Chapter Text
Match Made By the Currents
Is this really it?
Back to Black
Enjoy Seaworld!
Or not?
hehe
The day is sunny in Orlando, Florida, 1991. The air is heavy and golden, shimmering with heat that rises from the pavement in soft, invisible waves. The smell of sunscreen and salted popcorn drifts across the park, mingling with laughter, music, and the distant roar of an excited crowd.
Inside the stadium, I can hear them waiting—the rustle of hundreds of bodies settling into their seats, the echo of voices bouncing off the concrete stands. The water in the pool is still for now, a smooth sheet of blue that reflects the burning sky above.
I stand backstage, just beyond the gate that separates me from the stage. The material of my wetsuit clings tightly to my skin, slick and snug, like a second layer of flesh. It’s warm inside the suit, and I can already feel beads of sweat gathering at my neck, but I don’t mind. I’m used to it. I always am.
The heat, the crowd, the smell of fish—it’s all part of the rhythm of the day. I pull the zipper all the way up and run a hand through my hair, tucking it back beneath the band of my wetsuit cap. The stage manager gives me a thumbs-up from the far corner, and I nod in return. The familiar hum of the speakers builds as the opening music begins to play, a bright, upbeat melody that signals to me that it’s showtime.
I take one last breath, step forward, and the sun hits me full in the face. The light is blinding. The sound is instant. The crowd cheers, clapping and shouting as I walk out to the edge of the platform and wave. The heat hits harder out here; the sun presses against my skin, and I can feel my cheeks flush pink beneath its touch. My smile grows bigger as I feel the familiar burn, pretending not to feel the heat of the sun. The cheers feed me, fill me with energy. I wave again, bigger this time, soaking in the adoration that rolls from the stands in waves.
I am the performer, the trainer, the ring show master if you will.
Behind me, the surface of the pool ripples once, then again. The faintest movement disturbs the calm, and I know it’s time. I lift my whistle to my lips and blow once, sharp and clear.
A massive shape bursts from the water in a spray of sunlight and sound.
Tili.
His black and white body cuts through the air with grace that shouldn’t belong to something so large. Water glitters as it slides from his skin, and for a second the whole pool sparkles, drenched in gold and blue. The crowd gasps, then roars. Children scream with delight. Cameras flash like tiny stars.
I laugh, clapping my hands together as he dives back down, his dorsal fin slicing through the water like a blade. The surface smooths again, but the energy doesn’t fade. It never does.
When he rises a second time, I crouch down by the platform, close enough to see my reflection in his eye. His skin glistens in the sunlight, cool and perfect beneath my hand. "Hey there, bud, ready for the show?" I pat him twice, and he answers with a burst of air from his blowhole, spraying my face and chest with a fine mist.
The crowd laughs. I laugh too.
“Always the showman,” I say under my breath, wiping the droplets away.
The music swells again, and we move into the next part of the routine. It’s smooth and seamless, one trick flowing into the next like the tide. He breaches the water, spins, waves his fins at the crowd. They love him for it. I love him for it. We’ve done this together for years and years as partners.
Each motion feels like a conversation: signal, response, reward, affection. A language made of whistles, gestures, and trust. He knows me. I know him. At least, I think that I do.
As he dives and circles back, I catch his eye again, just for a heartbeat. There’s something different there today—something restless, deep and unreadable. But the music drowns out doubt, and I keep smiling. The crowd is too loud, the sun too bright. Everything moves too fast for hesitation.
I blow the whistle again, cueing him for the next jump. He leaps high, soaring through the spray. The water catches the sunlight in a thousand fractured beams, lighting up the stadium like fireworks. He lands with a thunderous splash, and I throw up my arms dramatically as the audience cheers.
Everything is perfect.
Everything looks perfect.
But beneath the surface, the water churns differently.
He moves sharper now, less fluid, less playful. His movements slice the pool instead of gliding through it like he always does. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a tiny tightening that I try to ignore.
Something’s off.
Maybe he’s tired. Maybe the water’s too warm. Maybe he’s just moody; it happens sometimes. I tell myself it’s nothing. As I step closer to the edge, I give the next signal—the cue for our finale: the back ride. It’s always the grand ending, the moment people remember.
He dives under. The water settles, still and glassy again.
The crowd hushes in anticipation.
I crouch down, ready to jump when he surfaces. My heart beats in rhythm with the background drums of the music. I blow the whistle once more.
Nothing.
A long second passes.
Then he rises, slowly, his massive head emerging from the water just a few feet away. The sunlight catches the top of his head and the gleam of his white markings. He hovers there, almost motionless. His dark eye meets mine.
There’s no spark of playfulness this time. No tilt of his head.
Just… something else.
I can’t name it, but it freezes me.
I raise my hand anyway, my muscle memory overriding instinct, and give the signal. It’s what the audience expects. I can’t stop now, not in the middle of the show.
But... he doesn’t move.
I blow the whistle again, sharp and commanding. He exhales loudly through his blowhole, and the sound is deeper, harsher than usual.
The crowd laughs uncertainly, thinking it’s part of the act.
I feel my pulse in my throat. The air feels thicker now, heavier. I take a small step back, my foot brushing against the edge of the stage.
“Come on,” I whisper. “You know this one.”
For a moment, he’s still. Then, without warning, his tail slaps the water—hard. A wave crashes against the platform, soaking me to the chest. Gasps ripple through the audience.
I force a smile, pretending it’s part of the performance. I laugh and wipe my face again, but my hands are trembling.
I blow the whistle one more time. The sound pierces the air.
This time, he comes.
Fast.
The water churns violently as he propels himself forward, and for a split second, I think he’s back in rhythm, that everything’s fine again. Relief floods through me as I brace myself for the cue.
But then, I see his eye.
There’s a flash of something raw and primal in it—something I’ve never seen before. Hunger, rage, desperation. I don’t know. I don’t have time to decide.
He’s too close.
I try to step back, but my heel catches the edge of the platform. My whistle slips from my lips and hits the water with a tiny, useless splash. I know, in that exact instant, that something is terribly wrong.
Maybe I missed a feeding. Maybe the tanks are too small. Maybe years of circles and cheers and artificial lights finally broke him. I open my mouth to say his name, to calm him down—but he lunges.
A blur of black and white. The water explodes upward as his jaws open, wider than I’ve ever seen.
CRUNCH.
The sound splits the air like lightning.
The crowd falls silent. Every single voice dies in an instant.
I can’t hear the music anymore. I can’t hear anything but the rush of blood in my ears. My world tilts, my body weightless for a breath of time that feels like forever.
I’m in the air.
He threw me up into the air.
I see the stadium below me, the flashes of cameras frozen mid-click, the blue of the pool stretched out like glass beneath me. I see the faces of the crowd, mouths open, eyes wide.
I see him—my partner, Tili—below me, circling, waiting.
The sunlight blinds me as I fall. Everything slows. The air feels thick and warm against my skin.
In those seconds, my thoughts scatter like light through water.
The smell of fish and salt. The sound of his breath beside me during training. The laughter of the children who pointed at us and clapped. The trust I believed was real. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was never trust—just control disguised as affection. Maybe he’s not the villain. Maybe none of us are.
Maybe this was always coming.
The water rushes closer, and my arms instinctively reach out.
I barely have time to brace for the impact.
I grow closer to my partner.
The world becomes sound and color and chaos.
Then, out of the blur, the darkness moves again.
His mouth opens beneath me, the black of it swallowing the light.
There’s no time to scream. No time to think.
Just motion. Teeth. Pressure.
And then all you could see was Black.