The water is wrong. Not just the temperature, though the cold gnaws at me, it’s the thickness, the weight of it. It’s like the neon from the signs overhead – pink, cyan, green – has bled into it, tainted it and made it viscous and dense. The others don’t seem to notice. They cut through it easily, sleek shapes against the neon haze while I kick my legs and try to keep up. Human legs. Still human, even with the gills they fitted me with before we came down.
We’re in what The Guide, the tall one with the spines, had called the Luminous District. They had organised this whole thing – the Veilbreaking celebration. Two had been bound earlier, some kind of ancient ceremony I hadn’t been present for. Now we’re here to mark it, to witness them in the city together. I’d just been asked to come along for some reason. I still wasn’t quite sure why.
The Guide is ahead of me now, their body almost serpentine, those vivid cerulean spines running the length of their back, pulsing in a rhythm I assume means something. Next to them, one of the celebrants – I think that’s what they are, it still hasn’t been explained to me and I am starting to doubt it ever will be – propels forward with six arms, each ending in delicate webbed fingers. Their head is smooth, almost featureless except for the dark clusters where eyes might be. The other celebrant is smaller, more compact, their body covered in what looks like overlapping plates of shell or chitin, dark pink and catching the neon in strange ways.
There are seven of us, or at least I think there were when we departed. It’s hard to tell when people keep swimming off and you’re left floundering, barely able to move in this environment. I’m pretty sure someone’s already left and returned to their lodgings. There’s one who swims alongside me occasionally – older, though it’s hard to tell with their species. Thick-set body, powerful tail, skin that constantly shifts colour slightly in the dancing lights. They don’t say much.
To our left, coral and metal fused together, a vast structure that seems to have grown as much as been built. The coral is pale, petrified, almost white, threaded through with cables and pipes that glow from within. Lights are embedded in the walls, more neon, but also something organic – glowing polyps that pulse in waves. The entrance is a gaping maw of twisted architecture, and music throbs from inside, muffled and strange through the water.
One of the group gestures toward it. The others immediately change course and follow without question. I follow, trying to keep pace. Everyone else moves so easily.
Inside, the space defies the external structure. It’s vast, cathedral-like – the ceiling lost somewhere in the murk above, where the light doesn’t penetrate. The walls curve away in impossible directions, more of that pale coral fused with metal scaffolding, with screens, with pulsating organic matter I can’t identify. Everything is lit in layers – the cyan and pink of signs advertising things in scripts I can’t read, the softer turquoise glow from clusters of something growing in the corners, and the harsh white spotlights that sweep across what must be a dance floor.
Bodies everywhere. Hundreds of them, maybe more. They come in various forms that I am beginning to partially recognise – some humanoid enough that I can track limbs and faces, others entirely alien. One nearby has a body like a translucent bell, organs visible inside, pulsing. Another is all angles and segments, moving in a mechanical way that seems mathematically precise. A group near the centre are covered in what looks like flowing hair or tentacles, undulating with the music.
The music itself is… I don’t know. It thuds through the water, felt more than heard. There’s a rhythm, I think, but it keeps shifting, or maybe I just can’t hold onto it. The patrons move to it instinctively, their bodies know something mine doesn’t.
The pressure intensifies the moment we cross the threshold. Not physical – or not entirely. It’s like the water is watching. Like there are rules here I should know but don’t.
One of our group, Six-Arms, is already at the bar, if that’s what it is. A curved structure of that same coral-metal hybrid, lined with containers of liquid that glow from within. Shell-Plates has stopped moving entirely, they’re floating in the middle of the room, head tilted, watching something I can’t see. The Guide waits alongside them.
I drift toward a wall, trying to make it look intentional. My legs kick weakly. A native swims past – too close – and I feel the wake of their movement push me sideways. They don’t acknowledge me. I’ve brought a recording device, tucked in a pocket somewhere, meant to capture moments from the celebration. I haven’t turned it on yet, don’t even know what I’d record – the overwhelming noise? The way I don’t understand anything? Better to wait for something worth documenting.
The Guide cuts through the space with purpose. They say something to the older one, their mouth moves but I can’t hear it. The music swallows everything, or maybe I’m just not listening right.
Six-Arms turns from the bar, holding something. They move toward The Guide. An exchange I’m not part of. I press my back against the wall, the coral is rough through my clothes. At least that feels real. I don’t know what we’re doing here, I haven’t known for a while.
The group continues to drift through the space, but there’s a destination now, they move with more purpose. The Guide’s spines pulse in a deliberate pattern, and Six-Arms responds with a gesture I don’t quite catch. We’re being led somewhere. For the celebration, I assume. That’s why we’re here, after all, to witness whatever comes next for Shell-Plates and Six-Arms.
I should be happy for them. I’m trying to be happy for them.
Six-Arms gestures toward a raised platform where more drinks are being distributed, and the others follow. The platform itself seems grown rather than built – coral, darker than the type which makes up the building, is shaped into shelves, each one lined with those glowing containers that shine and pulse in different rhythms. I kick harder, my legs burning with the effort of keeping pace. The Older One slows slightly, matching my awkward movements for a moment, but says nothing. At least someone notices.
We settle near the platform’s edge, or rather, they settle while I hover fighting the currents that seem determined to push me away from the group. The Guide stiffens – some kind of exchange with Six-Arms. They both glance toward me, then away. Not hostile exactly, but not welcoming either.
Long-Fin floats nearby. Tall and streamlined, pale silver scales catching the neon in clean lines. They move with an easy, athletic grace that makes my clumsy kicking look even worse by comparison. We’d exchanged a few gestures earlier – nothing deep, but enough that I thought we might have something in common. There’d been games in the city recently. Competitive displays between two neighbouring districts, different species showing off their skills in the currents. I’d watched some of it from the observation platforms before we descended into the Luminous District proper. Spectacular stuff – synchronised swimming formations, speed trials through the narrow passages, that thing where they manipulated the glowing algae into patterns. Long-Fin had been watching too, I’d seen them pointing, their body language suggesting interest.
I start to signal about it. Nothing complicated, just the basic gestures for games and impressive and a questioning tilt of my head that hopefully means did you see?
Long-Fin’s expression shifts – interest, recognition. They start to respond.
“We don’t discuss that here.” Six-Arms’ voice cuts through the water, clear, firm.
I stop mid-gesture, began to question-
“It’s not appropriate.” Six-Arms turns back to Shell-Plates, ending the exchange. Not a conversation, a decree.
Long-Fin looks uncomfortable but says nothing. Their shining scales seem duller suddenly, or maybe that’s just the shift in light. The moment dies.
I want to ask what makes it inappropriate, what rule I’ve broken, but the way everyone has suddenly become very interested in the floor or their glowing drinks suggests the question wouldn’t be welcome.
We’ve come here to celebrate. I need to remember that. This is supposed to be joyful.
The Older One catches my eye briefly. There’s something there – sympathy, maybe recognition – but they don’t intervene. Just a small flicker, their skin darkening.
The Guide leads us deeper into the venue, toward a more crowded area. Bodies everywhere, more compressed here. The ceiling feels lower and the walls are threaded with more cables that pulse in time with the music, creating shifting patterns of light across the crowd. I press closer to whatever wall I can find, trying to stay out of the way.
The Guide pauses near a group. One of them has unusual patterning – geometric shapes that shimmer and shift across their skin in waves of colour. Beautiful, actually. Mesmerising. The Guide leans toward Shell-Plates, gesturing broadly. I can’t hear the words but the movement is clear. Mocking. The exaggerated mimicry of the creature’s patterns, a crude expression. It was needless and cruel.Shell-Plates’ body shifts – laughter, I think. That particular ripple of movement. Their victim notices. Their patterns stutter, the colours dimming and becoming irregular. They turn away, moving deeper into the crowd. The Guide doesn’t seem to react or even notice, already pointing at something else – another creature with too many limbs, or perhaps too few.
This continues as we move. The Guide commenting, Shell-Plates laughing, Six-Arms occasionally adding sharp observations I’m grateful I can’t quite hear. I trail behind, legs aching, watching the small destructions they leave in their wake.
At least I’m not the only target.
Though that thought doesn’t help as much as I’d like.
As we move, I notice Four-Arms has fallen back to swim near me. Shorter than Six-Arms, stockier, with four limbs instead of six. There’s a roughness to them, scars or marks across their body that catch the light in strange ways. Siblings, I realise, noting the similar structure of their limbs, the way they both hold themselves. But different somehow. Four-Arms seems… quieter, less polished. They don’t say anything, but their presence feels almost companionable, like they’re also choosing to stay at the back of the group.
Right. The Veilbreaking. We’re here for a reason beyond just drifting through venues and watching The Guide be cruel.
We’d engaged in some ritual earlier, before descending into the deep districts. A game, I suppose. Strategy-based, it required quick thinking and spatial awareness. I’d done well, better than most of the group, actually. It had been one of the few moments where my different way of processing things had been an advantage rather than a hindrance. I’d heard some of the others discussing it afterward – replaying key moments, laughing about near-misses. It seemed like a safe topic, communal, something we’d all shared. After taking a deep breath, I pluck up the courage to try and converse again.
That final round I start, directing the gesture toward the group generally. When we had to navigate the-
“Can we not?” Six-Arms cuts across me. It was phrased as a question, but the tone showed that it absolutely was not.
I blink, stop. I just-
“Always going on about something,” The Guide mutters. Loud enough for everyone to hear, that mocking expression once again present on their face.
I want to point out that literally two minutes ago, Shell-Plates and Long-Fin were discussing this exact thing. Their performances, their strategies, but apparently when I mention my own, it’s gloating, it’s inappropriate.
A dry cough catches in my throat. The unfairness of it settles heavy in my chest.
The Older One’s tail goes very still. They meet my eyes for a brief moment, and I see something there, understanding maybe, but again they don’t speak up. They don’t say what everyone must be thinking – that others were just discussing this, that the rule only seems to apply to me. The silence stretches. I feel my face heat, grateful at least that the water hides that particular humiliation.
This is supposed to be a celebration. Shell-Plates and Six-Arms’ night, their binding, their moment. I’m supposed to be supportive, supposed to be happy.
I’m trying. I really am.
The Guide draws upright, urgent. “The ceremonial chamber should be open now,” they announce. “Time for the next part.”
We move through a passage, wider than the others, walls embedded with glowing polyps, a dark shade of orange this time, that pulse in waves. Part of the ceremony itself, maybe. Magnificent, despite everything. The chamber we enter is different from the others, more intimate despite its size. The ceiling curves upward into darkness, but the walls are closer, creating a sense of enclosure. The walls themselves are carved with patterns – spirals and waves that catch the light, making the whole space feel like it’s breathing. At the centre, there’s something happening.
Creatures gather in a loose circle, and at its heart, two of them are performing. They’re producing sounds – layered harmonies that resonate through the water in complex patterns. Others join in from the edges, adding their own voices, supporting and enhancing. As I watch, the central performers finish, and two others smoothly take their place. Then another. It’s rotating, participatory. Each pair gets their moment at the centre while others support from the periphery. Some are clearly skilled, their harmonies are complex and beautiful, others are simpler, rougher. But no one seems to care about the quality, they’re all welcomed equally, encouraged.
The tightness in my chest eases.
I’d read about this, back on the surface, before we descended. The ceremonial performances of the underwater cities, where anyone could participate regardless of skill. Where the point wasn’t perfection but community, shared experience. I’d been fascinated by the descriptions. The idea of something so welcoming, so unpressured. It was so unlike most of the surface’s performances, where skill was everything and judgment was the point.
And now here it is, real, happening in front of me.
Others from the crowd are joining in, stepping forward tentatively, being welcomed, adding their voices. The atmosphere is warm, joyful, genuinely inclusive.
This is it. This is the moment where maybe, finally, I can be part of something.
I turn to the others. My group. Our group. We’re here together, aren’t we? For the Veilbreaking, for this experience.
I start with The Older One, gesture as clearly as I can: Want to join? Together?
They shake their head, apologetic but firm. Not their thing, fair enough, I understand that. Long-Fin next, same gesture, same hope. They look away, find something fascinating about the wall behind me. Four-Arms won’t meet my eyes either when I ask, just a small head shake, almost guilty. I move toward Shell-Plates and Six-Arms. They’re the ones who wanted to come to this chamber, they suggested it. They said it was an important part of the ceremony, something we shouldn’t miss, surely they’ll… Six-Arms doesn’t even let me finish the gesture. A dismissive wave of one webbed hand, already turning back to Shell-Plates to continue whatever conversation I’ve interrupted. Shell-Plates won’t look at me, just keeps their attention fixed on Six-Arms, those pink chitinous plates catching the light.
I float there. The harmonies continue around me, warm and welcoming and utterly out of reach. The moment feels stupidly vulnerable. I’d been excited, genuinely excited, for the first time since we descended, since long before that, maybe.
And every single one of them said no.
I move back to the edge of our group, try to focus on the performance itself, on the rotating centre where another pair have taken their place. Let the disappointment settle somewhere I can ignore it. Maybe I can at least enjoy watching. Maybe that’s enough.
But then I notice The Guide’s spines flashing in that familiar pattern again, the one that means they’re about to say something cruel. They’re watching the performers, but not with appreciation. Six-Arms notices and moves closer, following their gaze. Together they begin pointing, exaggerated gestures that draw Shell-Plates in too. A performer at the centre falters. Their harmony breaks for a moment before recovering, but the damage is done. They’re self-conscious now, aware of being watched and judged. The Guide’s whole body moves in a way that suggests laughter. Shell-Plates mirrors it.
They’re not just watching, they’re critiquing, mocking, and they’re doing it loudly enough that the performers can’t help but notice.
The harmonies begin to fracture. What had been confident and skilled becomes hesitant and uncertain. The performers start glancing toward our group, toward The Guide’s obvious commentary. One by one, participants begin dropping out. The easy rotation stalls, the welcoming atmosphere curdles into something awkward and painful.
I understand now, with a clarity that’s almost painful: they never wanted to participate. They wanted an audience, they wanted targets. Coming here wasn’t about the ceremony or the experience, it was about having something to tear down.
And I’d asked them to join me.
The chamber empties quickly after that. The remaining performers disperse, the ritual abandoned. That warm, inclusive atmosphere – completely destroyed. Six-Arms and The Guide seem satisfied, Shell-Plates is still laughing.
We move on to the next area. Six-Arms leading now, The Guide following close. I fall further behind. My legs are tired, the water feels even heavier than before, or maybe I’m just noticing it more. Every movement is effort.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
I need to leave.
Not permanently, not dramatically, I just need to get away, just for a moment. Long enough to breathe without being constantly reminded of the group’s collective indifference.
No one notices when I drift toward the edge of the chamber. Why would they? They haven’t noticed most of the night. I’m still not sure why they even invited me in the first place, maybe to be the subject of Six-Arms’ ire?
There’s a current here, quieter than the main flow. It leads away from the ceremonial space, toward what looks like an observation area. The water is clearer, less disturbed by bodies and movement. I let it carry me.
The observation area turns out to be a sort of dome. Transparent walls curve overhead and around, offering a view out into the wider city beyond this venue. I press against the glass – or whatever material it is – and look. The city sprawls in all directions. Structures of coral and metal rise in impossible geometries, threaded with those glowing cables, studded with lights. Luminous blooms drift past in lazy clouds. Creatures I can’t identify move through the distant currents – some massive, casting shadows that dwarf entire buildings, others small and quick as sparks.
It’s beautiful.
It should be beautiful, anyway. It is beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. This is a mesmerising once in a lifetime experience.
And I’m miserable.
I pull out the recording device. Meant to capture moments worth celebrating, instead, here I am. I turn it on. The small light blinks green.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” I say quietly. My voice sounds strange through the water, muffled and distant even to my own ears, but the device should catch it. “I tried to talk about the games – not allowed. I tried to discuss the activity – apparently that’s gloating. I asked them to join the performance – every single one of them said no, and then they ruined it. They just… destroyed it for everyone.”
I watch a massive creature glide past outside the dome, larger than anything I had ever conceived, let alone actually seen before. Graceful despite its size.
“Six-Arms sets rules that only apply to me. The Guide is cruel to everyone, but especially when I’m watching. Shell-Plates just laughs, and The Older One sees it but won’t say anything. The other two won’t interact with me.”
The city lights pulse in alien patterns I don’t understand.
“I came here for them, for their celebration. I’m here to be supportive, to be happy for them. And I am trying, I’m really trying, but they won’t let me be part of it. They won’t let me connect with anyone. They won’t even let me exist without critical commentary.”
My breathing sounds loud in this quieter space. Each exhale, each inhale.
“They call it a Veilbreaking. Breaking down barriers between people. And here I am, surrounded by barriers no one else can see. Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I don’t understand the rules because I’m not supposed to be here at all.”
I stop recording, look at the device for a moment, then pocket it.
The thing is, I don’t actually believe that last part, not really. I’m not the problem. The rules are arbitrary. They are applied selectively, designed to exclude.
But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt less.
I don’t know how long I stay there. Long enough that my legs stop aching. Long enough that the anger settles into something duller and more manageable. Long enough that I start to think about just staying here, in this quiet space with its view of the beautiful city I can’t enjoy.
Movement catches my eye. The Older One is floating nearby, their skin shifting through shades of turquoise. They approach slowly, carefully, like they’re worried about startling me.
They tilt their head. Inquisitive, a kind look: Are you alright?
I shake my head. No point lying.
They move closer. Their tail curls in a gesture I don’t quite understand, but the intent seems sympathetic. They wait there with me for a moment, just floating, also watching the city through the dome. Then they gesture back toward where we came from. Gentle, but clear. We should go back.
Right, The Veilbreaking. Still ongoing, still requiring witnesses.
I push away from the dome and follow The Older One back toward the main chamber. Out of my sanctuary, back through the quieter current into the noise and pressure and bodies. The group is where I left them, more or less. Six-Arms and Shell-Plates are in deep conversation, their body language suggesting intensity, the Guide’s spines pulse rapidly in amusement, Long-Fin and Four-Arms hover at the edges.
No one acknowledges my return. The Older One’s concern remains the only recognition that I left at all.
We drift for a while longer, into another space. This one feels transitional – narrower than the ceremonial chamber but not as compressed as the crowded areas. The music here is different again – slower, more resonant, echoing off walls that curve in ways that don’t quite make sense. The Guide’s spines illuminate through patterns that the others seem to understand. Everyone follows.
I’m numb to it now. Just following. Just existing in the space without trying to be part of it.
Then Six-Arms and Shell-Plates exchange a look. Some kind of silent communication that I’m not privy to. Six-Arms gestures to The Guide, who responds with a complicated gesture before nodding their head. Six-Arms turns toward the group.
“We’re heading back.” Not to me specifically, to everyone. “Early night.”
Shell-Plates is already moving toward an exit. Six-Arms follows without waiting for a response.
Just like that. No explanation, the celebration incomplete. They just… leave.
The Guide watches them go, spines dimming slightly. Long-Fin and Four-Arms exchange glances, uncertain.
And I feel it immediately. The pressure changes.
It’s not physical – or not just physical. It’s like something that had been pressing down on the water, making it heavy and thick and hard to move through, has suddenly lifted. The murky haze far above dissipates and I can see the ceiling above for the first time. The space feels different. Lighter, easier.
I can breathe.
Well, I could always breathe, technically, but now it feels like breathing rather than just mechanically processing air.
The Guide turns toward the rest of us. Without Six-Arms to bounce off, they seem somehow diminished. Still tall, still serpentine, but their posture slackens, less certain.
Their arms move – something about continuing, probably – but there’s no real conviction in the gesture that follows. After a moment, they stop trying. Four-Arms moves closer to the centre of our group – what’s left of it. Long-Fin does the same. The Older One glows almost golden in the neon light.
We drift together, the five of us. No destination now, no ceremony to complete. Just… drifting.
The Guide tries to gesture toward a passing native – the beginning of what might have been another cruel observation – but no one responds. After a moment, they let their arms drop.
We find ourselves in a smaller chamber, quieter than the others. The walls here are darker – less neon, more of that natural coral glow. The music here is barely present, just a low hum through the water. There are a few others scattered around, but it’s not crowded, not overwhelming. It’s almost peaceful. Long-Fin gestures toward a seating area – carved alcoves in the coral, worn smooth by use.
For a while, no one moves.
Then Four-Arms makes a gesture. It’s simple, almost hesitant. Their four arms spread slightly, then drop. Something about the night, about exhaustion. Not a criticism exactly, but not enthusiastic either.
The Older One responds. Their colour shifts darker, then lighter again – agreement, maybe.
Long-Fin adds something. A tilt of their streamlined body, a slow movement that suggests weariness. Their pale scales seem even duller than before, or maybe that’s intentional.
The Guide’s spines pulse, but slower now. They make no gesture, offer no commentary. They just float there with the rest of us.
And I realise: we’re all exhausted. We’re all ready for this night to end. The difference is that now, without Six-Arms setting the rules and Shell-Plates laughing at the cruelty, and both of them making everything about their Veilbreaking and their standards and their judgment – now we can admit it.
I make a gesture, my hands tentative, moving in what I hope conveys something like: That was brutal.
Four-Arms looks at me and nods slowly. A clear acknowledgment.
Long-Fin’s body tilts in what might be agreement. Their expression – as much as I can read it – seems almost relieved, like they’d been waiting for someone to say it.
The Older One flickers through several shades, settling on something darker. Sympathetic.
Even The Guide doesn’t argue. They just float there with the rest of us, almost subdued.
We sit there – float there – for a while longer. It’s not joyful. It’s not triumphant. But it’s bearable. We’re not friends. We probably never will be. Most of us are still strangers, connected only by this one strange night.
But right now, in this quiet chamber with the pressure lifted, we’re just five tired creatures who’ve survived something unpleasant together.
That’s something.
Eventually, Long-Fin gestures upward. A suggestion, maybe. Time to go. The others respond with small movements – acceptance, agreement, readiness.
We make our way through the passages slowly. My legs still struggle, but I’m not falling behind anymore. The others match my pace without comment or gesture.
We pass near the dome where I’d gone earlier. I can see the city through it, still beautiful, still alien. The massive creatures still gliding past, the lights still pulsing in their incomprehensible patterns. I pull out the recording device, turn it on one more time.
“It got better,” I say quietly. “After they left. It wasn’t good, exactly, but better. The ones who stayed… we found something. Not friendship, but something.”
I watch the city for a moment longer.
“I’m still tired. Still ready to leave. Still not sure I understood any of it. But I survived. We survived. And maybe that’s enough.”
I turn off the device. Pocket it.
The others are waiting. The Older One’s colour shifts – a questioning shade of turquoise. Ready?
I gesture back. Yes.
We continue upward, toward the surface, toward air and gravity and normalcy. My legs kick steadily now, matching the others’ rhythm for the first time all night. Behind us, the Luminous District pulses with its neon and its music and its endless, incomprehensible motion.
I don’t look back.
[Image Credit : Photo by Teryll KerrDouglas on Unsplash]
by 
David Bates
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