its prow buried in the silt, netting caught on the stern like ghostly ribbons. Hooper slipped beneath the tangled nets and up through a breach in the hull, sailing past rusted beams. Quint’s bulk hit the outside a heartbeat later, rattling the entire wreck.

Inside, Hooper zigzagged through collapsed stairwells and cracked bulkheads, his gills burning but safer here where the spaces narrowed.

Another thud followed, and rust flakes drifted down in lazy spirals, landing on the mako’s head. Hooper stilled, every muscle tense.

Quint’s shadow slid past a hole in the hull, claws screeching along the metal.

“You hiding in there, Mako?” The voice rumbled low through the water. “Or are you just catchin’ your breath?”

Hooper didn’t answer, pressing himself into the narrow seam between two rusted beams. He could feel the thud of his own pulse in his throat.

Silence.

A long, heavy silence.

The only sound was the slow creak of the ship in the current.

He waited. One minute. Then two. The shadows outside drifted away. No movement. No voice.

Maybe the orca had given up.

Hooper eased out from his hiding spot, shoulders brushing rust, and drifted toward the open ocean—

A rush of water hit his back.

Before he could twist away, a strong hand clamped around his neck, avoiding his gills but pressing with enough force to freeze every instinct in his body. His muscles locked, breath stalling in his throat.

Quint’s grip was unyielding, the pressure radiating heat through the water. The orca moved in close, stubble brushing Hooper’s jaw, the slow roll of the older man’s chest rolling against his back.

“Gotcha,” Quint murmured, voice low and rough. 

Hooper’s pulse thudded hard in his ears, not entirely from fear. 

Quint didn’t squeeze harder, but he didn’t let go either. He pressed Hooper down until the mako’s chest rested on sand-dusted rock.

Neither moved. Hooper’s pulse thundered as he waited, taut and trembling, unsure if the next touch would leave scars.

Then came the scrape. A rough, deliberate drag of teeth from the curve of Hooper’s tail and over his dorsal fin, firm enough to sting and leave pale lines in their wake.

“You know what that means, Mako?” Quint rumbled.

Dominant. Powerful. Dangerous.

Hooper swallowed, heat threading through the ache. “This is my final warning?”

Quint’s chuckle was low and close, the vibration running straight through Hooper’s spine. “You won’t be so lucky next time.”

His grip eased at last, claws trailing away slow enough to make Hooper’s skin tingle in their wake.

“Go.”

Hooper didn’t need telling twice. He tore free into open water, but the memory of that drag along his tail burned with every kick.

---

He didn’t stop swimming until Amity Reef loomed ahead, its glow a promise of safety.

His pulse still thundered, every muscle echoing the chase, tail twitching with leftover adrenaline.

Tonight had been different. When Quint had hunted him through the graveyard, he hadn’t chased him like prey to be torn apart. The pursuit had carried another edge—testing, measuring. The rake along his fin hadn’t been meant to wound, and Hooper knew it.

He reached back, fingertips tracing the faint ridges etched into his dorsal. Quint could have drawn blood. Could have left him scarred and driven him off for good. IInstead, the touch had been deliberate, restrained. The raw, physical authority in that hold… if Quint had ever run with a pod, Hooper was certain he’d been respected by the matriarch herself.

He slipped into the hollowed coral tower he’d been calling home, burrowing deep into a drift of sargassum until the reef’s glow vanished. The quiet pressed in, but his body was far from calm.

His hand strayed to the smooth lines of his claspers where they lay heavy against his tail. Flushed. Swollen. A humiliating betrayal of how deeply the encounter had rooted under his skin. A small, involuntary sound escaped him, half-whimper, half-growl. He curled tighter into the weeds, squeezing his eyes shut, the phantom scrape of Quint’s teeth still burning down the curve of his tail.

The more he tried to will it away, the worse it got. His body ached with restless energy, claspers hot under his touch, the channel between them pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He told himself it was just the adrenaline, the high of a chase, the same rush any predator felt after a good run.

But that wasn’t the truth, and he knew it.

His mind kept replaying it: the sudden rush of water against his back, the grip at his neck that pinned him, the weight of Quint’s chest pressing him down into the rock. That low, rough voice in his ear. The scrape of teeth over sensitive flesh.

His fingers traced the edges of his claspers, skimming, teasing, letting his imagination do the rest. What if Quint hadn’t let go? What if he’d kept him pinned, teeth raking new lines down his tail while Hooper squirmed under his weight? Would he have pressed harder until Hooper sobbed for release? Worked his claspers until he was dizzy and aching? Or would he shove himself into Hooper’s sperm channel, taking slow, deliberate pleasure for himself?

His breath hitched. He wrapped his palm over both claspers, squeezing until his hips jerked. The swollen heat under his hand made his mouth dry. He rubbed along their length in slow, deliberate strokes, not caring how shameful it felt, his tail flicking with each pass.

The pressure eased only when his hand drifted lower, fingers parting the slit between them. The smooth entrance yielded, and the sperm duct slid down his channel, slick and eager. The sharp sensation dragged a gasp from his throat.

He mapped the channel with slow strokes, skimming close enough to the duct to make his hips twitch but never touching it directly. The teasing built into torture, each pass winding the ache tighter. One hand toyed inside while the other squeezed each clasper in turn, rubbing hard circles until his tail lashed restless arcs.

At last, his fingertips brushed the swollen head of his duct. The contact jolted through him like lightning. He pressed harder, rubbing slow circles until it throbbed against him, retracting, then pushing forward again, slick and insistent, like it was trying to rut against his hand.

Each time he pressed, the swollen head retracted slightly, only to push forward again, slick and needy, bumping against his fingertips like it was trying to fuck his hand.

He matched its rhythm, coaxing it clumsily, desperately, until the fantasy consumed him. It wasn’t his hand. It was Quint. The orca’s weight crushing down on him. Teeth carving lines into his chest. Claws gripping his sides. That low growl that vibrated against his chest as Quint raked him raw, marking him as his.

His channel fluttered tight around his fingers, and the pressure shattered. A sharp, unrestrained moan tore from him as his duct spasmed, spilling hot into his palm, seeping through the weeds. His tail lashed once in a violent arc before going limp, body trembling through the aftershocks.

He pressed his face into the cool coral floor, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. The phantom scrape of Quint’s still seared into his skin. The shame and the thrill tangled together until he couldn’t tell them apart.

Hooper dragged the sargassum close, burying himself deeper in the drifting weeds as if they could smother the heat clinging to his body. But the cool dark couldn’t quiet the throb in his body or the churn in his chest.

Shame twisted sharp in his gut. He’d touched himself like some pup, rutting into his own hand over the thought of an orca pinning him down. Worse—over Quint. The same male who had warned him, again and again, to stay away.

His fingers still reeked faintly of salt and seed, musk clinging bitterly on his skin. He curled tighter, tail wrapped around himself, but the memory refused to fade: that grip at his neck. The scrape of teeth. That rough voice, calling him Mako .

Hooper buried his face in the weeds and groaned, the sound muffled and helpless. He should stop. He should stay away. He knew it.

But even now, raw and spent, the pull gnawed at him. Tomorrow he’d go back. Swim the graveyard again, hoping for another chase, and shamefully hoping for something more.

Chapter 4

Hooper woke sore. Every time he stretched his tail, he felt the tug of rake marks; the dull ache reminded him of Quint. He told himself they were just marks of survival, nothing more. But the restless thrum in his body said otherwise.

He swam the reef aimlessly, trying to lose himself in the solstice celebrations. Music, dancing, the flash of painted scales; nothing held his focus. His thoughts kept circling back to the graveyard, to the press of claws, the scrape of teeth.

He cursed under his breath and veered toward the market. That was practical. He needed supplies.

It was already crowded when he arrived—a riot of colour and sound pressed into the reef’s central clearing. Nets strung between coral posts sagged with shellfish, baskets of eels lay tempting as their sellers shouted deals, and the briny tang of seasoned kelp hung thick in the water. Schools of children darted between stalls like minnows, shrieking as they wove between trading posts.

Hooper threaded through the tourists, scanning the stalls with deliberate focus. He wasn’t here for anything indulgent, he told himself. Just more tuna. He needed to keep busy.

He spotted salmon neatly stacked on a trunk of driftwood, silver scales glinting in the light. His hand hovered, indecisive. Picking one up felt… loaded.

“Hell happened to your tail?”

Hooper spun to find Hendricks standing at his shoulder, gaze fixed on his dorsal fin.

“It’s nothing,” Hooper said, too fast.

Hendricks’ eyes traced down the length of his body, lips pressing into a flat line at the faint grazes. “Doesn’t look like nothing. Looks like something got its teeth in you.”

“Scraped it on wreckage.” Hooper shifted to block the view, trying to sound casual. “Occupational hazard.”

“Uh-huh.” The officer’s voice stayed neutral, but his brow furrowed. “You said you were thinking of going back to the graveyard. Wouldn’t want you tangling with that orca a third time.”

The words landed heavier than Hendricks seemed to realise. Heads turned at the neighbouring stalls; a few buyers paused mid-bargain. Hooper felt every eye sharpen, the marketplace suddenly too quiet.

His pulse spiked. “I didn’t— It’s for research purposes!” 

Hendricks blinked, oblivious to the shift in attention. “Well I just don’t want you mistaking him for a study partner!”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, Officer,” Hooper cut in, trying to usher the mer along.

Hendricks gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged and drifted off toward the lobster traps, leaving Hooper alone in the centre of the stares.

He was definitely getting scolded by the chief later.

He swore under his breath, turning back to the stall, only to find the stall owner already watching him.

“Buying for Quint?” she asked bluntly.

Hooper froze. “What? No, I’m—”

The woman was already moving, hauling fish out from behind the counter. A bundle of mackerel hit his arms, followed by a string of smoked herring, then a squid.

“He’s been low on these,” she said briskly, adding two salmon to the pile. “Give him this too.”

She wrapped a pouch of alcohol around Hooper’s wrist and patted his back.

He staggered under the sudden load, the salmon slipping against his chest. “Hey! Hey! I just wanted some tuna!”

Without looking, she reached across him, grabbed a slab of tuna, and smacked it down on top of the already-precarious heap.

Hooper blinked at it in disbelief, mouth opening and closing. His arms were now cradling an entire week’s worth of supplies for a predator who wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him.

“I’ll add it to his tab,” she said before turning to help the next customer.

Heat crawled up his neck as he felt the glances from the crowd. A pair of older mermen at the next stall muttered something and snorted. 

A boy darted past laughing, “the orca’s got an errand boy,” before vanishing into the throng.

“Is he courting that orca?” a group of middle-aged mermaids whispered, incredulous.

Hooper clutched the fish tighter, jaw locked, and shoved his way out of the market before anyone else could look at him. By the time he cleared the stalls, his chest burned with humiliation. 

He was forced to see Quint today whether he liked it or not.

---

By the time he reached the outskirts of the graveyard, he’d crammed most of the bundles into his pouch, though it bulged awkwardly at his side, seams straining. A mackerel kept slipping loose, and he shoved it back in with more force than necessary.

The market still burned in his ears. The whispers, the mutters, the snickers. Errand boy. Courtship. He ground his teeth. As if he had time to care about gossip. He was a researcher. A scientist. Meant for better things than pandering to reef-dwellers who thought hauling nets made them authorities on the ocean.

He wondered, with a bitter twist of his mouth, if his mentor had endured the same treatment years ago. Maybe the old man had borne it with patience, or maybe he’d earned respect. Respect that Hooper couldn’t seem to wrestle from anyone here. And then darker thoughts struck: had Quint been part of it? Had his mentor faced the same teeth, the same taunts, the same violence? Or worse, had they been something closer?

The thought landed like a gut punch, sharp enough that Hooper swam harder, as if he could shake it off with speed alone. He hated the very idea that his mentor might have been with Quint in any way he himself wasn’t.

His tail protested the sudden pace, the rake marks tugging with every stroke. He hissed through his teeth and slowed again, frustration knotting between his shoulders. 

He continued on until the hulks of wrecks loomed out of the shadows. His pulse quickened despite himself. Coming back so soon was reckless.

No. He needed to deliver the supplies. If he didn’t, Quint might decide to leave a more permanent reminder for racking up debt and stealing his supplies. It was self-preservation, nothing more.

At the edge of the graveyard, he faltered. A frown tugged at his mouth. For all the hours he’d spent darting through the wrecks, he didn’t actually know where Quint lived. He knew the places Quint let him linger, knew the decks and hulls where claws had scraped close. But not where the orca disappeared to. Not where he slept.

Hooper let out a sharp sigh, shoulders sinking. The day just kept getting better.

Maybe all he had to do was swim around long enough. Quint would smell him, hear him, just know he was there. He always did. The thought sparked a restless flicker in his chest—half hope, half dread.

With a flick of his tail, Hooper prowled through the wrecks: circling the trawler, the cargo ship, ducking through the narrow smokestack where Quint had gotten stuck the last time. His skin prickled at every shadow, waiting for claws, for teeth, for that sudden rush that always seemed to find him.

But the water stayed still.

He drifted past the gaping hull of a whaler and through a forest of broken masts but the silence pressed heavier than any threat. Every groan of shifting timber set his nerves alight, but nothing came out of the dark.

He expected the rush of water at his back, the crack of a voice in his ear, the sudden, violent presence that always left his heart hammering.

Nothing.

Hooper’s grip tightened around the strap of his overstuffed pouch. The disappointment stung sharper than he wanted to admit. He’d come all this way, carrying half the market on his back, and for what? To swim in circles like some lovesick idiot hoping for a glimpse?

He told himself it was fine that the orca wasn’t here. Easier to just get in, dump the supplies somewhere, and go before he wound up with more marks to explain away. But the thoughts sat wrong in his gut.

Scowling, Hooper turned toward the fishing boat with the mysterious gift. At least he could deal with that. Easy enough to grab since Quint obviously wasn’t here. No risk of being choked, no claws scoring his chest, no teeth raking his tail.

But a traitorous part of him still hoped, as he squeezed through the hatch, that Quint would be waiting when he emerged.

Inside, the fishing boat felt cool, goosebumps prickled over Hooper’s arms. His tail brushed splintered beams as he maneuvered through the cramped space, eyes darting over forgotten nets and warped crates. He moved quickly, almost feverishly, shoving aside debris until his fingers closed around the thing he’d come for.

The gift gleamed faintly even in the gloom, red reflective wrapping sparkling proudly, ribbon drifting in place. A glimmer of promise against the wreck’s decay. Relief and excitement tangled in his chest. He reached out slowly, carefully, as if it would disintegrate when he touched it. He held it against his side, grabbed some loose netting, and fashioned a makeshift sling. It pressed awkwardly to his ribs, but he cinched it tight.

He lingered for a heartbeat, listening to the creaks of the wreck, his pulse hammering with anticipation. Then, bracing himself, he pushed back through the hatch, ready for another verbal sparring match and chase.

The water outside lay undisturbed.

No rush of movement. No shadow peeling from the wrecks. No sharp eyes watching.

Only emptiness.

The hollow disappointment hit harder than he expected, leaving him suspended in the stillness, chest aching with something he didn’t want to name.

He hovered outside the hatch, trying to steady himself.

Then a scent reached him. Faint at first, almost lost in the brine, then stronger. Metallic. Sharp. Blood.

Hooper frowned. It couldn’t be his own, he’d been careful. A quick glance at his tail confirmed it: only Quint’s rake marks, no new cuts.

He scented the water again. It smelt fresh. The current carried it steady, curling like a beckoning finger.

His mouth watered. Instinct stirred low, insistent. Feed, it whispered.

Hooper clenched his jaw. No. He wasn’t some starving pup chasing the first slick of blood. He wasn’t here to feed, he was here because—

Because what?

Because the merchant had stuffed Quint’s supplies into his arms. Because he needed to drop them off and leave. Because—

Because Quint might be at the end of this trail.

The thought twisted in his gut, shame tangled with anticipation. Still, his body moved before he could second-guess it, drawn along the current.

He swam slowly past the leaning mast of a schooner, past a half-splintered hull bristling with barnacles. Shadows thickened the deeper he went, the low light falling away behind him.

The smell grew stronger, coating his tongue, filling his head until it drowned out thought.

At last, he came upon it: a cave mouth hidden behind the wreck of a carrack's stern. Blood drifted from the opening in faint, lazy threads, calling to him. 

Hooper hung there, pulse thundering. The sensible thing was to turn back.

Instead, curiosity tipped him forward.

He slipped inside and the light vanished almost instantly. Darkness pressed in close. His gills flared, dragging in sharp, blood-tinged water.

The trail pulled him deeper. He followed slow, cautious strokes, every muscle taut, the gift and supplies clutched tight against his chest.

The cave narrowed, then opened into a chamber. The ceiling arched high above, veined with cold light. Threads of bioluminescence pulsed faintly, sketching the walls.

Shapes loomed there. Pale curves. Hollow sockets catching the faint shimmer of light. 

Hooper’s breath hitched. A grin pulled at his mouth despite himself. 

Human Skulls. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Weathered and bleached, nailed to stone like trophies, staring into the dark forever. Even stripped bare, they were still wonderful creatures.

His gaze tracked along the wall until it landed on a figure hunched at the chamber’s heart. Broad back, shoulders flexing, white markings cutting sharp against black hide.

Quint.

He let his voice cut through the stillness, bright with teasing bravado.

“Thought you said there’s nothing about humans worth knowing?”

The orca stilled. 

For a moment, only the faint crackle of bubbles stirred in the chamber. Then Quint’s voice came, gravelled and dismissive.

“Knowin’ and huntin’ ain’t the same thing.”

He shifted at last, slow and deliberate, and the glow revealed his hands were slick with blood. Crimson clouded the water between them.

On the flat slab of rock before him lay a human corpse, pale and swollen, torso opened neatly down the middle. Each stroke of his knife tore meat from bone, the silent brutality reverberating through the chamber. Blood drifted upward in thick, lazy clouds, painting the water in shades of rust.

Hooper’s pulse spiked. The stench made his mouth water again. He should’ve left the cave before hunger betrayed him. Instead, he stared; entranced. The raw strength in every motion, claws red to the wrist. He wanted to press himself to that muscled side and lick every finger clean before Quint shoved him down and carved deeper rake marks into his skin for daring to come back so soon.

“Wasn’t expectin’ you back for another day or two.”

Hooper startled from his reverie, heat burning up his neck. He shifted the weight of the gift and tried to sound sharp instead of eager.

“Well I wasn’t planning to until your merchant dumped your supplies on me.”

That earned him a glance. A low hum rolled from Quint’s chest, edged with mockery.

“Oh? And how does she know you’ve been hangin’ round here?” One corner of his mouth curled, the glint of teeth catching light.

Hooper’s face flared red as the memory of the marketplace crashed over him. He forced his voice level even as embarrassment twisted in his gut.

“Word gets around fast… Did you kill him today?”

Quint hummed low in his throat, affirmative, and peeled another strip of flesh free.

“Was botherin’ a few of the great whites, right at the edge of my water.”

Hooper frowned, puzzled. “But you eat sharks. Why stop someone else from doing the same?”

“Because a human gettin’ a taste of shark won’t stop at one. Won’t stop at two. They’ll come for the Reef next. Strip it bare.” Quint’s tone was flat, unyielding.

Hooper swallowed, groping for argument. “Humans don’t know any better. They don’t hunt to be cruel, they just… they just don’t understand.”

Quint’s laugh was bitter. He set the knife down, flexing his bloodied claws.

“Tell that to the ones who strip skins, hack off fins, and leave the rest to rot. Poachers don’t take to eat. They take to kill.”

Hooper faltered. He’d heard the word before from older sharks and skates, but never seen it with his own eyes. He’d watched fishermen netting shoals and spearing lobster, gutting for food to keep their bellies full. It was brutal but necessary. This was different. A cruelty he couldn’t quite picture but couldn’t dismiss either.

The silence pressed between them. Hooper shifted, he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound childish, he latched on to the practical instead.

“Where d’you want these?” he asked, tugging at his pouch.

Quint’s eyes dragged over him, slow and assessing, before jerking his chin toward a flat outcrop of rock. “There’ll do.”

Hooper moved quickly, glad for something to do with his hands. He pulled the bundles of fish free and stacked them carefully. It felt lighter with every item he unloaded, but his chest didn’t.

Quint’s gaze snagged on a silver flash among the pile. “Tuna?” His voice was incredulous. “I never get tuna.”

Hooper faltered for a second. “That one’s—uh. That’s mine.”

The orca’s expression sharpened. “Yours? Don’t tell me you slapped it on my tab.”

“Of course not,” Hooper lied. “I paid for it myself.” He planned to. Tomorrow. Maybe.

Quint grunted, unconvinced, eyes narrowing. His attention shifted to the awkward bundle strapped at Hooper’s ribs. Red paper glinted in the glow.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” 

Hooper’s hands flew to the makeshift sling. His stomach swooped, caught between dread and anticipation.

“It’s nothing.”

Quint’s brow lowered. He pushed off the ledge, circling the mako. 

“Doesn’t look like nothin’. Looks like you pulled somethin’ out my wreck without askin’.”

Hooper’s fingers tightened on the netting. His pulse raced, but his grin surfaced anyway, nervous and bright. “What, this? I mean, technically, it was just sitting there. No name on it, no teeth marks. Hardly counts as stealing if no one claimed it.”

Quint drifted closer, bioluminescence cutting hard across his jaw.

“Best show me, before I decide to break it.”

Hooper fumbled with the sling, clumsy under the orca’s stare, until the gift floated awkwardly between them.

Quint’s hand reached out.

“Careful,” Hooper blurted. “It’s fragile. You can’t just—” He mimed a tearing motion, eyes flicking to the orca’s claws. “You’ll ruin it.”

Quint scoffed and flicked his fingers in a dismissive motion. Go on then.

Hooper hesitated, he hadn’t planned on coming back here today, hadn’t brought anything to record this. And there was no chance Quint would sit still long enough for him to dictate notes. He’d have to commit every detail to memory and hope he could get it all down once he made it back to the reef.

His fingers worked carefully, tugging the ribbon loose. Even waterlogged, it slipped soft and silky through his touch, making his skin prickle. He peeled away the red paper in slow folds until the box revealed itself.

Quint’s voice cut in. “Well? What is it?”

Hooper pried the lid back, scanning the contents. Inside lay a small silver hip flask and a delicate hand-crank music box.

Hooper’s grin split wide. “Oh, this is—this is incredible.” He turned it over reverently, fingertips brushing the metal. “Humans use it to carry alcohol! Like our pouches, but metal instead of hide. Slim enough to fit in a pocket, so you don’t have to dangle it from your wrist.” His words tumbled fast, tripping over each other, too eager to dam back.

He shifted the box into his palm, brows drawing tight with wonder. “But this… I’ve never seen one of these before.” The tiny crank gleamed, delicate and alien. He hooked a finger against it and gave a slow turn. Faint, warped notes leaked into the water, thin and broken. Hooper’s mouth parted, fascinated. “Oh. It doesn’t sound right down here. The mechanism—maybe if I took it topside, just for a moment…”

Quint’s low growl rolled through the chamber. “You’ve got no preservation instinct, do you? Humans were nosin’ ‘round not long ago.” His stare was sharp. “And you’re thinkin’ about surfacin’ with trinkets.”

“I want to hear it,” Hooper shot back “Properly. Just once.” He cranked the handle again, notes spiralling uselessly into the water. Then, almost pleading: “Cover me. Watch the waters, make sure nothing gets close. And I’ll let you try the alcohol when we’re up there. Fair trade.”

Quint scoffed. “Not riskin’ my hide so you can play human songs.”

“C’mon,” Hooper pressed, eyes bright. “Just a few seconds. You’d get a drink out of it! Don’t tell me you’ve got better offers waiting.”

“Save your breath. Answer’s no.”

For half a beat Hooper stilled, chewing on the refusal. Then, with sudden fire:

“Fine. If you won’t cover me—” He snatched a salmon and stuffed it into his pouch. “—I’ll take your dinner for a swim instead.”

“Mako—” Quint’s voice cracked, but the merman was already darting for the mouth of the cave.

Hooper’s laughter bubbled behind him as he kicked hard for the surface, flask, music box, and stolen fish strapped tight against him.

“Get back here, you damn fool!” Quint’s bellow thundered after him, chasing him up the narrow passage.

“Make me!” Hooper whooped back, giddy.

The wrecks blurred past, water frothing in their wake. Every snarl that rolled up from below only spurred him faster, until the shimmer of the surface rippled overhead.

He burst from the water with a shout of triumph, spray catching the orange sunlight in glittering arcs. He threw his head back, laughing, sucking in air just for the pleasure of it.

Quint exploded up after him, jaws parted in a snarl, water sheeting off his shoulders. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?” he roared, voice carrying hard across the waves. “Humans could still be here!”

Hooper just grinned, breathless with exhilaration. “Worth it.”

“Worth it? You’re beggin’ to get gutted.”

“And yet,” Hooper said, raising the box like a trophy, “here I am. In one piece. And about to hear something neither of us ever has.”

Quint swiped a hand through the water. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, that’s what you’re gonna do.”

Hooper shoved the flask toward him. “Here. Try this.”

“You’re a damn idiot,” Quint muttered, but claws curled around the metal all the same.

Hooper cradled the music box against his palm and began to crank. The warped tune trickled across the waves, fragile as glass. He stilled, eyes bright, the sound etching itself into his memory.

Beside him, Quint grimaced as the alcohol burned its way down. “Rotgut,” he spat, coughing once. But even as he groused, his gaze swept the horizon, sharp and vigilant, scanning for sails or shadows.

Hooper's grin softened into something wonderstruck. “Hear that? That’s human art. They make machines that sing.”

“Waste of metal,” Quint dismissed.

Hooper wound the crank back carefully, then let it go again. His lips parted and, almost without thinking, he hummed along, soft and off-key, trying to catch the rhythm so he could write it down later.

Behind him, Quint’s tail slapped the water. “Enough. Any longer and I’ll drag you under myself.”

“Just one more. I need to remember it.” Hooper pressed the music box close to his ear as though nothing else in the world mattered.

“Singin’ yourself straight into a net, Mako,” Quint grumbled. 

The last warped notes trembled into silence. Hooper’s chest felt light, bubbling with something he couldn’t bottle. He looked across at the orca, smile breaking wide.

“Matt Hooper,” he said, his voice low but steady. “That’s my name.”

Quint tilted his head, eyes sharp. For a moment he said nothing, then a grunt slipped out. “Hnh. Reckless fool suits you just fine.”

Relief and giddy triumph surged through Hooper.

“Guess I should give your salmon back before something else makes off with it,” he joked.

Quint rolled his jaw, the flask still dangling from his grip. “Let’s go.” He dove without waiting, cutting a dark path beneath the waves.

Hooper followed, still humming, still smiling.

Notes:

Have you seen Jaws on the big screen yet? I've been multiple times...

I've also created a twitter account under the same name if you want to read me spitball ideas.

Chapter 5

Hooper had meant to leave. Really, he had. He’d shoved the salmon back into the pile, muttered something about the reef waiting. But Quint had shoved the sea grape pouch into his hands and told him, ‘Stay. Try a drink with some real bite.’

Hours later, they were both unsteady and flushed, curled up shoulder to shoulder, laughter ricocheting off the skull-lined walls.

“Close call, my vent!” Quint barked, slapping a circular scar below his ribs. “Harpoon. Bastards thought they had me cornered.” He twisted so the white seam caught the glow. “Missed the lung. Lucky for me. Not so lucky for their boat.”

Hooper snorted, lifting his arm to flash a ragged scar that looped around his bicep. “See this? Net hook. Got dragged half a mile before I wriggled loose.”

Quint’s grin sharpened. He tapped his tail, where a puckered white starburst marred the hide. “Bet you ain’t got worse than this. Powder burn. Cannon shot.”

“Oh yeah?” Hooper flicked his own tail with exaggerated pride, twisting to show five neat slashes across the fin. “Boat propeller.”

Quint waved it off. “Beauty mark.” He turned to bare a jagged scar carved down his dorsal. “Tried to gaff my gills with one of them big hooks and missed.”

Hooper’s laugh faltered. His eyes caught on the mess of scars striping Quint’s arms. They were too clustered and layered like tally marks. He reached without thinking, fingers hovering close.

“And these?” His voice was light, teasing. What’d you do? Annoy a matriarch until she tore the hide clean off you?” He pictured it and snorted, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

But Quint didn’t laugh. His expression shifted and he rolled his arm back against his side.

“There weren’t no matriarch,” he said, voice flat. “Pod was all men. Men who couldn’t live in a mixed one, and men who preferred the company of men.”

Hooper blinked, his giggles catching.

Quint went on, his tone low and steady. “We roamed wide. Hired out for battles when pods clashed, or when predators needed drivin’ off. Kept watch on humans too. Steered their boats away when we could. Worked fine enough until we hit the Philippine Sea.”

The cave seemed to shrink around them as his words carried.

“Came across a trench settlement. Small folk. Not fighters. Boats had started botherin’ ‘em. They asked us to stay close, just in case. When the boats figured out it wasn’t just ferals livin’ there, they brought worse.” His mouth twisted bitter. “They bought explosives. Not the regular sticks they light and throw in the water either. It was a bomb that ruptured ears and left half the trench bleedin’ in the dark.”

Hooper’s wine-blurred cheer ebbed. He sat rapt, listening.

“We tried to drive ‘em off. I shot outta the water at one. Got my arms carved up for it. Knife kept comin’ down, again and again.” He flexed his hands. “Pulled him under before I stopped feelin’ the steel.”

Quint’s eyes went distant, as though replaying each moment.

“Then another ship showed up and dropped a different kind of bomb. Whole trench folded in on itself. Half the pod crushed. Rest of us scattered and dazed. The water filled with blood. Wasn’t just humans we were fightin’ after that. Sharks came. Even merfolk turned on each other. Feeding frenzy. Five days of it, ‘til there weren’t much left to feed on.”

Silence pooled thick between them.

Hooper swallowed, chest tight. His own scars suddenly felt childish beside the weight of Quint’s words. He found himself staring at the orca not with fear, but awe, horror braided with a strange ache. Words failed him.

So instead, he began to hum the melody from the music box. The tune was soft, uncertain, but it carried.

Quint didn’t move. His jaw stayed set, eyes on the skull-lined wall. Hooper’s voice wavered, but he pressed on.

Then, a low rumble joined him. Quint’s voice was rough, but it twined with Hooper’s all the same.

Hooper glanced up, surprised, a smile tugging faint at his lips. The harmony filled the cave, easing the weight on his chest.

When the last note faded, the silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Hooper noticed the tension in Quint’s shoulders ease. He let himself drift until his head rested against that broad shoulder. Quint didn’t shove him off. He just let it be.

“You ever sing with your pod?” Hooper asked, words slurred faintly with wine.

“Aye. We sang.”

“What about?”

“Swimmin’. Travellin’. People. Most popular one was about Mediterranean mermaids.”

Hooper grinned faintly. “Yeah? How’d it go?”

Quint’s chest expanded on a deep breath. Then, rumbling low, he gave a verse:

“Farewell and adieu to you fair Aegean mermaids,

Farewell and adieu to you maids of the sea.

For we’ve received orders to sail for the Sargasso,

And soon the wide ocean our home it shall be.”

Hooper’s lips quirked.“More whale than orca. You sound like a foghorn.”

A growl rattled in Quint’s chest. “Careful, Mako, or I’ll toss you out.”

Hooper lifted himself from Quint’s shoulder, raising his pouch with sudden sincerity. “To your pod.”

Quint finally turned to meet his eyes, lifting his own. “To our scars.”

Hooper took a quick sip, but from the corner of his vision he caught Quint tilting his pouch back, throat working in long pulls. Never one to back down from a challenge, Hooper tried to match him—but the orca drained his wine two gulps ahead, slamming the pouch down with a smirk.

“Thought you could beat me, eh?” Quint saud, amused.

“You got a head start,” Hooper shot back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wasn’t a fair fight.”

“Sore loser,” Quint dismissed.

“Alright, fine. You beat me at drinking. But if we’re talking displays? Sharks got you beat.” Hooper huffed.

Quint cocked a brow, lounging back like he hadn’t a care in the world. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Hooper said, smug now. He pushed himself upright and arched his body in a slow, deliberate curve, fins flaring as he exaggerated every line of his frame. “Lateral display. Classic shark warning. Means back off or else.”

Quint gave a single, derisive snort and copied him without effort, his bulk casting shadows across the cave as he bent into the same curve. The arch was sharp and controlled, radiating dominance.

Hooper’s jaw dropped. “You can’t just—that’s ours!”

“A display’s a display,” Quint rumbled, smug. “And mine’s better.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” Hooper flared his gills and opened his jaws wide, teeth gleaming in an exaggerated gape. “Open-mouth threat. Terrifying, right?”

Quint answered with a deep, rolling yawn, flashing teeth longer and sharper than Hooper’s.

Hooper threw up his hands. “Alright, alright! I get it!”

“Thought this was shark play,” Quint teased.

Hooper narrowed his eyes and began to circle, weaving sleek and tight. On his third pass he bumped Quint’s shoulder in mock challenge. “Circling. Sizing you up.”

Quint let it play out, eyes half-lidded, indulgent. Then, just as Hooper swung by again, he surged forward and slammed his chest into the mako’s.

Hooper spun head over tail, crashing into the bones lining the wall with a rattling clatter.

“Hey!” he yelped, twisting upright again. “What the hell was that?”

“That’s how an orca answers a challenge.”

Hooper darted back in and bumped him again, his smaller frame bouncing off the orca’s mass. He did it once more, stubborn, before narrowing his eyes.

“Alright, fine. You’ve stolen shark moves. How do orcas show off?”

Quint’s grin curved slow. “You really wanna know?”

“Damn right,” Hooper shot back. “I’ll beat you at that.”

Quint drifted back, giving himself space. He coiled tight, tail drawn close, then struck down in a thunderous tail-slap that cracked against the stone floor. The echo rolled like thunder, silt blooming upward in a dark spiral.

Hooper’s mouth parted. “…Okay, that was impressive. But not unbeatable.”
 He swung his own tail down hard. The smack was sharp but the plume pitiful in comparison.

Quint smirked. “Cute.”

Heat prickled at Hooper’s cheeks. “Again!” He wound up, slammed harder, the echo ringing louder this time. But Quint only chuckled.

“You’ll bruise yourself before you get close.”

Hooper bared his teeth. “What else you got?”

Quint eased closer, rumble building deep in his chest. The low sound vibrated through the cavern walls.

“Copy that.”

Hooper tried and what came out cracked halfway.

Quint laughed. “More pup than mako.”

“Shut up,” Hooper whined, refusing to concede. “Give me another try.”

Quint waved him on, amused.

Hooper puffed out his chest, forced another guttural growl. It broke into a squeak.

Quint’s booming laughter shook the cave. “Sounds like a gull with its tail on fire!”

“Shut up!” Hooper shot forward, shoving at Quint’s shoulder. He hardly budged.

“Gonna take more than that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hooper ducked low, hooking an arm around his middle and heaved. For a split-second, the orca shifted under his effort—then Quint rolled him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“Looks like I’m the dominant male,” Quint said, smug.

Hooper righted himself and darted back in, circling close, bumping against Quint’s side again and again like a shark harrying prey.

Quint lunged, catching him in one swift movement and pinning him to the cavern floor. His chest pressed down, larger frame boxing Hooper in with ease.

Hooper squirmed, kicking, laughing breathlessly. “Not fair! You’ve got the size advantage!”

“You challenged me,” Quint rumbled. “Don’t complain when you lose.”

“I never said I lost.” Hooper wriggled harder, grinning through it, refusing to yield.

“Trouble,” Quint muttered, not dismissive but fond.

Hooper stilled, crooked smile tugging wide. “Damn right.”

They lingered, pressed close, laughter simmering down into something sharper. The cave hushed, holding the weight of silence. Quint didn’t move. His shoulders squared, gaze dark and steady.

Hooper’s pulse hammered. The drink blurred everything soft, but this was sharp. Electric. He couldn’t look away.

Quint leaned in just a touch closer, shadows deepening between them. Hooper’s breath caught, was he being tested or dared? His heart beat wild. If he just closed the gap, claimed the orca’s lips, he’d win this round.

“How’s your arm?”

Hooper blinked. “Huh?”

Quint pulled back, turning his attention to the cut along Hooper’s arm from the wreck.

Another clean victory for the orca.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Quint said.

Hooper’s brain caught up and held the arm up, inspecting the cut himself. “It won’t scar,” he muttered, smirking. “Unlucky for you.”

Quint gave him a look, unreadable but sharp enough to make Hooper’s stomach flip. 

Then the orca shifted his weight, lifting off him, and offered a steady hand. Hooper took it, letting himself be pulled upright. They drifted back toward the wall together, shoulders brushing as they settled into the dim stillness.

Quint tipped the pouch to his mouth, each swallow slower now, as though weighing the taste. Hooper took his own sip, the cave was calmer, the laughter and play burned down to a quieter heat.

Hooper let himself study Quint out of the corner of his eye. The scars, the weight of his voice, the fact he hadn’t been shoved out the cave hours ago. Not only that but Quint had drunk with him, played with him, bared things Hooper suspected no one else had ever heard. For all his gruff edges, the orca had let him close. The realisation twisted something deep inside him, a wanting that lodged tight in his chest.

He leaned his head against Quint’s shoulder again and began to hum the music box tune again. Softer this time, barely more than a whisper, like a lullaby to himself. Quint didn’t join in, didn’t stop him either. Just drank in silence, the sound curling through the cave between them.

Hooper’s eyelids grew heavy. The warmth of the wine and the steady presence at his side dragged him down, until the tune blurred on his lips and he slipped under, breathing slow and even.