The media were in hot pursuit. They knew that fishmen kidnapping their colleague was a pretty big story, and they were desperate for the scoop. Cameramen splashed through the shallows, but by now, the creatures and their captive were chest-deep in water.

  “You’re gonna ruin my camera,” Gary moaned, holding his FX9 skyward—his arm like a periscope above the rising sea.

  “Like you ruined our prophecy, Gary Graves! You owe us total control of the land, and you’re gonna pay that debt in full!”

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” said Gary, with a sarcastic smile.

  The next thing he said was “AHHHHH!” and then, “EAAAUUGHH!” as he was launched into the air by the frenzied creatures, and no amount of helpless flailing could prevent his inevitable collision with the sea. At the last minute, he lobbed his precious camera—his trusty FX9—as high as he could manage. The camera arced upward, spun uselessly, then plunged into its salty grave.

  Gary surfaced, frantically scanning the water for his electronic baby—his FX9! He splashed and scrabbled, grasping for it with both arms—only to seize something firm and slimy. The green one’s leg.

  The creature grabbed back, and seconds later, Gary was hoisted onto the fishman’s shoulder, as his beloved camera sank into the depths below.

  “Bros, that was my FX9! You know that cost fifteen grand?”

  “You cost us more than that, Gary.”

  “I earn a living with that camera. What am I supposed to do for money?”

  “Oh, money, money, money. That’s all you people ever talk about!”

  “Well, without it bros, you’re pretty much screwed.”

  “And with it?” said the purple fishman his eyes brimming with hope.

  “With it, brother, the world is your oyster.”

  “The world is your weird ball of slime in a shell?”

  “It’s a saying. It means you’re free to do as you please.”

  “Free to… rule the world, maybe? Just as an example.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” sighed the now camera-less cameraman.

  Gary hadn’t exactly been making a killing before the kidnapping. Workwise, it was all bits and pieces, dribs and drabs. He did freelance camera work for whoever would hire him, but paid jobs were drying up as television’s influence withered.

  Hoping to boost his profile, he made a string of unwatchable independent films, and when they all flopped, he started an entrepreneurial YouTube channel. On it, he repeated the empty buzzwords of gurus like Gary Vee. But while the charismatic Vee commanded an audience of millions, all Graves could muster was a meagre ninety-nine subscribers—half of whom were probably bots.

  It was humiliating—sharing the secrets of a successful content strategy with a bored audience of almost none. His video, “Guaranteed Ways to Go Viral,” needless to say, did not. Still Gary remained driven, ambitious, parroting and outright plagiarising the words of his heroes, but what set him apart… was just how much worse he was able to say them.

  There was only one comment on his latest video.

  “Give up,” it told him.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. All Gary needed was something to say, and someone more interesting to say it. Someone… like THEM! When life gives you fishmen, thought Gary, sure, you could make a sugary fishman-based drink, but the smart money was on filming them, on nabbing the exclusive.

  “But it won’t be a god damn exclusive,” Gary muttered. “Not if these clowns have anything to do with it.” The sea was swarming with cameramen, and thanks to the creatures, his primary rig had been swept out to sea, enroute to its final resting place—the locker of one, Davy Jones.

  Nearby, corporate shill Jim was bellowing into his phone.

  “Fishmen, yes. I’ve been very clear about that! They’re both fish and men, simultaneously, yes. And they had this prophecy, yes, that’s what I said. Written in invisible ink on the bill of a swordfish, and they had to get a lemon to activate it, a lemon, A LEMON! Right now, they’re kidnapping a guy. We’re chasing them out to sea as we speak. No, I am NOT back on the god damn sauce. My meds? Yes. YES! For fuck’s sake, YES. Listen, this is the story of the century. Send a cab, call in the presenters, organise an afternoon bulletin—the works. I’ll stake my entire career on this shit. And when I bring home the footage, I’m expecting a big fat fucking raise.”

  Metres from Jim stood Mike, the production assistant, who had somehow got his hands on a C100, and was trying his best to line up a shot. “Give me that!” Jim grunted, wrestling the camera from Mike’s shaky and shot-ruining hands. “This story is mine I tell you. MINE!”

  Gary’s eyes darted back to his captors.

  “Is there a problem?” the green one asked.

  “Look bros,” said Gary showing some initiative, at last. “If those guys leave the water with those cameras, they’ll control the story, and they’ll mangle it. They’ll make you look bad. Trust me, I know.”

  “Why would anyone do that? Make their soon-to-be rulers look bad?”

  “Those people are sharks, they have no respect for anything! That’s why we need to be in charge of the narrative. That way we get the clicks, the fame, the money – everything!”

  “What if we summon every shark in the bay to attack them? It’ll be a good old-fashioned shark-on-shark bloodbath!”

  “I love those!” laughed duck-egg blue.

  “Yeah, I was thinking more like wreck the cameras, you know, like you did to mine!”

  “Yes!” muttered the creatures’ leader. “YES!” he said with real conviction this time.

  “But there’s too many of them,” Gary sighed, “and too few of us.”

  “You underestimate the power of the deep,” said the green one in an eldritch murmur, his voice erupting into a scream. “Rise my pretties,” he shouted. “RISE!”

  The creature lifted a scaly arm skyward, his bulbous eyes burning with an incandescent glow.

  The sea responded, churning around them. It gurgled and spat, darkened too, as a swarm of shadows surged from the deep. Gary squealed as a slick, gelatinous tentacle slithered over his toes.

  The tentacles kept coming—more and more—as a glutinous mass of ooze spewed from the sea. The cameramen didn’t know what hit them, and then they did, and comprehending the onslaught of octopi was equally baffling. Cameras were torn, suckled and dropped in terror to a collective cry of “Ah! What the fuck?”

  Jim fought like a demon, keeping a vice-like grip on his camera, while lashing out with his other hand. Still, the creatures kept coming. They writhed up and around Jim’s body, engulfing him until they prised the camera from his fatiguing fingers and hurled it into the sea!

  It was, without a doubt, the most cinematic moment of the story so far, and nobody, not one of the so-called media experts got the shot. Their cameras were drowning, their hopes dashed, their unprintable curses swallowed by the sea. As the octopi scattered, the tears fell, and when the sans-cameramen finally looked up from the sea, there was rage in their eyes.

  “Bros, I think we should go!”

  The creatures nodded, “Agreed.”

  The green one lifted his arms once more, his voice alive with ancient power. “RISE, LEVIATHAN!” he commanded, and sure enough, something did: the colossal form of a Bryde’s Whale burst from the sea.

  “Your chariot awaits,” laughed the purple creature as he hooked his scaley hands onto to the back of the whale, their ride.

  Gary couldn’t help but think of the emotionally poignant and highly cinematic, Whale Rider. A classic Kiwi film. He was Paikea now. The whale? His to ride. Gary found a small hand hold near the creatures blowhole and clung onto it for dear, dear life.

  “Swim, you illustrious beast,” shouted the fishmen, and off the whale/water taxi went.

  “Why are we not filming this?!” screamed Jim, desperately scrabbling for his phone. What he captured, moments later, was a small, indistinguishable blob as Gary and the Fishmen disappeared into the distance.

  It wasn’t Jim’s proudest moment—calling in the disaster.

  “Attacked by octopuses,” he stammered. “Thousands of them. No, I’m not fucking high! I had the footage—had it in the palm of my hand—until those thieving eight legged freaks hurled our cameras into the sea, the sea! THE SEA! Yes. The fishmen? Oh, they, uh… kidnapped the guy and escaped on the back of a whale.”