It was late afternoon, and the yawns were coming thick and fast.

  “Almost home,” Gary muttered as his trusty station wagon spluttered its way over the hill. A cold beer and a sprinkling of relaxation—that was what he needed. What they all needed.

  And the line of people outside Gary’s house made sure they couldn’t have it.

  The crowd cheered as they pulled into the driveway, and immediately, they were surrounded.

  Gary rolled down his window, hoping to reason with the unruly horde.

  “If you’ll just let me open the door—" he began, but instead, people jammed their phones through the window desperate to capture the moment. To capture the fishmen.

  That’s who they’d come to see, and they weren’t about to miss the opportunity of a lifetime.

  But right now, Gary was blocking their access to the main event.

  “Are you filming them?” screamed a large woman at her already flustered partner.

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  The poor man couldn’t, not with Gary’s big old face in front of his lens.

  “This idiot’s blocking the shot,” the man shouted.

  “Mate, can you move?”

  “I can’t fucking teleport if that’s what you’re asking,” snapped Gary.

  Meanwhile, Greg was having the time of his life. He forced his way out of the passenger’s side, striking a regal pose as the crowd swelled around him.

  “Finally, a little recognition!” he declared, basking in the glow of a thousand selfies.

  Gary, on the other hand, was quickly forced to the side, where he stood like a discarded shopping trolley in a crowded car park.

  He felt the slight. Stored it.

  “Ignore me at your peril,” he muttered. There was no response. Not even a glance, because every eye was focused on the fishmen.

  Gorbachev was orchestrating the sea of people around him. “Form a pyramid!” he instructed with a cheeky smile, and to Gary’s horror, the crowd obliged.

  With a foundation of kneeling humans in place, the fishmen clambered up, standing atop it like heroes as cameras flashed and filmed their triumph.

  “Unbelievable,” Gary muttered as he stumbled back into the house and slammed the door.

  He didn’t notice a strange new bush adorning the porch.

  A bush with eyes. Human eyes.

  “The fishmen appear to be living at a shabby house in Pakuranga,” said Jim ‘The Bush’ Devereaux, recording voice notes that could be shared with his boss later.

  “A throng of people here already,” The Bush continued, “and that means someone leaked the address. Right now, they’re receiving a royal welcome—you can probably hear the cheers in the background. I’ll keep you abreast of any developments.”

  At that, Jim stopped the recording, forwarding it to one Crawford Thorne.

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