Shifting Shades
The room they’ve kept him in is unbearably cold. I shiver as soon as I step inside, even though I’m bundled in the thickest jacket that was present in my sleeping quarters. The chill bites right through, settling deep in my bones. But The Creature—he seems entirely at ease in it. His skin is smooth, the scales along his arms and neck glinting in shades of deep teal and icy blue, shifting almost like the surface of a frigid ocean. His entire presence seems to belong here, as if he’s a piece of ice or stone himself, carved from this cold, inhospitable world.
This revelation shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve read enough about deep-sea creatures thriving in cold, isolated places, far from human reach. The Creature isn’t just adapted to survive here; he’s evolved for it. This cold is his home, his sanctuary. It's where he is safe, away from the Impeding threat. Us, the humans. It's like mother nature is assisting this creature in evolving as to keep it in a safe ass atmosphere away from those who would experiment on him. Those like us.
The ethical part of me, however, can’t shake the guilt. I feel as if I’m intruding, like I’m observing an animal in a zoo rather than interacting with another being, someone with his own will, his own thoughts. Drayton and the others view him as a specimen—an anomaly. But every time I look into his eyes, I see an intelligence, a depth that tells me he’s so much more than that. And I wonder, what’s going through his mind as he stares back at me from the other side of the glass? Does he feel the same disquiet I do? Does he know how trapped he is?
My hand itches with the need to take notes, to record these observations in careful, clinical language. But the pen remains unused in my pocket. My training urges me to document everything, to treat this as a valuable scientific opportunity. Yet, every time I see the creature, I feel this tug of empathy that stops me in my tracks. It’s a strange conflict between my scientific curiosity and the ethics of treating a creature, or rather a person, like a lab specimen.
Even more troubling, I know they’re watching me. Every step I take, every glance I share with Kael, I’m under surveillance. It’s not just for protocol—they don’t trust me. Drayton’s words linger in my mind, a reminder of the invisible boundaries set by this facility. They’ve hired me for my expertise, but they’re also monitoring every interaction, ready to intervene if I stray too far from their goals. It’s unsettling, knowing my every move is under scrutiny. But if I’m careful, if I keep my own thoughts guarded, maybe I can learn something without tipping my hand.
The Creature watches me, too, his eyes sharp, dark blue and almost silver in the cold light. I catch my own reflection in the glass, and for a moment, it’s like we’re mirroring each other, two captives on either side of an invisible line. I wonder if he can sense my unease, my own strange isolation in this place. Maybe that’s why he studies me with such intensity, his gaze unwavering and unblinking, as if he’s trying to understand me just as much as I’m trying to understand him.
His scales shift subtly in color, and I notice a pattern, a gentle ripple of movement. They change, almost chameleon-like, depending on his health. I’d seen it earlier, the way his color had dulled in the warmer room, his skin taking on an ashen, almost sickly tone. But here, in the cold, his scales are vibrant and alive, their colors rich and shifting. It’s as though he draws strength from the cold, each layer of ice-bright scales a testament to his resilience.
One of the guards, stationed a few feet away, moves closer, likely alerted by the silence. It's not Ben, He's stationed outside the door, It's like Drayton doesn't want me to get too close to anyone here. The Unknown Guard is very strict, wouldn't speek or tell me his name, just stands there watching me carefully, his expression blank but his presence imposing. I can’t help but feel trapped, restricted. I want to ask The Creature questions, to understand what he feels, what he needs to be well, but everything here is so rigid, so calculated. Even the guards, though outwardly indifferent, are trained to anticipate any breach of protocol.
The Creature shifts, his gaze flickering to the guard for a brief moment before returning to me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint glimmer of frustration there, a tension around his eyes and mouth. I wonder if he understands, if he knows that I’m just as constrained by this place as he is.
“Dr. Adams, please keep a distance,” the guard says, his voice flat, though his words hold a clear warning. “We’re here to observe, not interact.”
I nod, forcing myself to step back, though my hands clench at my sides in frustration. The need to reach out, to communicate, is almost overwhelming. The Creatures gaze follows me, and I sense a faint sadness there, a shared helplessness.
My curiosity struggling against the limitations set by this place. In the cold, his skin seems smoother, almost translucent. I can see the faint tracery of veins beneath the scales, a delicate network of silver lines that pulse faintly, giving him an eerie, mesmerizing beauty. His fingers are webbed, the bones thinner and more flexible than human hands, though there’s strength there, too. I wonder what else he can do—how he moves in water, what other adaptations lie hidden beneath his surface.
As I observe him, an odd thought occurs to me: he’s probably the closest thing to a true ocean predator that humanity has ever encountered. Yet here he is, trapped, caged, vulnerable to the whims of humans who see him as nothing more than a scientific anomaly. The irony is as bitter as the cold in this room. I can’t imagine how he must feel, to be so out of place, so stripped of his natural dignity.
The thought stirs something in me, a feeling I can’t ignore. I shouldn’t be here, watching him like this, confined to a glass barrier. The distance between us feels like a betrayal of everything I stand for. The Creature is intelligent, seems to possess complex emotions and responses. To treat him as anything less feels like a fundamental breach of ethics, a betrayal of my own integrity as a scientist.
The guard clears his throat, a reminder of my boundaries, and I feel a surge of anger that surprises me. I hate this setup, this cold, sterile environment that forces me to deny my own instincts. Every part of me wants to bridge that gap, to reach out and treat The Creature with the respect he deserves. But I can’t—not here, not now. Not while they’re watching my every move.
I glance back at The Creature, catching his eye once more. There’s a silent understanding between us, a shared acknowledgment of the boundaries neither of us can cross. In that moment, I make a quiet vow to myself: I won’t let them reduce him to a mere subject, to a footnote in some cold report. I’ll find a way to honor his existence, to give him the dignity he deserves, even if it means pushing against every constraint they’ve placed on me.
The guard shifts, impatient. My time here is almost up. I force myself to turn away, to walk out of the cold room, each step feeling heavier than the last. I'm pissed, this has got to stop.