A/N: Taking some creative liberties with this part... it basically encloses the shark scene and begins the scene with the angler fish. More tank soon to come. Probably right after the angler scene finishes up. So.. anyway, here it goes.
White Suits
He rarely drank. The last time he had was on his last anniversary. He could only vaguely remember that day. Yet the biker and his two friends had ceremoniously plunked a full mug of some unidentifiable alcohol before him and were now watching, waiting for, him to down it in the same unruly manner as they had swallowed up their drinks. It did not escape his notice that, while Dory and the bikers happily drank things that looked suspiciously like nothing more than ginger ale, he was the one sitting on the sticky plastic stool, a mug of beer before him.
Dory spun on her stool, her blue hair flying in all directions. She let out a joyous squeal and reached out, stopping her revolutions by grabbing whoever happened to let their extremities get too close to her scrawny limbs.
Her actions pleased the "Land Sharks" to no end. They egged her on good naturedly, applauding when she completed a full spin. Bruce sat on a pool table that had obviously seen better days, a worn cue leaning against his denim-clad thigh. Pale blue dust caked his nails. At either side of him were two significantly smaller men; one with a tattoo of an anchor on his arm, the other lacking any defining quality save his pierced nose and the fact that he was only referred to as "chum", mostly by the larger leader.
"So… Murry, was it?" drawled Bruce, stirring his drink idly.
"Marlin."
"Right, Marlin. Sorry."
"Who's Marlin?" Dory called, spinning past them once again. "Oh! Oh right! Him!"
The three shifted, hiding their amusement, while he did nothing to hide his irritation. "Look. Did you just bring me here to make me drunk or did you bring me here to help me?" he demanded, getting to his feet. The dramatic effect was lessened, however, when Dory's yellow nails latched onto him, stopping her whirling and toppling him over backwards in one fell swoop. She shrieked, a sound lacking complete merriment and dove to haul him back to his feet. He pushed her aid away irritably. The disheartened young woman sat back on her stool, her mood brightening instantly as she found she still had some soda left. She resumed her spinning, taking her drink along for the ride this time.
"Don't get so excited," the biker with the anchor tattoo muttered as he got to his feet. "It's not like we can just point at them."
Bruce nodded, his voice dropping to a wary level. "They look for any excuse to haul you away. They see us in here, they assume we're still alcoholics—"
"You're what!?"
"Don't interrupt. We're in a program now."
"Oh lord…" He put his head in his hands. This couldn't get any worse… could it?
The Land Shark continued. "They'll drag us off in their big vans, just like your kid. Then no one hears from you again. Some people say you get used as a test subject and whatnot. Happened to an old friend of mine." As he spoke, however, he threw a cautious nod in the direction of one of the dimly-lit booths.
It had gotten worse.
"But that's insane!" He stole a look over the Land Shark's shoulder, in order to catch a glimpse of whoever it was at that particular booth. "Do they even have permits for that!? Who do they think they are?"
"Probably the government," replied Anchor-Tattoo.
"Think they own everything," added the pierced-nose biker.
Now he could see the occupants of the booth. Both were men, middle-aged, their pale hair cut close to their heads, arranged in neat shocks. Anything else was impossible to note, except for their pressed, white jumpsuits. They were horribly obvious against the wood and vinyl backdrop of the bar. After a long while, he realized he was staring, and they realized the same.
By this time, the bar was fairly crowded. Bikers of all shapes, sizes and, literally, colors milled about the large room. It seemed impossible the men in white had picked out his stare from amongst the hundreds of others they were receiving. Yet they had. He felt his heart hammering, his feet freeze to the spot, as they approached, their mannerisms the very essence of brusque business.
"Uhh… Bruce?" Anchor-Tattoo murmured, noticing the same thing.
"What?" The leader turned. Spotting the danger, his eyes lost their usual gleam. "Oh no… Murry. Run."
"What!? Run!? Run where!?"
"Parking lot. Someone'll get you to their van. Should have their location on—"
He was cut off by a shout of rage and a feminine cry of surprise. Still perched haphazardly on her stool, Dory's purple eyes were locked onto a man even larger than Bruce. Her drink had left its glass and was now dripping off of the hefty fellow's face. Obviously, her insane spinning had done more than make her dizzy. Now she was rooted to the spot, staring in horror at the fist flying in her direction.
Without thinking, he launched himself at her, pulling her down to the dirty floor before one of her purple eyes was damaged by the flying fist. While the move saved her an injury, it added to his embarrassment. He had landed on top of her. Sounds of a fight raged above as the big man's fist had hit an innocent target. No one seemed to see the two on the floor.
Hurriedly, he rolled off her, keeping a hand on her thin shoulder to make sure her memory didn't get her into any serious physical harm. Splinters of wood rained down from a recently broken pool cue. She cried out, covering her eyes as if the wood were glass. The cry startled him, and he propelled her—on hand and knee—forcefully towards the door, fearing someone had hit her. True, he could have left her there, in the care of the distracted Land Sharks. But, from what he could tell, she was as good at defending herself as he was at relaxing. Just abandoning her in this place, given its current condition, would have been disastrous, despite what meager protection their biker friends could provide.
The white pants were visible through the forest of legs, heading for the door. He hastily reversed direction, hauling the frightened woman towards the restrooms. She followed, whimpering. Only when she saw the sign on the men's room door did she protest.
"I can't go in there…" Her expression was both confused and indignant. "It's the MEN's room."
"Do you want a chair broken over your head?" he snapped, sounding more callous than he had intended. Her eyes widened as she frantically shook her head. "Then get in!" With another protest, he shoved her in before him.
A pause. "Hey… there's a COUCH in here! Wait… erm… why am I in a bathroom…? With urinals…?"
He pushed in after her, leaning against the door to secure it. A sigh of relief escaped him. He didn't dare hope the door had locks. The couch. He could push the couch against the door! That would stop any persistent assailants! His plan was stopped, however, by Dory.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!"
"What!? What's wrong!?" Panicked, he rushed over to her, but that only succeeding in frightening her worse. "Dory! What's the matter with you!?"
Her face had turned an interesting shade. "OUT! Get out!"
"What…? Why?"
"You're in the WOMEN'S bathroom!"
He didn't even try to argue with her. All he had to do was ignore her until he could get the couch positioned correctly. Then he could reason with her. Pulling off his coat, he began to push the couch against the door. Dory just stared at him with mystified purple eyes. It was heavier than he'd originally thought. It took all of his might to move it a few measly inches across the grimy tile floor. He shoved it a few more with a grunt, as the door began to open.
"Who's there?" Dory called, coming close to peer over his shoulder at the opening.
"Shhh!" he hissed at her, knocking her backwards with an elbow. "Be quiet!" He gave the stupid couch another, more frantic shove. If they were found now, either by bikers or by the men in white, he had no idea what would happen. And, quite personally, did not wish to.
She fell, rubbing her midsection and whimpering. "Oww… that hurt, y'know."
Sick chuckles emerged from behind the door. He flushed, his embarrassment giving way to annoyance. With one last effort he shoved the thing against the door, effectively blocking the entrance; or exit, depending on how you looked at it. The sick chuckles changed to sounds of confusion, then escalating into anger. Fists pounded the door.
Now he had a chance to survey the room. It was a standard bathroom, facilities at one side, a dingy sink at the other. A single window, colored an opaque brown from years of neglect, was placed forlornly on the back wall. Faintly, through the grime, he could see the reflection of streetlamps against metal. The parking lot! He darted over, working his fingers underneath the rusted latch. It didn't budge.
"Dory! Get over here! I need your help!"
She was almost instantly by his side. Her skinny limbs added the boost he needed, sending the window flying open. "Wow!" she exclaimed, poking her head out the small opening. "Look at all the cans!"
He grabbed her legs, much to her surprise, and roughly pushed her out the window. It wouldn't have been too far to the ground. The bar only had one floor after all. Nevertheless, she let out a hurt yelp as she landed on something that made a clanking noise as she hit it. He hurried after her, his slick-soled shoes scrambling for purchase on the grubby tile of the wall. The door slid open. In a panic, he tried to haul himself up purely by the strength of his arms. He made no progress.
Bony fingers latched onto his wrists, pulling him bodily out the window and into a pile of bags filled with beer cans. Dory grinned down at him, not seeming to notice the six-pack holder dangling off her ear. He stared at her. On a whim, he jumped up and slammed the window shut, in an attempt to keep in any prospective followers. Only then did he lean against the wall, take a shaky breath, and attempt to survey his surroundings.
It was dark. Pitch-black, in fact. The only light came from the fluorescent ones that shone weakly through the little window. His heart raced. They must have come out the back, meaning the parking lot was in the other direction. There was Lord knew how many things lurking in the darkness, just waiting for two unwary people to pass by. He slumped down, staring defeated into the blackness. He would have stayed there, had it not been for a skinny body flopping down in front of him. Purple eyes glowed in the dim light.
"Hey, Grumpy."
He frowned. "What…?"
She scooted closer, a secretive smile on her freckled face. "You look sad."
"I'm not sad."
"Well what's wrong then?"
Clenching his teeth, he forced out the words, not regretting the bitter flavor they had. "The VAN, which we need to GET to, is in the parking lot. WAY over there! In the dark!"
"So?" she asked flippantly. "What's the problem?"
He felt like exploding. This woman, whom he had just saved from a beating, refused to take anything seriously. She just stared at him, smiling her insane smile. For one, fleeting moment, he wanted to wipe that horrible look off her face. He forced it back down with a shudder. "Look. It's dark. Things LIVE in the dark that like to steal and maim hapless travelers," he told her, feeling himself calm as he spoke. "We… are hapless travelers. So, we don't go into the dark places. Okay?"
She sat back, reclining on a convenient box while appearing to absorb what he had said. For the moment, he allowed himself a small breath of relief. It seemed that if you spoke slowly enough she would finally get a clue—
"Wanna know how to cheer yourself up? It works every time."
This was insane. One minute she was listening, seeming to understand perfectly, the next she was off rambling about being happy! "I don't want to know," he snapped. "Not now. Not later. Go play with that plastic in your hair."
"You," she began, undaunted by both the six-pack-rings and his irritation. "just keep swimming!" Her face broke into a huge, proud grin.
He stared. What more could he have done? She started singing then, moving her arms in swimming motions. "Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming!"
Deep breaths, something inside him cautioned. Deep, slow breaths… The mantra would have worked, had Dory not clambered to her feet, taking his hand along with her. She kept singing, pulling him behind her as she disappeared into the darkness of the alleyway, heading towards what he hoped was the parking lot.
White Suits
He rarely drank. The last time he had was on his last anniversary. He could only vaguely remember that day. Yet the biker and his two friends had ceremoniously plunked a full mug of some unidentifiable alcohol before him and were now watching, waiting for, him to down it in the same unruly manner as they had swallowed up their drinks. It did not escape his notice that, while Dory and the bikers happily drank things that looked suspiciously like nothing more than ginger ale, he was the one sitting on the sticky plastic stool, a mug of beer before him.
Dory spun on her stool, her blue hair flying in all directions. She let out a joyous squeal and reached out, stopping her revolutions by grabbing whoever happened to let their extremities get too close to her scrawny limbs.
Her actions pleased the "Land Sharks" to no end. They egged her on good naturedly, applauding when she completed a full spin. Bruce sat on a pool table that had obviously seen better days, a worn cue leaning against his denim-clad thigh. Pale blue dust caked his nails. At either side of him were two significantly smaller men; one with a tattoo of an anchor on his arm, the other lacking any defining quality save his pierced nose and the fact that he was only referred to as "chum", mostly by the larger leader.
"So… Murry, was it?" drawled Bruce, stirring his drink idly.
"Marlin."
"Right, Marlin. Sorry."
"Who's Marlin?" Dory called, spinning past them once again. "Oh! Oh right! Him!"
The three shifted, hiding their amusement, while he did nothing to hide his irritation. "Look. Did you just bring me here to make me drunk or did you bring me here to help me?" he demanded, getting to his feet. The dramatic effect was lessened, however, when Dory's yellow nails latched onto him, stopping her whirling and toppling him over backwards in one fell swoop. She shrieked, a sound lacking complete merriment and dove to haul him back to his feet. He pushed her aid away irritably. The disheartened young woman sat back on her stool, her mood brightening instantly as she found she still had some soda left. She resumed her spinning, taking her drink along for the ride this time.
"Don't get so excited," the biker with the anchor tattoo muttered as he got to his feet. "It's not like we can just point at them."
Bruce nodded, his voice dropping to a wary level. "They look for any excuse to haul you away. They see us in here, they assume we're still alcoholics—"
"You're what!?"
"Don't interrupt. We're in a program now."
"Oh lord…" He put his head in his hands. This couldn't get any worse… could it?
The Land Shark continued. "They'll drag us off in their big vans, just like your kid. Then no one hears from you again. Some people say you get used as a test subject and whatnot. Happened to an old friend of mine." As he spoke, however, he threw a cautious nod in the direction of one of the dimly-lit booths.
It had gotten worse.
"But that's insane!" He stole a look over the Land Shark's shoulder, in order to catch a glimpse of whoever it was at that particular booth. "Do they even have permits for that!? Who do they think they are?"
"Probably the government," replied Anchor-Tattoo.
"Think they own everything," added the pierced-nose biker.
Now he could see the occupants of the booth. Both were men, middle-aged, their pale hair cut close to their heads, arranged in neat shocks. Anything else was impossible to note, except for their pressed, white jumpsuits. They were horribly obvious against the wood and vinyl backdrop of the bar. After a long while, he realized he was staring, and they realized the same.
By this time, the bar was fairly crowded. Bikers of all shapes, sizes and, literally, colors milled about the large room. It seemed impossible the men in white had picked out his stare from amongst the hundreds of others they were receiving. Yet they had. He felt his heart hammering, his feet freeze to the spot, as they approached, their mannerisms the very essence of brusque business.
"Uhh… Bruce?" Anchor-Tattoo murmured, noticing the same thing.
"What?" The leader turned. Spotting the danger, his eyes lost their usual gleam. "Oh no… Murry. Run."
"What!? Run!? Run where!?"
"Parking lot. Someone'll get you to their van. Should have their location on—"
He was cut off by a shout of rage and a feminine cry of surprise. Still perched haphazardly on her stool, Dory's purple eyes were locked onto a man even larger than Bruce. Her drink had left its glass and was now dripping off of the hefty fellow's face. Obviously, her insane spinning had done more than make her dizzy. Now she was rooted to the spot, staring in horror at the fist flying in her direction.
Without thinking, he launched himself at her, pulling her down to the dirty floor before one of her purple eyes was damaged by the flying fist. While the move saved her an injury, it added to his embarrassment. He had landed on top of her. Sounds of a fight raged above as the big man's fist had hit an innocent target. No one seemed to see the two on the floor.
Hurriedly, he rolled off her, keeping a hand on her thin shoulder to make sure her memory didn't get her into any serious physical harm. Splinters of wood rained down from a recently broken pool cue. She cried out, covering her eyes as if the wood were glass. The cry startled him, and he propelled her—on hand and knee—forcefully towards the door, fearing someone had hit her. True, he could have left her there, in the care of the distracted Land Sharks. But, from what he could tell, she was as good at defending herself as he was at relaxing. Just abandoning her in this place, given its current condition, would have been disastrous, despite what meager protection their biker friends could provide.
The white pants were visible through the forest of legs, heading for the door. He hastily reversed direction, hauling the frightened woman towards the restrooms. She followed, whimpering. Only when she saw the sign on the men's room door did she protest.
"I can't go in there…" Her expression was both confused and indignant. "It's the MEN's room."
"Do you want a chair broken over your head?" he snapped, sounding more callous than he had intended. Her eyes widened as she frantically shook her head. "Then get in!" With another protest, he shoved her in before him.
A pause. "Hey… there's a COUCH in here! Wait… erm… why am I in a bathroom…? With urinals…?"
He pushed in after her, leaning against the door to secure it. A sigh of relief escaped him. He didn't dare hope the door had locks. The couch. He could push the couch against the door! That would stop any persistent assailants! His plan was stopped, however, by Dory.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!"
"What!? What's wrong!?" Panicked, he rushed over to her, but that only succeeding in frightening her worse. "Dory! What's the matter with you!?"
Her face had turned an interesting shade. "OUT! Get out!"
"What…? Why?"
"You're in the WOMEN'S bathroom!"
He didn't even try to argue with her. All he had to do was ignore her until he could get the couch positioned correctly. Then he could reason with her. Pulling off his coat, he began to push the couch against the door. Dory just stared at him with mystified purple eyes. It was heavier than he'd originally thought. It took all of his might to move it a few measly inches across the grimy tile floor. He shoved it a few more with a grunt, as the door began to open.
"Who's there?" Dory called, coming close to peer over his shoulder at the opening.
"Shhh!" he hissed at her, knocking her backwards with an elbow. "Be quiet!" He gave the stupid couch another, more frantic shove. If they were found now, either by bikers or by the men in white, he had no idea what would happen. And, quite personally, did not wish to.
She fell, rubbing her midsection and whimpering. "Oww… that hurt, y'know."
Sick chuckles emerged from behind the door. He flushed, his embarrassment giving way to annoyance. With one last effort he shoved the thing against the door, effectively blocking the entrance; or exit, depending on how you looked at it. The sick chuckles changed to sounds of confusion, then escalating into anger. Fists pounded the door.
Now he had a chance to survey the room. It was a standard bathroom, facilities at one side, a dingy sink at the other. A single window, colored an opaque brown from years of neglect, was placed forlornly on the back wall. Faintly, through the grime, he could see the reflection of streetlamps against metal. The parking lot! He darted over, working his fingers underneath the rusted latch. It didn't budge.
"Dory! Get over here! I need your help!"
She was almost instantly by his side. Her skinny limbs added the boost he needed, sending the window flying open. "Wow!" she exclaimed, poking her head out the small opening. "Look at all the cans!"
He grabbed her legs, much to her surprise, and roughly pushed her out the window. It wouldn't have been too far to the ground. The bar only had one floor after all. Nevertheless, she let out a hurt yelp as she landed on something that made a clanking noise as she hit it. He hurried after her, his slick-soled shoes scrambling for purchase on the grubby tile of the wall. The door slid open. In a panic, he tried to haul himself up purely by the strength of his arms. He made no progress.
Bony fingers latched onto his wrists, pulling him bodily out the window and into a pile of bags filled with beer cans. Dory grinned down at him, not seeming to notice the six-pack holder dangling off her ear. He stared at her. On a whim, he jumped up and slammed the window shut, in an attempt to keep in any prospective followers. Only then did he lean against the wall, take a shaky breath, and attempt to survey his surroundings.
It was dark. Pitch-black, in fact. The only light came from the fluorescent ones that shone weakly through the little window. His heart raced. They must have come out the back, meaning the parking lot was in the other direction. There was Lord knew how many things lurking in the darkness, just waiting for two unwary people to pass by. He slumped down, staring defeated into the blackness. He would have stayed there, had it not been for a skinny body flopping down in front of him. Purple eyes glowed in the dim light.
"Hey, Grumpy."
He frowned. "What…?"
She scooted closer, a secretive smile on her freckled face. "You look sad."
"I'm not sad."
"Well what's wrong then?"
Clenching his teeth, he forced out the words, not regretting the bitter flavor they had. "The VAN, which we need to GET to, is in the parking lot. WAY over there! In the dark!"
"So?" she asked flippantly. "What's the problem?"
He felt like exploding. This woman, whom he had just saved from a beating, refused to take anything seriously. She just stared at him, smiling her insane smile. For one, fleeting moment, he wanted to wipe that horrible look off her face. He forced it back down with a shudder. "Look. It's dark. Things LIVE in the dark that like to steal and maim hapless travelers," he told her, feeling himself calm as he spoke. "We… are hapless travelers. So, we don't go into the dark places. Okay?"
She sat back, reclining on a convenient box while appearing to absorb what he had said. For the moment, he allowed himself a small breath of relief. It seemed that if you spoke slowly enough she would finally get a clue—
"Wanna know how to cheer yourself up? It works every time."
This was insane. One minute she was listening, seeming to understand perfectly, the next she was off rambling about being happy! "I don't want to know," he snapped. "Not now. Not later. Go play with that plastic in your hair."
"You," she began, undaunted by both the six-pack-rings and his irritation. "just keep swimming!" Her face broke into a huge, proud grin.
He stared. What more could he have done? She started singing then, moving her arms in swimming motions. "Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming!"
Deep breaths, something inside him cautioned. Deep, slow breaths… The mantra would have worked, had Dory not clambered to her feet, taking his hand along with her. She kept singing, pulling him behind her as she disappeared into the darkness of the alleyway, heading towards what he hoped was the parking lot.