Encounterlogs
Deans Odd Encounter Sr Lorenzo 250417
Dean enters a terrifying encounter with a sea creature on a foggy morning at Prospect Street and Hart Avenue. Engulfed by a world of deep oceanic horrors, he is violently dragged into the dark waters by a grotesque, half-formed creature. This entity, with its eel-like skin, anemones for eyes, and numerous limbs, represents a nightmare from the abyss. The assault is sudden and merciless, leaving Dean powerless, his attempts to fight back futile as he is pulled deeper into the sea. The cold, the pressure, and the alien environment he finds himself in amidst shipwrecks and otherworldly flora signify a transition from the familiar world to one that is utterly alien and terrifying. As Dean is drawn into an ancient, sealed breach beneath the Atlantic, allies on the surface rush to his aid, but the descent into this underwater tomb is one he must navigate alone.
In a shocking turn of events, Dean eventually finds himself in an air-filled cavern, face to face with a mermaid-like being whose human eyes belie her monstrous form. This encounter shifts from horror to a surreal standstill, where Dean, battered and bruised, attempts to understand this being and his purpose in this underwater realm. The creature communicates with him not through words but through a haunting, primordial melody that embraces and penetrates him, challenging his perceptions and weakening his resolve. Just as Dean begins to connect with this creature on some inexplicable level, their moment is brutally interrupted. A rescue team arrives, spearheading a violent assault on the creature. Harpoons tear through the water, ending the mermaid's life in a vivid display of violence and bloodshed that leaves Dean in shock and confusion. Despite his rescue, the questions about what the creature was, why it brought him there, and the nature of its existence remain unanswered, haunting him as he is taken away, a survivor of an encounter that bridges our world with the eldritch depths of the sea.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRLorenzo):SRLorenzo)
[Wed Apr 16 2025]
At Prospect Street and Hart Avenue
It is morning, about 53F(11C) degrees,
(Your target is abducted by a sea creature that's somehow crossed over into our world, it is up to them to survive for long enough that their allies can come help.
)
Dean fortnite dances whilst he waits for the encounter to start
The fog rolls in thick and fast from the harbor, clinging to the alleys and wharf-side streets like cobwebs spun from seawater and rot. The smell hits first, salt and seaweed, heavy with the coppery sting of blood. The air carries the damp breath of low tide, cut with the deeper, older stench of something that does not belong. Not just the reek of dead fish or diesel from moored trawlers, this is worse. Brine-slick meat. Open wound. Cold, pressurized depth.
The distant bell of a foghorn groans once before vanishing under the wet hush. Streetlamps buzz and dim, swallowed by the encroaching mist. Water laps against the seawall below the boardwalk, too rhythmic, too loud, like something surfacing.
From the edge of the marina, a puddle begins to bulge outward, fed not by rain, but by the sea itself. It spreads fast, black and glistening, the surface quivering with a pulse. Then it tears open.
What emerges is grotesque and silent. Towering, slick, and half-formed, the creature pulls itself free from a fluid membrane like a newborn forcing its way through a wound in the world. It smells of salt and centuries: of shipwrecks, carrion, and barnacle choked graves. It brings the deep with it.
Its skin is eel smooth, stretched over impossible muscle. Its eyes bloom like anemones across its face, each blinking independently, milky and luminous. Limbs, too many, writhe from its body: some end in claws, others in lamprey like mouths, slick with teeth.
Dean doesn't hear it approach: just feels the sudden cold, the bone deep stillness that floods the dock. Their breath fogs and vanishes into mist as the pressure drops.
The strike is immediate.
One wet limb lashes out, wrapping around them with an audible thunk, like wet rope on wood. The suction is fierce. Their clothes soak through instantly; their skin begins to burn from the chill. Splinters fly as theyre dragged across the planks: boots scuffing, fingernails breaking.
The creature plunges into the dark tide with its prey in tow.
Saltwater floods the mouth and nose. Vision blurs. The world becomes cold noise and crushing force. Underneath the surface, everything is darker than it should be. Not pitch black, but greenish-black, like light trying to escape from a submerged tomb.
They are not alone down here.
Shapes drift beyond sight: hulks of forgotten things, jellyfish that dont pulse, bones woven into reefs. The water hums with an unnatural vibration, a frequency not meant for ears but nerves and teeth. The creature pulls deeper, toward the undercurrent of something vast, alive, and waiting.
The harbors lights shimmer faintly above, distant as stars.
The scent of algae and copper thickens. The creatures glow pulses once, illuminating the narrow tunnel it's entered: some hidden breach in the bedrock below the Atlantic, sealed for centuries, now open.
Somewhere far off, boots echo on the pier. Help is coming.
With no supernatural ability to speak of, Dean gets dragged under the waves by the terrible creature in a matter of moments. His limbs flail at first as he's dragged off, his skin grazing scarlet as he hits the ground or other objects, dragged by the uncaring creature into the waves.
As the waves consume him, his flailing limbs and thrown over his head, the man too weak to struggle against the rushing water as he's dragged through it. He squints his eyes, pained by the stinging water, as he's drug down to some strange place, looking around helplessly, too underwater to hear those boots on the pier
someone body scrapes against coral, rusted debris, and something slick with algae. Each contact rips more fabric from his clothes, more skin from his limbs. His mouth fills with saltwater, thick with silt and the copper bite of blood. Breathing is impossible. Panic clutches his lungs.
Beneath him, the creature pulses with motion. Fins brush his legs. Scaled limbs guide him through the narrowing spaces between shipwreck ribs and barnacle-crusted pylons. Light disappears. Cold deepens. Then a shift, the current stops.
His feet touch stone. The pressure vanishes from his chest. Air returns, cool and humid, tasting like copper and seaweed. The ceiling above him glows faint green, dappled with strands of bioluminescent moss. A hollow pocket carved into the sea itself. No sound but his wet, gasping breath and the slow drip of condensation. The creature releases him gently now: fingers, too long, too smooth, brushing his jaw.
As someone vision clears she hovers in the water just beyond the edge of air. Her hair floats in long tendrils, black as ink. Her eyes are wide and human. Her smile is not. Her tail coils around coral, scales gleaming. She watches him, waiting.
Dean's body scrapes against coral, rusted debris, and something slick with algae. Each contact rips more fabric from his clothes, more skin from his limbs. His mouth fills with saltwater, thick with silt and the copper bite of blood. Breathing is impossible. Panic clutches his lungs.
Beneath him, the creature pulses with motion. Fins brush his legs. Scaled limbs guide him through the narrowing spaces between shipwreck ribs and barnacle-crusted pylons. Light disappears. Cold deepens. Then a shift, the current stops.
His feet touch stone. The pressure vanishes from his chest. Air returns, cool and humid, tasting like copper and seaweed. The ceiling above him glows faint green, dappled with strands of bioluminescent moss. A hollow pocket carved into the sea itself. No sound but his wet, gasping breath and the slow drip of condensation. The creature releases him gently now: fingers, too long, too smooth, brushing his jaw.
As Dean's vision clears she hovers in the water just beyond the edge of air. Her hair floats in long tendrils, black as ink. Her eyes are wide and human. Her smile is not. Her tail coils around coral, scales gleaming. She watches him, waiting.
The scraping sensation fades, replaced by a strange, floating stillness. Agony gives way to a dull, throbbing ache as Dean 's body adjusts to the alien environment. He coughs, sputtering out the last of the seawater, his lungs burning with the unfamiliar act of breathing air again. Disoriented, he blinks, trying to focus his blurred vision. The faint green glow above is disorienting, casting long, eerie shadows that dance with the gentle sway of unseen currents. It's a light that seems to emanate from the very rock itself, a soft, pulsating luminescence that offers little comfort and much mystery. The air is thick with a briny smell, tinged with an unfamiliar, earthy note, like wet stone and decaying vegetation, and something else, something ancient and indefinable, that stirs a primal unease within him. It's a scent that speaks of forgotten ages, of secrets buried deep beneath the waves, of a world that predates humanity.
His feet, still numb from the cold, find purchase on the uneven stone. He pushes himself upright, a shaky hand reaching out to steady himself against a nearby outcropping. The stone is slick and cold beneath his touch, covered in a film of something that feels both organic and mineral. It's a strange, clinging substance, like a cross between algae and clay, yet it pulses with a faint, internal warmth. Every movement sends a jolt of pain through his battered body, a stark reminder of his violent journey. He tastes blood, feels the raw sting of countless abrasions, the ghostly echo of splintered wood. His clothes, torn and shredded, cling to his skin, heavy with saltwater and grime. He shivers, the chill seeping deep into his bones. The cold isn't just from the water; it's a deep, pervasive cold that seems to emanate from the very rock, the very essence of this place. It's a cold that speaks of eons, of crushing pressure and eternal darkness. A cold that whispers of things that should not be.
Then, his eyes adjust.
The creature.
No, she.
Dean 's breath hitches in his throat. She's suspended in the water, just beyond the edge of the air pocket, her form both terrifying and mesmerizing. The grotesque limbs that had so recently ensnared him are now still, almost graceful. They drift and sway with a hypnotic fluidity, like kelp in a gentle current. Her tail, a swirl of shimmering scales, coils around a coral formation, the colors shifting and undulating in the strange light. It's a living kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and purples, edged with a faint, golden light. The scales themselves seem to ripple and change with her movements, catching the strange light and throwing it back in a dazzling display. It's a breathtaking spectacle, a dance of light and color that both captivates and unnerves him. He can't decide if she's a vision of otherworldly beauty or a living nightmare.
His gaze is drawn to her face. The multiple eyes, initially horrifying, now seem... watchful. Intelligent. They blink independently, each taking in a slightly different perspective of him, making him feel utterly scrutinized. It's unsettling, yet he can't tear his gaze away. It's as if he's being examined, weighed, and judged by an entity beyond his comprehension. He feels naked under their multifaceted gaze, every flaw and weakness laid bare. And those other eyes, the large, central ones, are undeniably human. Wide, and... waiting. There's a flicker of something there, something that transcends the monstrous. Curiosity? Concern? It's impossible to decipher. He searches them for any hint of aggression, any sign of the brutal force that dragged him here, but finds only an unsettling stillness. It's a stillness that speaks volumes, a silence that seems pregnant with unspoken questions. A silence that hints at a profound and unknowable intelligence.
He tries to speak, but his throat is raw and constricted. Only a wet, gurgling sound escapes. He swallows hard, tries again, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Wh-where... where am I?" The sound echoes strangely in the confined space, swallowed by the drip, drip, drip of condensation. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. He wonders if she understands him, if she even can understand him. Or is he simply a trapped animal, a curiosity to be observed? A specimen in some bizarre, underwater menagerie? Or something worse? A sacrifice? An offering? The thought sends a fresh wave of fear through him, colder and more profound than the chill of the water. He tries to imagine what purpose he could possibly serve in this strange, alien world, but his mind recoils from the possibilities
He watches her, every muscle tense, ready to flee, though he knows, with a chilling certainty, that there is nowhere to run. He is trapped, at the mercy of this... being. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the underwater grotto. Fear battles with a growing sense of... bewilderment. This can't be real. This has to be some kind of nightmare. But the pain is real. The cold is real. The her is real. And the longer he looks at her, the more the fear is tempered by a growing sense of awe, and a strange, unsettling fascination. He wants to understand. He wants to know why. Why was he brought here? What does she want? What is this place? What is its purpose? What is her purpose? Is there any hope of escape, or is he destined to become another forgotten thing in this silent,Submerged world? A prisoner of the deep, lost to the surface forever?
She shifts, the motion sends a cascade of ripples through the water, shimmering bands of color refracting from her scales. No bubbles rise, no current stirs, and her mouth does not open: yet a sound begins.
It enters not through the ears but behind the eyes, curling along the nerves like warmth bleeding into frostbitten skin. The tone is low, wet, and wrong: melodic in a way that makes the gut twist. Not notes, exactly, but something older. A rhythm born from shifting tides and ancient pressure, a harmony made from the creak of the ocean floor and the groan of drowned ships.
The grotto pulses with it, the stone beneath Dean palms vibrates gently in response. His blood feels too thick. The air tastes of iron, kelp, and something faintly sweet, like fermented fruit rotting in a cellar. Each inhalation dulls the sting in his muscles. The ache in his ribs fades. Warmth bleeds up from the mineral slick beneath him. His limbs grow heavy.
Light pulses in sync with the song. Her eyes do not blink now. They only watch: steady, silent, and waiting.
The cavern narrows with each breath, not physically, but perceptually: walls seeming to draw in, sounds stretching, time slowing, and the song persists, while thinking becomes difficult.
Dean s breath shallows, chest rising and falling in slow, uncertain rhythm as the sound threads through him-not around him, not through his ears, but through him, like a tide through porous rock. It vibrates in his skull and behind his eyes, in the marrow of his bones. Every breath feels thicker than the last, as though the air itself is coagulating, becoming something dense and silted, like brackish water pulled from the bottom of a forgotten well.
He blinks slowly, eyes fighting to stay focused. The bioluminescent moss above seems to smear and blur at the edges of his vision, pulsing faintly with each thrumming beat of that not-song. The sound is too vast to parse, but it coils around something deep in him-something instinctual, ancient, frightened.
The stone beneath his palm hums faintly in time with the rhythm. A tremor, subtle but persistent, syncs with the soft flickering of the lights. He can feel the vibrations crawling up his arm, as if the cavern itself is breathing beneath him-or worse, alive and dreaming. The warmth seeps into him slowly, almost lovingly, like fingers sinking into clay. It softens the pain in his bruised limbs, numbs the raw scrape of skin, dulls the sharp ache of ribs he hadn't realized were cracked. But that warmth carries with it a strange weight, a thickness that begins to settle in his muscles, turning panic into leaden resignation.
He should move. Should run. But his limbs feel like they're wrapped in seaweed, heavy and compliant. His thoughts fracture like ice, melting at the edges before he can catch hold of them. Words-simple things-slip through his grasp like silt through open fingers.
Still, some stubborn shard of awareness claws its way to the surface.
Stay awake.
Dean blinks again, harder this time, his vision swimming before it snaps into focus. She hasnt moved, not truly. Just that subtle shift, that ripple like liquid silk across her scales. Her eyes remain locked on him-those many blinking, breathing, unblinking eyes-and he feels, knows, he is the subject of something ancient and endless. Not affection. Not cruelty. Something worse.
Curiosity.
He swallows, throat raw, tasting salt and blood and something cloyingly sweet that lingers behind his teeth like mold. His mouth opens-he doesnt remember telling it to-and a sound comes out. Not a word. Not even a breath. Just a tremor, a helpless, involuntary exhale that feels like a prayer left unfinished.
What are you?
The question forms in his mind but dies before it reaches his lips. It feels wrong to voice anything here. Like speech itself might fracture this impossible moment. The song-if it could be called that-continues. Not louder. Not softer. Simply present, saturating everything: the air, the stone, the hollow space between thoughts.
He watches her-it, her, whatever she is-with mounting disquiet. Her tail, still coiled elegantly around coral, twitches once in a slow spiral. Faint lights shift across her skin, dancing across the waters surface. Its beautiful. Its wrong. The beauty is a weapon here, he realizes. Not deception, not even seduction, but a kind of terrible magnetism. A gravity. A pull not just of the body but of meaning. The longer he looks, the more he feels his self being unwound.
He shivers violently.
A crack runs down the middle of his thoughts. A fissure in logic. Maybe he didnt survive the descent. Maybe this is death-not an afterlife, but a drowning dream in the seconds after his lungs failed. Or worse, maybe its not death. Maybe its something that waits before death. That feeds on the liminal space between survival and surrender.
Dean clenches his jaw, forces a slow inhale. The air tastes of old iron, moss, and rot-but it fills his lungs. Hes still here. Still Dean . His fingers curl tighter against the stone. A small defiance. A human defiance. Weak, maybe, but his.
I he tries again. His voice barely carries, thick and brittle. I dont understand
The cavern doesnt answer. Not with words. But something shifts, perceptibly.
A faint movement in the water behind her. Not from her body, but from the space she occupies. The pressure changes again, subtly. Like a tide pulling back just before a wave breaks. A hush before revelation-or catastrophe.
One of her eyes-one of the central, human ones-narrows ever so slightly.
Not malevolently.
Not even impatiently.
Just observant. Waiting.
Dean realizes that he is the question now. The test. The ritual, perhaps. The rite.
He feels it, in the way the water resists and yields. In the way the song curls inside his chest and wraps around his heart. In the way the walls of the cavern feel closer, not physically, but in the strange geometry of dream and drowning.
Its not that the place is growing smaller. Its that he is.
That realization almost breaks him.
He rocks forward slightly, just enough to rise to one knee. Not pride. Not strength. Just the instinct to stand in the face of something that wants him small. Wants him pliable. He grips a ridge of stone, slick with algae, and hauls himself upright. His legs tremble. His vision swims again. But he does not fall.
Why me? he asks at last. Why bring me here?
The words hang in the air. The song does not stop-but something in it shifts. A tremor. A note-if it can be called that-curls at the edge of perception. Its not an answer, not quite, but a reaction.
And that, somehow, is worse.
Because it means she heard.
She understood.
Shes listening.
Dean s skin prickles. His pulse stutters. Hes not alone in this strange grave of light and sound. And the intelligence watching him-curious, patient, inhuman-knows s
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, someone dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, someone dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, someone dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, Dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
Dean doesnt move at first-cant. The heat still burns under his skin, but now its from adrenaline, not comfort. He stares at the space where she unraveled, where those eyes last held himnot pleading, not afraid, just... still. He doesnt know what they meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Salt stings his throat as he breathes, rough and fast, body half-collapsed against the stone. No one speaks. No one asks if hes okay. The men move like machines, precise and silent.
He watches one of them reload. Another checks a reading. Efficient. Clean. Like theyve done this before. Like she was just another target.
Dean swallows, but the taste of her is still in his mouth-metal and warmth and something electric he knows he'll never forget. He forces himself to speak, voice hoarse, cracking against the quiet.
"You didnt even ask what she was."
His words vanish into the water. No one looks at him.
Gloved hands haul Dean upright. The grip is firm, practiced, indifferent. Fabric rasps against his skin, gritty with salt and dried blood. The suits smell of rubber, steel, and something antiseptic. He feels the pressure of a mask pressed against his face before he can protest. Air floods his lungs; clean, filtered, cold.
The strike team moves fast, boots splash through ankle deep pools, sound muted by the cavern's stone. Beams from their headlamps slice through mist and bioluminescent haze, revealing nothing but ruin behind them. The remnants of her blood still glow on the walls, veins of fading blue like cracks in reality.
Dean feet barely touch the ground. Hes half dragged, half guided toward a waiting submersible, its hull dark and silent in the hidden trench beyond the caves mouth. Lights blink in steady rhythm, cold and functional. The door hisses open.
Inside, the hum of machinery replaces the pulse of the sea. Sterile white panels, leather restraints, brushed metal. The air is dry. He shivers harder.
One of the soldiers straps him down, no words, another injects something into his arm. Cooling, numbing, unfamiliar. His eyes grow heavy as the engines engage. The scent of iodine lingers, sharp and clean. The ocean fades. White Oak waits.
In a shocking turn of events, Dean eventually finds himself in an air-filled cavern, face to face with a mermaid-like being whose human eyes belie her monstrous form. This encounter shifts from horror to a surreal standstill, where Dean, battered and bruised, attempts to understand this being and his purpose in this underwater realm. The creature communicates with him not through words but through a haunting, primordial melody that embraces and penetrates him, challenging his perceptions and weakening his resolve. Just as Dean begins to connect with this creature on some inexplicable level, their moment is brutally interrupted. A rescue team arrives, spearheading a violent assault on the creature. Harpoons tear through the water, ending the mermaid's life in a vivid display of violence and bloodshed that leaves Dean in shock and confusion. Despite his rescue, the questions about what the creature was, why it brought him there, and the nature of its existence remain unanswered, haunting him as he is taken away, a survivor of an encounter that bridges our world with the eldritch depths of the sea.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRLorenzo):SRLorenzo)
[Wed Apr 16 2025]
At Prospect Street and Hart Avenue
It is morning, about 53F(11C) degrees,
(Your target is abducted by a sea creature that's somehow crossed over into our world, it is up to them to survive for long enough that their allies can come help.
)
Dean fortnite dances whilst he waits for the encounter to start
The fog rolls in thick and fast from the harbor, clinging to the alleys and wharf-side streets like cobwebs spun from seawater and rot. The smell hits first, salt and seaweed, heavy with the coppery sting of blood. The air carries the damp breath of low tide, cut with the deeper, older stench of something that does not belong. Not just the reek of dead fish or diesel from moored trawlers, this is worse. Brine-slick meat. Open wound. Cold, pressurized depth.
The distant bell of a foghorn groans once before vanishing under the wet hush. Streetlamps buzz and dim, swallowed by the encroaching mist. Water laps against the seawall below the boardwalk, too rhythmic, too loud, like something surfacing.
From the edge of the marina, a puddle begins to bulge outward, fed not by rain, but by the sea itself. It spreads fast, black and glistening, the surface quivering with a pulse. Then it tears open.
What emerges is grotesque and silent. Towering, slick, and half-formed, the creature pulls itself free from a fluid membrane like a newborn forcing its way through a wound in the world. It smells of salt and centuries: of shipwrecks, carrion, and barnacle choked graves. It brings the deep with it.
Its skin is eel smooth, stretched over impossible muscle. Its eyes bloom like anemones across its face, each blinking independently, milky and luminous. Limbs, too many, writhe from its body: some end in claws, others in lamprey like mouths, slick with teeth.
Dean doesn't hear it approach: just feels the sudden cold, the bone deep stillness that floods the dock. Their breath fogs and vanishes into mist as the pressure drops.
The strike is immediate.
One wet limb lashes out, wrapping around them with an audible thunk, like wet rope on wood. The suction is fierce. Their clothes soak through instantly; their skin begins to burn from the chill. Splinters fly as theyre dragged across the planks: boots scuffing, fingernails breaking.
The creature plunges into the dark tide with its prey in tow.
Saltwater floods the mouth and nose. Vision blurs. The world becomes cold noise and crushing force. Underneath the surface, everything is darker than it should be. Not pitch black, but greenish-black, like light trying to escape from a submerged tomb.
They are not alone down here.
Shapes drift beyond sight: hulks of forgotten things, jellyfish that dont pulse, bones woven into reefs. The water hums with an unnatural vibration, a frequency not meant for ears but nerves and teeth. The creature pulls deeper, toward the undercurrent of something vast, alive, and waiting.
The harbors lights shimmer faintly above, distant as stars.
The scent of algae and copper thickens. The creatures glow pulses once, illuminating the narrow tunnel it's entered: some hidden breach in the bedrock below the Atlantic, sealed for centuries, now open.
Somewhere far off, boots echo on the pier. Help is coming.
With no supernatural ability to speak of, Dean gets dragged under the waves by the terrible creature in a matter of moments. His limbs flail at first as he's dragged off, his skin grazing scarlet as he hits the ground or other objects, dragged by the uncaring creature into the waves.
As the waves consume him, his flailing limbs and thrown over his head, the man too weak to struggle against the rushing water as he's dragged through it. He squints his eyes, pained by the stinging water, as he's drug down to some strange place, looking around helplessly, too underwater to hear those boots on the pier
someone body scrapes against coral, rusted debris, and something slick with algae. Each contact rips more fabric from his clothes, more skin from his limbs. His mouth fills with saltwater, thick with silt and the copper bite of blood. Breathing is impossible. Panic clutches his lungs.
Beneath him, the creature pulses with motion. Fins brush his legs. Scaled limbs guide him through the narrowing spaces between shipwreck ribs and barnacle-crusted pylons. Light disappears. Cold deepens. Then a shift, the current stops.
His feet touch stone. The pressure vanishes from his chest. Air returns, cool and humid, tasting like copper and seaweed. The ceiling above him glows faint green, dappled with strands of bioluminescent moss. A hollow pocket carved into the sea itself. No sound but his wet, gasping breath and the slow drip of condensation. The creature releases him gently now: fingers, too long, too smooth, brushing his jaw.
As someone vision clears she hovers in the water just beyond the edge of air. Her hair floats in long tendrils, black as ink. Her eyes are wide and human. Her smile is not. Her tail coils around coral, scales gleaming. She watches him, waiting.
Dean's body scrapes against coral, rusted debris, and something slick with algae. Each contact rips more fabric from his clothes, more skin from his limbs. His mouth fills with saltwater, thick with silt and the copper bite of blood. Breathing is impossible. Panic clutches his lungs.
Beneath him, the creature pulses with motion. Fins brush his legs. Scaled limbs guide him through the narrowing spaces between shipwreck ribs and barnacle-crusted pylons. Light disappears. Cold deepens. Then a shift, the current stops.
His feet touch stone. The pressure vanishes from his chest. Air returns, cool and humid, tasting like copper and seaweed. The ceiling above him glows faint green, dappled with strands of bioluminescent moss. A hollow pocket carved into the sea itself. No sound but his wet, gasping breath and the slow drip of condensation. The creature releases him gently now: fingers, too long, too smooth, brushing his jaw.
As Dean's vision clears she hovers in the water just beyond the edge of air. Her hair floats in long tendrils, black as ink. Her eyes are wide and human. Her smile is not. Her tail coils around coral, scales gleaming. She watches him, waiting.
The scraping sensation fades, replaced by a strange, floating stillness. Agony gives way to a dull, throbbing ache as Dean 's body adjusts to the alien environment. He coughs, sputtering out the last of the seawater, his lungs burning with the unfamiliar act of breathing air again. Disoriented, he blinks, trying to focus his blurred vision. The faint green glow above is disorienting, casting long, eerie shadows that dance with the gentle sway of unseen currents. It's a light that seems to emanate from the very rock itself, a soft, pulsating luminescence that offers little comfort and much mystery. The air is thick with a briny smell, tinged with an unfamiliar, earthy note, like wet stone and decaying vegetation, and something else, something ancient and indefinable, that stirs a primal unease within him. It's a scent that speaks of forgotten ages, of secrets buried deep beneath the waves, of a world that predates humanity.
His feet, still numb from the cold, find purchase on the uneven stone. He pushes himself upright, a shaky hand reaching out to steady himself against a nearby outcropping. The stone is slick and cold beneath his touch, covered in a film of something that feels both organic and mineral. It's a strange, clinging substance, like a cross between algae and clay, yet it pulses with a faint, internal warmth. Every movement sends a jolt of pain through his battered body, a stark reminder of his violent journey. He tastes blood, feels the raw sting of countless abrasions, the ghostly echo of splintered wood. His clothes, torn and shredded, cling to his skin, heavy with saltwater and grime. He shivers, the chill seeping deep into his bones. The cold isn't just from the water; it's a deep, pervasive cold that seems to emanate from the very rock, the very essence of this place. It's a cold that speaks of eons, of crushing pressure and eternal darkness. A cold that whispers of things that should not be.
Then, his eyes adjust.
The creature.
No, she.
Dean 's breath hitches in his throat. She's suspended in the water, just beyond the edge of the air pocket, her form both terrifying and mesmerizing. The grotesque limbs that had so recently ensnared him are now still, almost graceful. They drift and sway with a hypnotic fluidity, like kelp in a gentle current. Her tail, a swirl of shimmering scales, coils around a coral formation, the colors shifting and undulating in the strange light. It's a living kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and purples, edged with a faint, golden light. The scales themselves seem to ripple and change with her movements, catching the strange light and throwing it back in a dazzling display. It's a breathtaking spectacle, a dance of light and color that both captivates and unnerves him. He can't decide if she's a vision of otherworldly beauty or a living nightmare.
His gaze is drawn to her face. The multiple eyes, initially horrifying, now seem... watchful. Intelligent. They blink independently, each taking in a slightly different perspective of him, making him feel utterly scrutinized. It's unsettling, yet he can't tear his gaze away. It's as if he's being examined, weighed, and judged by an entity beyond his comprehension. He feels naked under their multifaceted gaze, every flaw and weakness laid bare. And those other eyes, the large, central ones, are undeniably human. Wide, and... waiting. There's a flicker of something there, something that transcends the monstrous. Curiosity? Concern? It's impossible to decipher. He searches them for any hint of aggression, any sign of the brutal force that dragged him here, but finds only an unsettling stillness. It's a stillness that speaks volumes, a silence that seems pregnant with unspoken questions. A silence that hints at a profound and unknowable intelligence.
He tries to speak, but his throat is raw and constricted. Only a wet, gurgling sound escapes. He swallows hard, tries again, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Wh-where... where am I?" The sound echoes strangely in the confined space, swallowed by the drip, drip, drip of condensation. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. He wonders if she understands him, if she even can understand him. Or is he simply a trapped animal, a curiosity to be observed? A specimen in some bizarre, underwater menagerie? Or something worse? A sacrifice? An offering? The thought sends a fresh wave of fear through him, colder and more profound than the chill of the water. He tries to imagine what purpose he could possibly serve in this strange, alien world, but his mind recoils from the possibilities
He watches her, every muscle tense, ready to flee, though he knows, with a chilling certainty, that there is nowhere to run. He is trapped, at the mercy of this... being. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the underwater grotto. Fear battles with a growing sense of... bewilderment. This can't be real. This has to be some kind of nightmare. But the pain is real. The cold is real. The her is real. And the longer he looks at her, the more the fear is tempered by a growing sense of awe, and a strange, unsettling fascination. He wants to understand. He wants to know why. Why was he brought here? What does she want? What is this place? What is its purpose? What is her purpose? Is there any hope of escape, or is he destined to become another forgotten thing in this silent,Submerged world? A prisoner of the deep, lost to the surface forever?
She shifts, the motion sends a cascade of ripples through the water, shimmering bands of color refracting from her scales. No bubbles rise, no current stirs, and her mouth does not open: yet a sound begins.
It enters not through the ears but behind the eyes, curling along the nerves like warmth bleeding into frostbitten skin. The tone is low, wet, and wrong: melodic in a way that makes the gut twist. Not notes, exactly, but something older. A rhythm born from shifting tides and ancient pressure, a harmony made from the creak of the ocean floor and the groan of drowned ships.
The grotto pulses with it, the stone beneath Dean palms vibrates gently in response. His blood feels too thick. The air tastes of iron, kelp, and something faintly sweet, like fermented fruit rotting in a cellar. Each inhalation dulls the sting in his muscles. The ache in his ribs fades. Warmth bleeds up from the mineral slick beneath him. His limbs grow heavy.
Light pulses in sync with the song. Her eyes do not blink now. They only watch: steady, silent, and waiting.
The cavern narrows with each breath, not physically, but perceptually: walls seeming to draw in, sounds stretching, time slowing, and the song persists, while thinking becomes difficult.
Dean s breath shallows, chest rising and falling in slow, uncertain rhythm as the sound threads through him-not around him, not through his ears, but through him, like a tide through porous rock. It vibrates in his skull and behind his eyes, in the marrow of his bones. Every breath feels thicker than the last, as though the air itself is coagulating, becoming something dense and silted, like brackish water pulled from the bottom of a forgotten well.
He blinks slowly, eyes fighting to stay focused. The bioluminescent moss above seems to smear and blur at the edges of his vision, pulsing faintly with each thrumming beat of that not-song. The sound is too vast to parse, but it coils around something deep in him-something instinctual, ancient, frightened.
The stone beneath his palm hums faintly in time with the rhythm. A tremor, subtle but persistent, syncs with the soft flickering of the lights. He can feel the vibrations crawling up his arm, as if the cavern itself is breathing beneath him-or worse, alive and dreaming. The warmth seeps into him slowly, almost lovingly, like fingers sinking into clay. It softens the pain in his bruised limbs, numbs the raw scrape of skin, dulls the sharp ache of ribs he hadn't realized were cracked. But that warmth carries with it a strange weight, a thickness that begins to settle in his muscles, turning panic into leaden resignation.
He should move. Should run. But his limbs feel like they're wrapped in seaweed, heavy and compliant. His thoughts fracture like ice, melting at the edges before he can catch hold of them. Words-simple things-slip through his grasp like silt through open fingers.
Still, some stubborn shard of awareness claws its way to the surface.
Stay awake.
Dean blinks again, harder this time, his vision swimming before it snaps into focus. She hasnt moved, not truly. Just that subtle shift, that ripple like liquid silk across her scales. Her eyes remain locked on him-those many blinking, breathing, unblinking eyes-and he feels, knows, he is the subject of something ancient and endless. Not affection. Not cruelty. Something worse.
Curiosity.
He swallows, throat raw, tasting salt and blood and something cloyingly sweet that lingers behind his teeth like mold. His mouth opens-he doesnt remember telling it to-and a sound comes out. Not a word. Not even a breath. Just a tremor, a helpless, involuntary exhale that feels like a prayer left unfinished.
What are you?
The question forms in his mind but dies before it reaches his lips. It feels wrong to voice anything here. Like speech itself might fracture this impossible moment. The song-if it could be called that-continues. Not louder. Not softer. Simply present, saturating everything: the air, the stone, the hollow space between thoughts.
He watches her-it, her, whatever she is-with mounting disquiet. Her tail, still coiled elegantly around coral, twitches once in a slow spiral. Faint lights shift across her skin, dancing across the waters surface. Its beautiful. Its wrong. The beauty is a weapon here, he realizes. Not deception, not even seduction, but a kind of terrible magnetism. A gravity. A pull not just of the body but of meaning. The longer he looks, the more he feels his self being unwound.
He shivers violently.
A crack runs down the middle of his thoughts. A fissure in logic. Maybe he didnt survive the descent. Maybe this is death-not an afterlife, but a drowning dream in the seconds after his lungs failed. Or worse, maybe its not death. Maybe its something that waits before death. That feeds on the liminal space between survival and surrender.
Dean clenches his jaw, forces a slow inhale. The air tastes of old iron, moss, and rot-but it fills his lungs. Hes still here. Still Dean . His fingers curl tighter against the stone. A small defiance. A human defiance. Weak, maybe, but his.
I he tries again. His voice barely carries, thick and brittle. I dont understand
The cavern doesnt answer. Not with words. But something shifts, perceptibly.
A faint movement in the water behind her. Not from her body, but from the space she occupies. The pressure changes again, subtly. Like a tide pulling back just before a wave breaks. A hush before revelation-or catastrophe.
One of her eyes-one of the central, human ones-narrows ever so slightly.
Not malevolently.
Not even impatiently.
Just observant. Waiting.
Dean realizes that he is the question now. The test. The ritual, perhaps. The rite.
He feels it, in the way the water resists and yields. In the way the song curls inside his chest and wraps around his heart. In the way the walls of the cavern feel closer, not physically, but in the strange geometry of dream and drowning.
Its not that the place is growing smaller. Its that he is.
That realization almost breaks him.
He rocks forward slightly, just enough to rise to one knee. Not pride. Not strength. Just the instinct to stand in the face of something that wants him small. Wants him pliable. He grips a ridge of stone, slick with algae, and hauls himself upright. His legs tremble. His vision swims again. But he does not fall.
Why me? he asks at last. Why bring me here?
The words hang in the air. The song does not stop-but something in it shifts. A tremor. A note-if it can be called that-curls at the edge of perception. Its not an answer, not quite, but a reaction.
And that, somehow, is worse.
Because it means she heard.
She understood.
Shes listening.
Dean s skin prickles. His pulse stutters. Hes not alone in this strange grave of light and sound. And the intelligence watching him-curious, patient, inhuman-knows s
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, someone dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, someone dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, someone dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
The water behind her fractures, a flash, silver, violent, pierces the gloom. The cavern does not shudder. It explodes. Noise floods the stillness, not as a roar but a sharp, hydraulic crack, the kind that tears through marrow before it registers as sound. Harpoons strike from above, three, then four, each lands with a sickening crunch, metal ripping into scaled flesh, splitting glowing hide like parchment.
Dean flinches. Not at the impact, but at the blood. It floods the water in coils of luminous blue, thick and boiling. The warmth hed begun to accept becomes scalding. It stings his skin, seeps into cuts, fills his nose and mouth. The taste is salt and copper turned electric; like biting into a live wire soaked in seawater.
The song ends: no decrescendo, no whimper; just silence, heavy, aching silence.
Light floods the chamber. Harsh beams split the dark like knives, slicing away dream logic with tactical clarity. Forms descend. Black wetsuits. Steel helmets. Faces hidden behind tempered lenses. They dont speak, they dont hesitate; each movement efficient and mechanical. One drives a spear into her neck, twisting, another fires again as her body convulses: no scream, just a shudder.
The mermaids eyes, those strange, layered things, lock on Dean one last time. Not in rage, not in sorrow, just stillness. The lights behind them flicker out.
She slips from the coral, body unraveling into shadow, limbs drifting like kelp, Dean collapses against the stone, breath sharp and ragged; no one asks if hes alive, they already know.
Dean doesnt move at first-cant. The heat still burns under his skin, but now its from adrenaline, not comfort. He stares at the space where she unraveled, where those eyes last held himnot pleading, not afraid, just... still. He doesnt know what they meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Salt stings his throat as he breathes, rough and fast, body half-collapsed against the stone. No one speaks. No one asks if hes okay. The men move like machines, precise and silent.
He watches one of them reload. Another checks a reading. Efficient. Clean. Like theyve done this before. Like she was just another target.
Dean swallows, but the taste of her is still in his mouth-metal and warmth and something electric he knows he'll never forget. He forces himself to speak, voice hoarse, cracking against the quiet.
"You didnt even ask what she was."
His words vanish into the water. No one looks at him.
Gloved hands haul Dean upright. The grip is firm, practiced, indifferent. Fabric rasps against his skin, gritty with salt and dried blood. The suits smell of rubber, steel, and something antiseptic. He feels the pressure of a mask pressed against his face before he can protest. Air floods his lungs; clean, filtered, cold.
The strike team moves fast, boots splash through ankle deep pools, sound muted by the cavern's stone. Beams from their headlamps slice through mist and bioluminescent haze, revealing nothing but ruin behind them. The remnants of her blood still glow on the walls, veins of fading blue like cracks in reality.
Dean feet barely touch the ground. Hes half dragged, half guided toward a waiting submersible, its hull dark and silent in the hidden trench beyond the caves mouth. Lights blink in steady rhythm, cold and functional. The door hisses open.
Inside, the hum of machinery replaces the pulse of the sea. Sterile white panels, leather restraints, brushed metal. The air is dry. He shivers harder.
One of the soldiers straps him down, no words, another injects something into his arm. Cooling, numbing, unfamiliar. His eyes grow heavy as the engines engage. The scent of iodine lingers, sharp and clean. The ocean fades. White Oak waits.