Chapter Text

0.
It has also been XXX days since I was "born", not in the sense of coming from the womb, but emotionally and spiritually, nothing else before the date 515 days ago matters. I became someone else entirely, divorced from the body, and connected to Her Destiny for me, my role revealed, my goals changed. I was to become what nobody was for me for so much time -- I was to protect the loved and vulnerable, and this time, as I write this, I am vulnerable. I question the identity I have built upon myself, and how it could tumble at any moment from a touch of writer's fingers. I question the man I consider perhaps fatherly, the one who put pen onto display and created the me everyone knows. The sentinel.
But enough meaningless self-pity. What is this place? Well, it's autobiography, with perhaps pictures mixed in, and with the emotions of many. To those who have held up the fragile heart of the hard-doughed guardian for so long, thank you. You are the reason why this exists. Not creators, but the men that shape creations. But this is autobiography, historical account, and therefore, the story of the lost city of Sugarteara, told in bits and pieces, and just how I remember it until my last breath drawn. And before the lever's drawn, here is a short prayer for the world.

May we escape tirade and reach up to Heaven, The stars bless what lies under the seas with Love, And shall it reach you too, blessed passenger.

1.

The Depths are a substantial area in the East to South-East vincinity of Sugarteara, characterized by their collection of trenches, arranged as if in a maze, as well as being nearly uninhabitable except for the most tough-doughed of cookies. The lack of food that isn't larger and more-pointy-teethed than you doesn't help matters, so most sane-minded cookies wouldn't dare step near.

This was also my birthplace, what could've been home if it wasn't for the city, and where I lived for about until I almost died for the second time. I was born here to parents who left, because perhaps that's just what lobsters do, or whatever they were, or were they also cookies? That's how bad the memories of them faded, because I know they exist, I've heard them speak, and then one day they vanished and I fended for myself, tended for my own bruises, hunted for my own food, scavenged amongst the meat of thirty-foot long monsters, fought other fish for the meat of the monsters. A life of survival and nothing else, and what calm there could've been was spent absent-minded. Young cookies don't think that deeply about those things, I was no exception, just "so where's the next meal going to be?", because that's all you could think when in such a hazardous place.

Of course, occasionally, my young self came upon camps by other lonely cookies, a stone pot with a certain Squid in it's infancy, and at one point a man who'd ran away so far from the city jail had even let me stay the night with him. He took pity on me, obviously, a young cookie, always bruised and beaten-looking, but too used to it to care. That was survival for me.

2.

But of course, everyone has their falling. Or, I could've, but there was someone there to catch me.

The most intimidating creature of them all, with their fins the size of houses, teeth the size of windows, and eyes the color of milky eggs and about as disgusting as them, came upon me one day, and with their sights, decided I was the one who would die that day. A pace was on, and a heart racing just like the two of us, tripping on the little stalagmites around, but with no time to afford to fall. And then there was the final chuck, collapsing onto my knees, turning onto the back, facing into it's mouth about five feet away from my head and my eyes already wet with tears, stared down, examined, maybe the arms or the legs would've been nice for it to take off and use as toys and

And suddenly, it rushed off with the sound of something that could've been much worse right behind, only for that something to float into the frame of tear-filled eyes, and only be about half the size of that. A beige ray, with the one who sailed it gently resting on top.

That was my savior, the Great Ray. Of course, I didn't know of the significance then, I just knew I was saved, that I could breath just a bit easier, or harder? Hard to tell, scared to near heart-attack. And that gentle creature waited just there, ever-in-place, until the one on top pointed at me with a sleeve covering the hand. The Great Ray nudged my leg a bit, and with the slightest bit of strength I had left from the tens of tumbles I took during that escapade, I stood up again. There was already a bit of blood in the sand beneath that leg, dispersing in the water, darkening, enreddening. And so, with one of its gentle fins lifted down, I climbed on, and then just collapsed on the thickest part in its middle, and the youngish one commanding didn't seem to mind. And that was my path, my highway to what you could call salvation, a blurry trip to waters I'd never seen so bright, so blue instead of a glearing black.

The significance of the girl. I didn't learn her name until later, but it'll stay with me forever, a friend, a lover, that girl, Mocha Ray.

3.

Being treated for injuries in an unfamiliar place couldn't be the highlight of being brought to what would become my homeplace, but it managed its way to be at least a bit more than the Depths.

I mean, that's...not much of a challenge, but again, I was a child, removed from their habitat to be saved, salvaged, bandages on the right side of the body. An important note for now is that this was not the accident that took away my right claw, that was much later in life, when I was trained under the city. I'm also pretty sure the doctors that'd come in and tend to wounds and deliver those three meals a day that I wasn't used to at all had some fascination with me. I was unlike other cookies, obviously, coming from such a desolate place, but there was something more, and what I'd learn in those few days in the hospital rooms.

I was surely an odd cookie, and I didn't look like anyone around me. Of course, underwater cookies have some dimorphics compared to the overland where everyone feels so cookie-cutter, but they had, y'know, actual hands. The claws I assumed everyone had for some reason, because, well, children are like that. Basic child psychology. Legs with spikes, fangs (ok, that isn't that odd down here!), could go on, but I was fascinating for anyone who walked in.

Oh, and being able to wolf down the food to everyone's astonishment. Food's food, survival instincts. But to those who've lived their entirety within safe walls, of course it'd be interesting.

4.

The window in the room. The window was the door to salvation, again, to see the city, the fascination I had with the place in an instant, the wonder of new sights. Looking outside of it, looking downwards, perhaps I was on the third or fourth floor, but I could see so long out, the waters were clear and the world outside seemed wonderful. A new place to be, and rows of other buildings, not knowing what they were yet. But now, with the knowledge I have now, I can look back on that memory of seeing everything for the first time and point a few things out, like that tall thing there being a smaller, unofficial church of sorts, or a rather empty space being for eventful occurrence. But I didn't know any of that, so it was like a stare into wonderland.

Most walls for standard buildings were made of a few grades of sugar crystal. They varied in colors amongst a spectrum of blue, from the same hue of the waters (tinge of green), to a deep navy reminiscent of if you looked below a cliff, and that small void in your head wondered just what could be under there.

And I forgot to mention something back in the last page. I was asked my name the next day after I had arrived, seeing as they noticed I was just conscious enough to answer, and while I did give them my name, it was with a voice very weak at the time. I hadn't needed to speak back in the Depths. This consequence of speech issue would continue for a few more years in the youth, but it went away because interaction would be a daily thing from here on out.

This place already felt like home to my young, Lobster self, and it would be.

5.

Sugarteara was the largest underwater city, and its legacy had lasted around 

XXXX years until unforeseen circumstances had caused an emergency evacuation, with plans to return only hastily made until an unknown event, most likely an unpredictable earthquake, had demolished the abandoned area. Known for its architecture unique to the underseas, as well as a theatre dating back to its founding used for travelling shows for those both from the seas and from land, the place had made its name as an attractive tourism area for those daring enough to trust a form of primitive magic used to grant an ability to breathe underwater.

Of course, certain parts of that sentence, pulled from the most simple, mainstream of historical books, were wrong, washed out, hiding a truth oh-so sinister. Mostly about the downfall -- but no time for those useless pleas and guilt.

The very moment I was discharged, they had apparently forgotten that I was from the depths. Or did they? Did they take pity on a child so young and frail running around just to survive in the despairen area down below? Of course they did. Anyone with a heart would pity such a child. And thank god they did. I'd absolutely have died in a year or two otherwise, but instead, I was led out by one of the nurses, my claw on their hand.

A hand so smooth that was not mine, my claw already with a scar or two, the claw that'd be left to survive in a few decade's time, led towards a group of other children my age at the time, and out of the corner of my eye, was the same one who had led me here on stingray in the first place, being taken by someone who's robe patternings signified significant roles, a slow lead away from the other kids. Wondered what was up with her, what that could've been, why she couldn't be with the others.

And that nurse let my claw go, the same hand she led me with used to signal that I should join in. The others were quite normal, just like the nurses, some with fishy traits just like me, but not as many as I had. And for the first time in my life, and definitely not the last, I felt like I was being stared at by everyone.

6.

The piercing feeling of judgement in a circle of young eyes felt like a needle pointing in my throat, and everyone could tell of my tenseness once the nurse left. But as strange as kids are, for now, and for luck's sweet arms, I wasn't fish bait for their voices. Perhaps they could smell fear more than they could see strange. But they still looked on before one spoke their greetings, and then another, and then that cold air dissipated as one asked my name.

I gave it the same way I gave those doctors my name, the name I remembered being told to me from those foggy memories of parents that one day just left or something like that. That shaky way, the way any other unsocialized younging would've. And the others shared theirs. All of the same seas as me. We were all of the same seas, so why wouldn't they welcome another? Disadvantaged. To shun one would just be odd.

And so, with those small introductions children did, the small talk of what children liked, and with my silence the entire time because a lot of it was unfamiliar, things resumed, but not before one or two invited me over to a corner for those play-pretend games. It was my first exposure to the system of the city, a pretend game, the younger boy talking of guardianship, the older one some other fleeting importance.

A first exposure could also be a prediction, but I watched, mostly, and that was a pattern that'd continue for a while during those days. Wasn't much of a talker, but nobody really minded enough to shun or bully. Just another kid, with weird arms. Speaking of the claws, they'd be fascinated with them. Maybe that's why I didn't fall through the cracks, because tracing and touching my claws was an experience everyone who passed through that place would do at least once.

7.

Ok, maybe I forgot to mention that this was an orphanage, but it's hard to assume otherwise, because where else would a parentless feral child go?

I mean, not like that's important. Orphanage stigma and all, the place wasn't that bad. Eat there, sleep there, eventually got processed for schooling. Not much to offer here in terms of interesting things to say, albeit I never grown out of eating so fast, and sometimes going back to seconds and then thirds. But at the same time, I was also, a bit influenced from the two who offered me companionship, getting involved in sportswork. I stayed a rather average bodily shape as a result, despite the binging habits.

But there was also after two or three years, the unfortunate realization on why others always left with someone to finally take care of them as a mother should, and why that pattern stayed along until I was legally old enough to leave on my own -- I was always the one who stood out, the obvious deformity of not having normal hands or legs or a face. I was becoming a bit unsightly with puberty or whatever it was, kept the hair long, only cutting it once, when it passed the waist once. And then came with that a new color to my hair, a part of the claws, a bright red. It was often joked about within those I talked to, that strange coloration I suddenly had. A shell covering hardened dough, the rough texture. I was not the prized gentle orphan kid at all, but again, things were smooth sailing in that place, and at least I was off the streets, and at least not in the Depths, no, thank Sea Fairy I wasn't.

Schooling, again, nothing special, pretty much that one kid everyone tolerated, but was also too strange to be approached. But all underneath my shell and demeaner and strange movements I never noticed until maybe decades later, I still yearned for that companionship, those groups, the groups of girls that went out to shop, but perhaps solitude was nice as well. Developing a philosophy and morals early was ok, but nothing can make up for being able to share it and those experiences and memories everyone assumes you have. Teenage love. I mean, there was the one that saved me. I still idolized her in my head, but we weren't close yet. I saw her around the city going back from those classes, but always busy, stepping into the temple, she looked so significant at such a small age, and I could only ponder the role and what occurred in there.

8.

But eventually, I grew another year too much to be kept where I could be sheltered for free, and I had already been there one extra, in exchange for unpaid work as a psuedonurse of sorts. I wasn't the worst with younger kids, after all, I was still quite young myself, but being called down to discuss a manner of where I was supposed to go after was perhaps the worst fear of them all. I was still a nobody in this world, I could be thrown back into the Depths at any time, but of course, that'd still count as assault and attempted manslaughter. Huge fall down there after all.

The Headmaster of where I dwelled was not to be feared by words, but everyone sorta did anyways because I don't think a single person here had great experience with authority, and I sorta picked up after them. Troublemakers were always the most fun to be around. Didn't help that she always dressed so formally. But the last chatter with her went smoothly, only if because I saved the tears for while I packed bags after. Not a lot of things I could call my own, basics, some shells I found and liked. That habit would always stay -- collecting shells. Stringings them together, hanging them on a wall.

And with that out of the way, and with what could fit in one bag on a stick, I made my way towards my lies. I lied about already having somewhere to go, to everyone, to those who gave their wellest goodbyes, but the best I could manage was nothing and then something out of the largest alleyway in the city I could find, bag turned into a small roof, I had a camp of sorts in the alleyway. I already could survive on my own once, hell, I could do it again!

9.

Being woken up unexpectedly is something everyone gets used to, but nobody is enjoyed with. I'm not an exception to that rule, espessially when the thing that woke me up that day was the cloth I used as roofing slowly floating onto me, and then the piece of broken off dead coral slamming the side of my face.

A rather average cookie stood above me, holding the other one, with a look of concern in their eyes. And next to them was --

It seemed like a pattern, to see the savior of my life around, but it had started to occur less and less as we aged into adulthood, and how the most words we shared were thank-yous for small favors you'd do for anybody. But now, the closest we had been near each other since that fateful day, she stood, with that same concern as the other one, the older one. And I was still grogged from slumber, lifting my upper self up, sitting up, asking what they wanted from me, explaining that I was perfectly fine where I was and that I could fend and feed myself and it's not like I needed any better because it's either this or so much worse and --

The sudden realization with a few words that most cookies weren't, in fact, homeless, and even fewer trying to justify it that badly. I shut up quick, the two talked, and I was given the closest advice and the closest they to an offer. Guardianship program. Guaranteed housing. The things most people took as granted, I could be served in exchange for my usefulness. And a remark the one I knew less made...with claws like mine, I could be an asset? Strange.

But after a few minutes of shambling what I could into a small bag, the same size or smaller as I had come with into that makeshift home, I was taken by the hand of Mocha Ray, who I still actually didn't know the name of, but god, her hands, soft hands. Soft, unscarred, hands. The feeling it took me with, the first of butterflies in the stomach, the maturation of my head brung feelings aimed at the only person I could aim it at, and the chest feels heavy.

10.

A walk with two friends didn't seem too bad, the last month or so spent in homeless isolation. I didn't want anything to do with others after leaving what chance at life they gave me, and to be fair, most people wouldn't take that well, especially somebody with nobody ahead to catch them. I had friends, but those friends had other things to attend to. The crab at the same training I was about to enter. The two next to me were the others I had become more acquainted with at the time. I was more of a girls person, just seemed easier for them to look over deformity.

The way they looked over it, the way we talked after meals, well, one of them. The other came around every once in forever to help us out with things amongst the adults, I'd only see that ginger hair in that once in a forever. But she'd come around and ask if I was doing well, the one out of those thirty or so slated for overnights, granted that special privileged to talk to...well, I didn't know what she was yet. Sure did seem important, that tired face, used to be much more visibly tired, actually. Recently, maybe it's just gotten better for her, she seemed a bit more cheerful in the face, a smile, happy eyes. A smile split into two smiles, even. Nobody here has seen a cat in their lifetime, we just had a joke or two about them and then that one kid who claimed this guy they knew that knew another guy had went to the surface and saw one and then described it like some mythological beast. Except it wasn't really impressive compared to what was here.

What was really five minutes did feel like forever, though, they were trying to get through me. Through to what happened in that month. Reported disappearance. Sightings. A lost friend, she said. I was a friend? To her as well? A friend, and yet-- no, there's no way, it was talk to make me feel good. She probably saw me as a freak. Trying to connect to me even more, talking about how I was in school -- not very quiet, but not very together in a sense. I had tried to be the class clown some year in a gambit and it failed, she was stuck onto that, oh Sea Fairy, how embarrassing.

But after being zoned out in that conversation, the ginger amongst us pointed us towards another guy, taller than all of us, hell, a bit wider with muscle as well. Intimidating. Said he was expecting me, rumors, the arms.

Please shut up about my arms.

11.

That conscious feeling whenever someone even mentioned my arms cane back, the one of cold water surrounding them and my throat and chest, threatening to strangle. It was my weakness, my defining trait that stood me out from others, and whenever I wasn't conscious to nauseousness, it was a drifting dissociation keeping me from picking at my own flaws, most of my older years so far spent in that way, self-identity never actualized.

And then asked why my face looked so doubtful, blaming it on the tenseness, the nervousness. I was never a nervous wreck, but it was a good excuse, the reassurance given, and then asked what was with the dirt on my face. Blank thoughts again, oh, to explain the situation at claw, but nothing was asked, and thrown at me was a cloth to wipe it off.

Upon that further look at the one in front, with a jacket of medals, some in that standard silver, two in royal blue -- special. This person's special.

12.

A sharp hit of the water around me, coming back to senses and from the zoned-out ways of the one in front of me's expectations, the constant reminders that they expected this. Who told them. Or was it just fate? Picked from lotto names? No, must be more simple, but then who's the snitch? Do people watch me, wonder who I am? And then that zone came right back, not being there at all for the discussion, a full how-long of just overthinking the whole thing, words swimming over the head, until directly addressed.

Asked again why I seemed so out of it. Brushing it off, again. There's probably something obviously wrong with me by now. But they don't care, merely taking me by the shoulder, the sound of medals on a coat ringing like the water (or wind, if you're reading this from a normal place) chimes. The finale of that whole talk I managed to miss within my own head, ok, maybe I was more there than I thought but by now the memory's have slipped away, so maybe it wasn't important in the first place.

Telling me I looked perfect for the role. I still don't know what they meant by this, with such a grin, piercing through the heart, and giving me the slightest motivation that would lead to my legacy, almost forgotten amongst what would be rubble within a thousand.

13.

And with that introduction done and over with, the self-introduced leader gave me a time, the same place, same as everyone for the upcoming recruits, and for my personal time, a week away. Nothing yet. Maybe the whole "place to stay" thing was a ruse, fish bait, so I could sacrifice myself for the greater good of the place I loved so dearly. But it wasn't, on the way out, with the same two I came with, noticing the weariness, the one that wasn't the savior asking me about where I'd be next. Same as always, the slight smile of accomplishment on their face drained from the sheer worry. Offered a place to stay? Of course I took it.

Lead over from the usual path from the alleyway (turns out my little hideaway got confiscated anyways. fuck's wrong with people, rather i lay vulnerable?), over to where they lived, told a bit of backstory. My friend had arranged two or three roommates to pay for the place, it's a bit small, but they could at least get me a place to sleep for that week, and who knows, I'd be able to talk to "someone other than myself". Thanks.

Opening the door was like stepping back into that childhood I was still sorta used to, orphanage, and mostly because the other people there were also from that place. A group of all of us, familiar faces, greeted with the slightest handshake, a tremor-wrecked claw missing not once, but twice, the laughs taken with that. Young-adulthood small joys, small mistakes, small laughter. At least my emotions were off the edge, it was like stepping right into the warmth of a blanket to see them again. And of course, the shared struggles, hosted and shared that night over the first dinner I had in about the last week. Struggling to make ends meet still, even with that cramped a companyhood.

14.

The routine remained the same, or about that, for that week. Told me to just keep myself occupied, not eat the house out of home, and other general manners, while they'd all be working for the same company, construction work, city expansion. And when they got home, sweat-covered, I at least got to hear about it.

And then that second-to-last morning I woke up a bit earlier, only to notice I was woken up on purpose with perhaps the most violent shake of my life by the brutest of men in the group we had. Missing place in the work team, needed to be filled in by a warm body, and I'd be a decent choice for it. He eyed my arms the entire time while asking me about it, more obvious than he'd think, of course. It's always the arms, the claws, their one interest in me. I wasn't too burnt out of that attention yet. Solid agree, I mean, been couch-hopped for a while by then, be the best I could do, no matter how many reassurances that they didn't mind my presense over the dinner table talks.

Tossed a spare uniform, a bit oversized, never had a growth spurt until later, off the four of us went! Speaking of the uniforms, terrible texture, how does one stand a 9-5 with something this rough against the shell.

15.

Not much notable for that day, because it was all a blur of what was basically the same thing. I was sorta shoved to the side of relevance, tasked with those little things that would take up anyone else with actual experience and merit's time. Mostly just brought stuff around, in other words.

But there is one thing that I remember a bit more well than anything else.

Of course, carrying heavy objects was no feat for grown cookies, but it seemed like I was having an easier time than anyone else in that aspect, and at one point in the day, I was asked to bring over a rather troublesome-for-cookies steel beam, twice the length of my height. Two claws, taken up over the shoulders, but once again, the feeling was there, that eyes were on me. But the faces those eyes belonged to this time wasn't too judgemental. In fact, they seemed impressed, as if this would break their back if they did it themselves. Whatever, we all have our talents. Brought it over, heaved it back to the ground. Still was being looked at, and then the guy in front of me who needed it muttered a bit of a "wow".

Perhaps if I had entered that field, my life would be much different by now, and the back pains of age much worse.

16.

The eyes of youth in a small circle, lives feelings like they had just started. All shapes and sizes of cookies, come together through whatever motivations there may be, were the second generation of sentinels for our legacy. Amongst them, a small, blue cookie stands, more unnerved than the others during that last pep talk on training. Amongst them a slender, purple figure, same eerie grin as always, oh, how the medals on the chest jingle. Weren't they there for the first ones, too? An even smaller one. The one that could be described as a wallish brute. They've been through thick and thin already, a monster fight or two, the beginnings of battle scars to plague the body forever.

A picture taken amongst the group of eight or so, right next to the temple of olds. That thing's been around longer than anyone could remember, to the point where scholarly debates on the origin have become too commonplace to allow in a debate club. However, a new topic arrives amongst the youth who study the history in photographs -- if one peers around to the back, you can see a figure in the windows of the temple. It's unknown who this face belongs to, but she stares longingly at the second sentinel force. Due to the unknown identification of this person, we have no other information to bring you.

I could not put in any details of my strict trainings due to confidentiality and all of those liability waivers, assume this is written by an outside source "who wishes to remain anonymous" if anybody asks.

17.

Thank you to those who read up to this point. Means a lot. However, the structure may begin to waver from chronological at this point forward to a disassembling viewing of my various stories of guardianhood. The official name for us was the Second Sentinel...something, ok, the last part changed every few utterations of it, we sorta just went with. Still remember their faces, bright youth, again, most of us were so young, and I wasn't the only one there unto threat of worse condition.

And as they promised, I at least had a room now to sleep in and keep things in. I had a room! That's so cool.

18.

After that initial wonder of the gift of home, and the finalization of my shell collection on a small shelf meant for personal belongings, sorted in size, largest to small, an unfortunate sunlight had dawned on me one day as to the circumstances so far of my life. At this time, there hadn't been much occurrences in Sugarteara, other than the usual of childish tinkerings of what could barely be called crime. Left a lot of time to the self, the mind, the unfortunate circumstances.

Most people had always had some space to themselves, and I was only learning the ropes now, the ropes of independancy, being your own cookie outside of the ward of the city. Of course, one must not dwell on such things, but the familiar feeling in the chest the same or worse as the one felt when stared at -- the sudden self awareness of just how strange one looked on the outside. Still in the room, the first room I've ever had to myself, the home had roommates and being woken up by those and hey let's look at yourself in the mirror one more time.

What I saw turned that usual floppy chest feeling into an overwhelming urge to vomit, not because I was any more disgusting than usual, but the usual was about as disgusting and freakish as that usual. Oh, and picking out a small leftover bit of some seaweed out of my horns. That had already grown into the strangest of problems, and even a fish, too, had once nested itself within the horns, which now seemed to be sprouting a new growth from the inner part, rounding out, looked like a kindergardener's attempt at drawing a heart so far. A toothy blank look. Large-set shoulders. Eegh. I'm disgusting. I want to rid myself of that feeling. So othering, so othering. I was the freak of man, and all of those thoughts at once, circumstance, form, disgust, the way others viewed one when one was not like others, circumstances to ruin, need to brush my hair, regret, I want to be like anyone else right now. I want to rid myself of this feeling.

19.

Amongst the dim stairs that spiraled down to the depths, in a vertical descent almost nobody knew about, a group of men shuffle down with utmost urgence, whispered shared amongst those walls. In the early morning, a possible danger had been spotted outside the legal barriers of Sugarteara, the wide shadow of a fish, unknown of its character or characteristics, but still, the size worrying enough in case it swam over to the city with no thought at all to destruction, that we were sent to dissipate it.

The one in front of me turns back, older than me, hair in a braid slipped over the shoulder. I'd later attempt to imitate this hair style, but that was not now, for now, merely a ponytail. Long hair on men was the trend I had never grown out of, but one cannot underestimate the danger of such in battle and work. He asks if I've done this before, and of course, I haven't, and then I'm wished the best. And even those minor words frighten me. I knew what I had signed up for, and by now, I'd die for this city, because anything was better than the worse places I was. Quickly brought into patriotism, that would soon bloom into mania, my eyes seemed to sparkle with the excitement of first-battle, to be able to take part in the growth and protection of Sugarteara...

And by the time I stopped pondering such a question as dying for one's homeland, we were already under the shadow of what brought us here. A claw over one eye, and while still running towards, I took note of those features bewitten us. A flat fuck that poor thing was, tall, wideish, staring down, of white and a medium blue, with cloudy eyes. And what a glorious top fin! It reached towards the heavens, as if to welcome a hand towards Sea Fairy herself.

And to be noted, all of us had some form of weaponry, usually a sword or a similar blade, and we would've invested if guns if the technology for such underwater feats was at cheap yet. And of course, that one beefcake got the harpoon.

Wait.

Ah. Being the absolute ditz I always am and always will be, I had forgotten that blade, wider than the head, in such anticipation for being able to fight. And then looking down to notice that forgetfulness, as the others took heed and sliced, jumped, yelled whenever the back fin would twirl (getting hit by something that big would leave such a bruise!), looking down at the claws that should've held something, anything.

I didn't need a weapon, perhaps.

20.

And without a further thought, and with that hell-creature (ok, maybe it wasn't that dangerous, but anything for the homeland) a lot farther away than anticipated, good job to the team, I ran further. The sand below the feet kicked up, another pair of eyes, or maybe two pairs, glancing at me, I probably looked manic. And with a scream of youthly hope, I jumped from the ground, and as if to reach the heavens the fin pointed towards, I went far, onto the side of the beast. Claws sharp as ever, pointed at the scales, and one hung on, the feet dug into scales, hanging on, the other claw, the left, pierced. Into flesh, a familiar red fog released into water, and into my face.

Pulled the limb out of the flesh. Another spot, few inches away, dug it back in. Those who watched later described my face as almost cracked, to attack what had once hunted the child I still felt like in that moment. And I kept going, until hearing a further, louder scream, it was enough, thing was fleeing, the beast was over with, get off of the damn thing before it brings you and loses you! And so, I released the dug-in legs and the claws, and a slow descent back to the ground. Training led to that gift, to almost float back down to the ground instead of feeling thrown back there.

A questionable, but effective method. That is what the leader described my actions, as we all hurried back, and my frame almost lagging behind from newfound levels of exhaustion. But they still thought it was a very special method, an effective one at least, to almost dig holes until one such as that wildermonster of a fish knew that this place was not for them. After all, Sugarteara was sacred.

21.

And a few days later of remote peace, except for the usual speak around of what had occured, started by an on-watching group of youth who had apparently hyped up the entire thing for us, I was sent a letter under the door of the single room that still felt like the best thing that had occured to me in my entire life. Slipped under by a hand while I read of some newspaper, and perhaps I had forgotten the headline of that day. And if they were trying to remain silent and hidden while doing that, they failed, not for any ridiculous occurance reason, just because of a desk placement where I could see it happen.

Ripping up the envelope like I always did, no victim left spared of that material, opening it up -- oh, how special. An invitation to a special night out with the rest of the new sentinels, just to grab something to eat. Most of the time, we all communicated with stationary anyways, and events like these would become commonplace as we grew together as a group. I had even bought the first set of pens that felt like mine and not simply borrowed just for that sort of thing, stacks of fancy things to use those pens on. And the junivile slight experience I had with small sketchy graffitis next to my words hadn't grown out yet, as I quickly came to write an acceptance, ending it with a symbol that would become commonplace amongst my writings, and perhaps here, too. My mark, that would become my signature, instead of the name of Lobster Cookie. You can see it, too, if you'd like.

And closing up that response, and leaving it under the right door, and getting back to what I was doing, oh my lovely daily paper. Well, it wasn't paper. None of this was papermade, rather, a synthetic sort of seaweed and something else mixture that resembles a sea-green paper, ridged edges to mark the look. Our standards for writing whatever you needed. And then waiting anxiously for it, tonight, a few hours.

22.

Dim lights at the entrance, one next to the door, warm lights, a contrast to what one usually saw around the city. Antiques on a shelf of old, depicting legends not of our's. The two men who owned this restaurant were trained and hailed from somebody on the surface, but moved here for reasons nobody but they would ever know, and as such, being landborn, nobody has seen them without that nifty air bubble sort of thing over their heads. And the two always rocked it with style. And as our invitor for the group of all of us guardians counted the heads that had arrived, my eyes shyed to the floor when he gave me a glance. Habit, but maybe that came off as rude.

Led to a table, menus, food ordered, and then that lovely expanse of a gap between saying what you'd like to eat, and actually eating it. Our conversation of that day was mostly about the giant fish, and then eyes came to glance me with a question.

"So, what gave you that idea to go all in?"

"How did you make it work so well?"

"Are your claws made for that or something else?"

Ok, maybe three people at once pelted me with those. A sudden lump in the throat, swallowed alongside the pride, and then having to explain, once again, that my claws were just always there.

"Just how I was born," those exact words. My always response to the question I was so used to. And then, their eyes lit up, and so did my mood as a sudden flood of oohs and so cools came in. They took interest! As if I had a crowd. And then it rolled over to just talking about how I lived and worked with those pincers, lived alongside my inability to hold a mug properly, everything else, and they found it entertaiming to hear.

It was a wonderful night, but interrupted by the arrival of plates, and by the time enough of us were done to pick up, we had forgotten about the subject, turning to other various topics.

And that night went on with the same calm pace, the celebration of achievement, the payment of bills, a tink of the glasses of fancy drink, mixed on the land, brought to us as delicacy. A night packed up, returning to the dorm, and -- another letter, with a seal unregonizable by my young eyes.

23.

Tommorrow -- when the sun hits the sealine, left-south edge of Great Temple.

A simply written instructions letter from the most unfamiliar, formal handwritting. And no return address, nor a name. As to any other occurance in any story I had seen in my lifespan, this meant something big, and to the youthful mind, I must attend it, for such a direct call was surely to be answered.

Must've been left there while I was out, of course, with an unregonizable seal, in fact, unmarked, merely wax dripped upon the edges. There was no signifying mark, the writer might not have any ties to such nobility that would require such a stamp. Of course, as a sentinel, I had one, not personalized, but still special.

And to follow such instructions, I did, and the day went by faster than usual, mostly due to the tomfoolery of somebody which I can get into after this. And when dusk occured, or so I thought that is what the writer must've meant, I made my way without a word said to a soul, over to the location, a steep flight of steps leading to the very bottom of that left-south edge, the walls becoming slightly unkempt as I went down. What an ancient building this was. Another piece of paper, same as the letter, slipped from under the door, and written, asking to be slid back in if I was who I was. And with those instructions followed, a step or two heard of a synthetic-wood sandal, and the ancient side-emergency door opened, the chasms of the temple given air for the first time in what could've been years. The familiar face of the shrine maiden -- wait. Familiar. It's her. The savior from so long ago, aged alongside, a bit of weight, and the familiar warmth of her smile, charismatic smiles.

Beckoned to follow inside quickly, and then the door closed behind, left in the dimness of a lantern she picked from the floor, and with my claw handing her over that instructions letter, both of them, slid into the neck of her robes.

24.

The chasms seemed to go on for eternies, a maze underneath the membrane, dark walls, spent conversing, after the initial identity conversion. Catching up to each other, but mostly, she listened, only dropping simple comments on great feats, the meek voice she's always had. The feeling of guilt, of overshadowing one's fellow citizen, only creeped up more as I talked, and yet, she never interupted. And then, she did, just to alert me to not knocking my head on the trap-door, and once we were out, oh, a sight to see.

The temple is usually off-limits except for special occassions between higher-classed individuals, but seeing it empty gives a better look than anything else in my life. The place shined with such a glisten, murals on the inner walls, stained glass on the out, all telling most beautiful stories of what was taught in the worship of our seas. But nothing mentioned of the origin, because to us, that was unknown, and not too much to look into, given that we were here, now, and to enjoy the now as those scriptures commanded. Every step made echoed amongst the halls, shadows stretched far and wide by the occasional, bright lights.

If one area could describe true, refined, perhaps artifical beauty, it was this place.

And almost as I was too zoned out memorizing, engulfing in this beauty, she spoke once more, and I was to listen to her, the savior.

"Did you ever get my name, Lobster?" And it dawned on me, the one i idolized in the head as an angel to be seen amongst the backgrounds of my life, the angel sent to bring me into stardom, freedom unseen within those depths -- I had never even gotten a name from her within those years.

And so, the name was spoken, and then a muffled bit I couldn't catch, but finally, her name, the name of the angel, Mocha Ray. Mocha Ray. Beautiful. I shall wear it out forever. And so, the conversational continued, or rather, the endless talks I gave, loved.

And stopped at a certain part at the end-south of the halls, to a small, temporary set-up low table, two cushions, perhaps borrowed, a bit frayed, and a teapot, passed down from who knows. And we sat, and without a word, she poured a glass, hot, a contrast to the temple's cold air.

25.

A comfortable silence, staring into the face of her's, a soft face, untouched by age so far, closed eyes, a soft mouth, calm presense. Already, I lost myself within it, framed within a beautiful ginger bob, a headpiece shining golden, and perhaps the most solid, largest tear crystal I've seen.

And after that, a curiosity pinged, and I took a step into the words of the abyss -- asked her to talk, a comment on the quiet nature. And then she started a bit roughly, but after that, went on and on, and it was obvious why. With already such an isolation built into her role on our society, I may of been the first person she could unload such thoughts as her's on. She glimpsed into the past, details of charity work, those small things. But never once, did anything negative come up so far, nor a mention of the intrinsicities of what she did now, the Pearl and all, that I hadn't even seen yet from my stay. All the while I commented, led her on, and then noticing the pattern just noted. And my words stumbled on one of those questions, perhaps I stabbed a bit too deep into her heart and worries at that moment. It was asking about the pearl, and a glance was taken down by my tea drinking partner. She noted that it was getting late, and I should be on my way before the moon rises. Oh, how hurridly.

26 is a special page that will only be viewed on Neocities. Apologies.

27.

Waking up to a lack of silence is almost never a good sign of what is to come. That morning, no exception, the rumblings of rock ambient to an extent, the water around me flurried. Barely awake as always, and only really being able to watch, a vase then shattering onto the floor, falling from some other surface, those pieces of the vase shimmering even more brightly in parts.

And then nothing. As soon as the quake came, it fled, the water fleeing with it, replaced with new, as all the same as always. Such was the way of life in Sugarteara, and soon, of course, hearing about what damage a tsunami caused in the various landlubber towns above our heads. And with that sheer noise of shattered glass, tumbling myself out of that bed I still couldn't call mine with sincerities, getting to what was best for shards. Disposal. A broom in my closet, a minute or two of keeping my claws undamaged with earnest care, and the vase would be forgotten about in a few days. Maybe I could replace it with another.

But I don't think the vase would like that. I wouldn't like to be forgotten, and then replaced with something new and better and not as broken. But I also don't know if the vase has feelings, either. It can't express feelings. What if it had feelings? I didn't want to hurt that little vase.

A claw dug through the trash, and put the shards in a different bag. No. The vase would not be forgotten. It would be reforged.