Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis by Adam Allegro

     Morrison waited in the rain while the other girls huddled under an orange umbrella some yards away. They discussed Friday night plans and giggled about “that backwoods girl” who “dressed like a worm”, similar to the quips she’d overheard all day. No matter, it was Morrison’s tenth birthday and something much more important than a few insecure jerks waited over the horizon. All day the constricting bathing suit under her clothes was a reminder of what wonders were due. 

    Lightning flashed and thunder followed, and rain slid down Morrison’s oversized black and yellow striped rain jacket like water over duck feathers. The sugar-sweet-pea-sized drops fell diagonally in the wind to tickle the tip of her droopy nose, an inherited legacy of her mother. She couldn’t tell where the raindrops stopped and her runny nose began, so she rubbed it all away only to have it return an instant later. A sleek driverless minivan pulled itself next to the catty group of girls, who impatiently climbed over one another into the dry cabin. 

     “See you later freak” snarled one of them as the door slid shut.

     Through the mostly-tinted windows Morrison watched them laugh and felt some jealousy, as they were headed home to fathers and mothers tonight. Now it was  just her and the persistent raindrops. She desperately tried to keep her spirits propped but the pylons were wobbling. The gray sky darkened with the hidden sun’s retreat. Morrison shivered. 

     “Where. Is. He?” The words stretched with the wind, swirling around her chest before being devoured by passing gusts. 

     He was never late, and worry crept in. She pictured her dad and his stupid green truck upside down in a gnarled grove of dead almond trees, twisted metal tangled with lifeless branches. She shook the image away and squinted at a distant speck. It moved fast, growing as it zoomed toward the school. To call it green was technically accurate, but up close one could see the deep orange rust overtaking the paint until, eventually, the whole thing was a uniform shade of textured occurrence. She exhaled relief when the rumbling truck arrived, then opened the creaky door and climbed into the passenger seat.

     “Hey there, Mo.”

     “Hey, dad.” She was happy to see him despite his tardiness. “How was work?”  

     Work wore him down, but there were no other options. The previous world was gone and those jobs weren’t coming back. He sometimes said it was only a matter of time before even farmers would be out of work too. No way to keep pace with those automated grows. Many claimed it was the only way to feed everyone, but Morrison’s father thought otherwise.

     “Not our best day, kiddo,” he answered after some thought, then kicked the truck into gear and drove away from the empty school. He always took his time searching for an appropriate answer, but it normally fell short of expectations. Additional questions just led to more questions, and even though she yearned for the interaction, Morrison couldn’t get stuck in one of those funhouse mirrored rooms today.

     She kept telling herself that they would get to the Zenporium before it closed. She’d deal with the disappointment if they were too late, but if she didn’t keep up hope it would be lost. Her father turned on unfamiliar oldies and they rode in silence. 

     He wasn’t the same since he returned. He was only deployed for a year, but it aged him ten. Now he barely spoke. Sometimes late at night Morrison heard her father cry from across the farmhouse. When she finally asked him about it he became distant and changed the subject immediately. 

    “Might be some traffic further up Mo, but we’ll get there.” He kept his eyes on the road. Morrison focused on the Zenporium, the same thing she’d daydreamed about for the last six months.

     Earlier that summer, a short time after her mother’s death, Morrison’s older cousin described fluttering with the butterflies in wondrous detail while they bounced on a giant trampoline. He said it was only “ten and up” to visit the Zenporium, so she would need to wait. Since that sunny afternoon it was just about all Morrison thought about, and she cried a little less. She told her father about it every day until he finally promised he would take her to the city on her tenth birthday. Now the day was finally here and Morrison could hardly believe it.

     The truck veered onto the highway and was met with an armada of red brake lights. Morrison’s father clenched his jaw. For the next ten minutes the truck inched forward until they passed a vintage Porsche, totaled and smoking and occupying the two right lanes. Ahead another gas vehicle that Morrison didn’t recognize, mangled and distorted from flipping uncontrollably down the highway. An ambulance had parked itself between the two broken vehicles, its lone paramedic and two service bots busily working an unmoving man on the pavement. Morrison tugged on her seatbelt, felt it catch, and the sudden resistance gave her some sense of security. 

     Twenty minutes later they pulled into an emptying mall parking lot. Morrison opened her door and hopped down to the slippery, cracked cement, then the two moved briskly through the intensifying downpour to the mall entrance. The floor inside was squeaky under Morrison’s black rain boots. Families and couples and singles filtered out of the mall, making her feel like a salmon swimming upstream. 

     A phoenix of sorts, bred from the automobile and mass consumption, then murdered overnight by Internet shopping and next-day delivery, malls reemerged with an eye on the future, the youth. Much of it was virtual, where space became merely a means of moving minds to some foreign, simulated place. Department stores evolved into gaming arenas or barter centers, while the smaller clothing boutiques and jewelry stores became any number of VR halls, budget medical practices, self-help gurus, five-minute therapy clinics, antique shops, dating centers or automated food courts. Physically the dining areas were bleak and bare. But paired with AR glasses, the drab, fluorescent-lighted mess halls would transform into the base of the pyramids or the top of Machu Picchu. It was all a matter of perspective, and selling that perspective was reality.  

    An older woman smiled at Morrison before disappearing behind the metal gate of an electronics store. Her father moved quickly, and Morrison struggled to keep up. Panic surged with every darkened storefront they passed. 

     Through a hodgepodge smattering of false foliage Morrison spotted the bright orange sign silently screaming “ ZENPORIUM”. Inside, twenty-five egg-shaped pods were spread on an upward sloped, grated floor, each providing a different experience. There were even a few old-fashioned arcade cabinets in the corner. Suddenly the lights cut out and the Zenporium went dark. An older man appeared and began to secure the front doors, a mess of keys jingling at his side. He appeared tired and resigned, and looked at them through coral blue eyes.

     “Sorry folks, we’re just closing. You can come back tomorrow morning after ten if you like. Shouldn’t be crowded then.”

     Morrison knew that wasn’t an option. Even through the urge to run and cry, she stood tall and accepted the outcome, having already built in a certain expectation that this might happen. Her father tensed.

     “Sir, isn’t there any way you’d be willing to stay open just a little longer? It’s my daughter’s birthday.”

      “Sorry, mister. I have an hour of maintenance and then need to head home for supper. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow…” He took no pleasure in turning them away.

     “Hey Mo, go wait over there.” He pointed to a pair of bathrooms and a water fountain with yellow ‘out of order’ tape around it. Morrison figured she could use the bathroom, as it had been hours since she last went.

     When she came out her father was still speaking with the older man. Morrison felt uneasy, as her dad was prone to argue and insert himself into circumstances of conflict. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t start now and make her already disappointing birthday even worse. She daydreamed about fluttering and migrating when her father walked over.

     “I don’t know what to say, Mo… I… I’m… I think maybe we should get some dinner before our drive home.” His eyes were sad and heavy with guilt.

     Morrison had grown up quickly since her father came back. She watched him carefully, and even though she didn’t entirely understand his experiences, she understood that her father was broken, and the only way to help was to be patient, and love him and accept him.

     “It’s OK, dad. We can come back another time.”

    “I know a place we can go. It’s not far from here. They have your favorite.”

     “Sounds good.” Morrison took her sadness and swallowed it down deep, burying it for now. She was hungry and they were safe, unlike the drivers of those cars from earlier. The thought helped keep things in perspective.

     The rest of the stores were closed and only a few scattered stragglers remained in the mall. A security guardbot blared, “Have a fantastic day!” with contrived enthusiasm as Morrison and her father made their way outside. The rain fell in sheets, the old luminaires illuminating raindrops like shooting stars. Rusty brown-orange leaked from the truck as the sluggish pair hopped in and left. 

     Morrison’s stomach growled and she yawned. She barely slept the previous night, and now her energy dwindled. Sleeping on the way home would be a sad consolation.

     Soon the brakes screeched on the old truck as Morrison’s father pulled into the diner’s empty parking lot. It was one of those retro futuristic places, lit in bright, neon colors. Inside, a tired server-host welcomed them. Stubborn, stray hair strands sprouted from her head like forgotten cobwebs. She was joined by a still robot line cook currently in power saving mode. There were touchscreens at the tables for ordering.

     The pair chose a booth halfway back and scrolled through menu items. The screen confirmed Morrison’s order in a digitized, hippy voice.

    “The original root beer flo - authentic beef burger with gruyere cheese, bacon, gril- savory sweet potato fries.”

     Morrison scooted back on the pleather cushion and stared out the window at the passing traffic. Her father tapped in his order.

     “Water with ice, mouthwatering buttermilk flapjacks, black coffee, home-style pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream. . . Your total is. . . Ninety-six dollars and sixteen cents. Please pay now… Please pay now… Please pay now…” 

     Her father checked his jacket pocket, groaned, then reluctantly pressed a thumb on the screen’s ID box. His information came up and he selected his Basic Utility Government Subsidy account. There was an option for a tip even though there hadn’t been any food or service yet. He added ten dollars and finalized the payment with another tap.

     “Groovy.” acknowledged the languid computer voice. “Your food will be out shortly.” The robotic line cook woke up and started to cook.

     Morrison’s father was uncomfortable and more anxious than usual. He shot his daughter a quick smile that hovered between shame, sorrow, and reassurance, then turned his head and looked out the window.

     “I’m not very good at this, Mo… Things haven’t been the same since your mother… It’s all so much, too much. I’m not sure how to… I’m trying…”. The words jumbled in his throat.

     “Dad, it’s ok.” Morrison understood.  She recently realized that she could be a jerk or she could accept her father for the man he was, be patient and love him unconditionally.  “I know you’re going through a lot. I’m here for you… I’ll always be. I love you daddy. ”

     He gazed at his perfect daughter, wise beyond her years and resilient beyond his, and swelled with both pride and shame. Tightness crept into his throat. His eyes swelled glassy and tears began streaming down weathered cheeks. It was the first time Morrison could remember seeing her father cry. She placed her hand on top of her father’s and squeezed. They looked at one another and nothing else needed to be said. The newest tears came easier. 

     The server-host brought them their food with a warming smile. Morrison’s father quickly wiped away his tears, unashamed but self-conscious nonetheless. 

     “Enjoy your meal you two. Just let the screen know if you need anything else.” After another quick smile she turned and returned to the front of the diner. Morrison and her father ate their meal in silence. But this silence was lighter, like a fluffy cloud or a mid-summer’s breeze. The previous chasm between them was now a manageable canyon. With some more bridge building it might even be crossable. 

     Through tired eyes Morrison looked at her father, and when his gaze found hers she stuck out her tongue as far as she could and her eyes crossed the bridge of her droopy nose. It was her favorite face. It only took a beat before he instinctively came back with one of his own. He flipped down his lower lip and replaced his upper lip with his tongue, puffed out his cheeks and made his eyes big with surprise. It was a truly remarkable face, as if he had been saving it for years. Morrison burst out laughing and everything in the world felt fine.

     “Alright kiddo, let’s get going. Been a long day.”

     “OK, dad.”

     They slid out of the booth, triggering a “Thanks for eating at Mona’s Diner. Come back again soon!” from the ordering screen. The outside world smelled of earth and o-zone, as the earlier rain had yielded a fresh autumn evening. In the truck Morrison’s father stroked her hair for a moment and smiled, then got the engine to turn on the fourth try. Morrison cracked her window so she could feel the wind. In no time the cab’s rumble drifted her away to somewhere between sleep and awake. In her reverie she was warm and snug in her cocoon, wiggling and writhing and growing, metamorphosing. The reverie was vivid and convincing, and the transformation brought hints of a smile to the slumbering girl’s lips. All was satisfactory. Morrison’s father beamed as he checked his dozing daughter, the one thing he still loved in this world, and his eyes welled for the second time that evening. 

     Morrison opened her eyes when the engine cut off. Familiar luminaires glared through the truck’s windows. Feeling like she’d been encased for hours, she checked the clock to discover it had only been fifteen minutes. Then she realized they were back at the mall. Before she could ask what they were doing, her father was out of the truck saying “Mo, wait here.” There was an oddly determined look on his face.

     Fatigue and confusion weighed on Morrison. Why are we back? she wondered.

     “Dad, is everything ok? What are we doing here?”

    “Everything’s fine, Mo. Just give me a minute.” He shut the door and went to wait at the darkened mall entrance. Light glimmered off wet pavement as Morrison counted the uncertain seconds.

     Well into the third minute a figure arrived opposite her father inside the foyer. He unlocked the doors and the two men exchanged some words. Then her father turned and started walking back, whistling once he was halfway. He raised his arm and beckoned Morrison with curling fingers. Shivering and confused, she complied, and soon discovered that the other figure was the man from the Zenporium. He smiled, then ushered them inside.

     The realization came at once. Her father must have bribed the man to give her the birthday experience she so desperately wanted. A number of tears formed in Morrison’s eyes as her rain boots squeaked through the empty mall. She savored every moment, imagining they were old world explorers navigating an uncharted cave to a secret valley where the extinct Monarch was reported to have been recently spotted. 

     Then there it was. The ZENPORIUM. The man inserted his key into its slot, opened the door, and then disappeared around the corner. Buttons were pushed and switches switched, and the glorious hall spilled rich, strident light into the quiet expanse.

     Changing rooms and bathrooms were on the left, and a snack area lined the right. Unfolding down the middle was a rainbowed collection of colors and pictures wrapping massive oval chambers, which sloped up toward the back of the hall on separate platforms. Each pod was its own experience, a fully imagined, immersive reality where users floated in pools of salt water during their journeys. A FlexVR headset was worn for the duration with the various neural manipulator points spaced inside the hood. It all magically worked to both dilate time and transform reality, “hijacking” the brain by controlling the flow of external stimuli. The experience felt real.

     “Happy birthday! Morrison, is it?”

     “Yes sir, it is. Thank you.”

     “So… What do you want to be tonight?”

     “A butterfly!” Morrison blurted out, her excitement unable to be tamed. 

     “That old girl? You sure you don’t want to be a beaver, or maybe a tarantula? Those pods are newer and a little more exciting. I’m about to retire the ancient thing, maybe replace it with a medieval battle or space walk.” 

     Morrison didn’t budge. “I just really want to be a butterfly, sir.” 

    “Well then, little lady, you’re about to fly with the Monarchs. Are you ready? You got your swimsuit on under that?”

     Morrison nodded, then stripped off her clothes, tossing items to her father one at a time. When she took off her rain boots she felt the metal grating on the bottoms of her feet. Where others might have felt discomfort, Morrison felt livelier. She stood proud in her brilliant orange, one-piece swimsuit.

     “Ready!” she shouted.

     The man chuckled. “Alrighty then. Follow me.”

     Morrison looked at her father, who watched with tactful joy. She stuck her tongue out and they both laughed. 

    The man led them past the newer pods to an older one in the corner near the bathroom. Painted majestic green, a giant cocoon appeared in front of Morrison and her jaw dropped. A majestic orange butterfly filled the other side. With a mechanic’s efficiency, the man flipped a switch under the pod and adjusted some controls on the side, which popped the upper half ajar. 

     “Now, your dad told me this is your first time. It’s really very simple. Once you crawl in and get settled, I’ll give you the hood to put on, then I’ll plug you in. In no time you’ll be soaring!” 

     Exhilaration coursed through Morrison. She was suddenly nervous, the way she felt before jumping off the highest diving board at school. She thrust through the uncertainty and into the lukewarm water, picturing herself an astronaut on the moon waiting for the butterflies to arrive. The mask resembled that of a deep-sea diver’s, with blackened lenses and a hose protruding from the back that carried information rather than oxygen.

     “Okay, Morrison, when you put on the mask everything will go dark. You can lay back at this point and you’ll start floating. That’s when the hood will flash to trick your brain. You see, the real magic happens inside your mind. It will be like falling asleep and then simply existing. Only a minute will pass out here, but inside will feel like days. When the session is finished it will be like waking up from a deep sleep. Are you ready?”

     “I think so… Yes. I’m ready.” 

    Morrison donned the hood and entered a world of blackness. After a wobbly transition she straightened her floating body and felt weightless, as if cradled high in the sky by a fluffy cloud. 

     “Here come the lights.”

     They arrived suddenly. White flashes mixed with red, blue, and green in increasing frequency. Her forehead tingled and it felt like she was shrinking. Then blinding, white light filled the world before everything became clear.

     She was flying south. She was also tired but something compelled her onward. It was a race against the coming cold, and her species depended on it. The kaleidoscope of monarchs had flown all day, flapping fragile wings five, ten times a second while stopping occasionally to sip nectar from wildflowers. She had an even tougher go of it. Inside she was swollen with 288 eggs, a modest amount, and she was almost ready to start laying. Late in the day the rabble found refuge in an apple tree orchard and began their quiescence for the night. Instead of sleeping they clumped in groups to preserve what little warmth they produced, hanging upside down with eyes open. She rested in a collective unit with the others, and felt a visceral sense of relief. Ideas of individuality were as foreign as valleys on the moon Enceladus. A light rain pattered the orchard but the butterflies were protected under their leaves and branches, and when the sun rose in the misty morning most were protected from hungry birds in search of breakfast.

     The sun warmed their suspended bodies as the fog cleared. They evacuated the trees like tiny bats from a cave at sundown, their fragile orange a stark contrast with the azure sky. She was somewhere near the edge of the group, constantly flapping and smelling and perceiving and reacting, propelled by a need to push her genes forward. There was no excitement, regret, ambition, sadness or happiness. Everything just was. On instinct, she peeled off from the group with sixty-three other butterflies and descended like miniature paratroopers into a series of backyards, each unique in its layout and substance and most containing milkweed. The Monarch found a particularly bountiful bed and gracefully landed on the uppermost node of the largest plant. She poked her skinny proboscis into the mess of violet flowers and sucked the rich nectar out. It rejuvenated her and gave the world a marvelous sheen. Next she watched with 16,000 eyes as a caterpillar munched a Milkweed leaf. It wasn’t nostalgia she felt, but an echo of stenciled retention imprinted somewhere deep inside. 

      It was time. She sniffed for a suitable spot, which led to the main stem of another Milkweed plant. Lowering her head, the Monarch rubbed a leaf with its antennae, hopped in a semicircle, and laid her first egg under the lowest leaf, adhering it with her secreted glue. It was another relief, primitive at its base, and stimulus to lay more. She flew to another leaf and repeated the process. This would continue through the next hour until she was spooked away by a rambunctious child running after a yapping puppy.

      The Monarch took flight with most of the other deserters to new backyard. They laid more eggs and filled their abdomens with sustenance until the skies turned a violent burgundy, then orange, then a yellowish green, then gray. Their refuge was inside an old oak tree in an otherwise empty field. Now only forty-one butterflies clumped under the gnarled, shielding branches for the frosty night ahead.

     The Monarch felt lighter. Stationed near the edge, she had an unobstructed view of the stars extending downward from the horizon. Mosaicked and fragmented, they only registered as pinprick sources of light and spurred no contemplation or feeling. 

     In the frigid morning the stiff butterflies stretched their wings with the rays of the rising sun. Once ready they departed, and only six stayed behind. The Monarch bounced from leaf to leaf, garden to garden, laying eggs in all the best protective spots. As she progressed, a certain life-force released from inside, and by the time she was on her last ones she was utterly drained yet drunk with euphoria. She laid her final egg on a wild Milkweed plant on the rim of a clearing and flew high into the foliage to settle on the tallest tree’s tip. Peering out at the fragmented world of blue skies and treetops yielded a comforting peace at what was, and what unknowingly will be. Perfection.

     The world ignighted like an overexposed negative until there was nothing but white. Then black for a moment, and white again. Morrison awoke slightly jumbled as if from the most vivid of dreams. She slowly sat up and removed the hood. Standing before her was her father and the other man, both with quiet anticipation plastered across their faces.

     “Dad! I was a butterfly! It was unbelievable – I fluttered, and I slept in a group of Monarchs, and I laid so many eggs. I was a mom. And then I died on the top of the tallest tree!” A mammoth grin formed as Morrison climbed out of the pod and into the outstretched towel that her father presented. He wrapped it around her shivering shoulders and held her tight. 

     “That’s great Mo! Happy birthday sweetheart.”

     Morrison looked at him with love and happiness. She was beaming and shivering, acquainting with being a person again. Water dripped from her droopy nose. 

     “Thanks dad.”

     The space was dark save for the illumination over the butterfly pod and one more shell near the back. Its color was mainly blue and appeared to be an underwater experience of sorts. She could only make out the rough shape of a fin painted on it. Morrison looked at the Zenporium owner and pointed to the pod.

     “What’s that one, mister?”

    “Oh, that one… That’s our newest experience. Came in last week. It’s meant for older kids, fourteen years at least. You get to be a Whale Shark, and you have to be in a different way than you were as a butterfly. But, if your dad says it’s ok, I suppose we can fit in one more”

    He winked at her. A welcomed surprise, the newest opportunity sounded even more exciting and irresistible. Now that she had been a butterfly she felt like she could do anything. Morrison looked at her father hopefully.

     “If you feel up to it, Mo, then you got my blessing. Just remember, it’s meant for older kids, so be ready for something different, maybe even scary.”

     “That’s right,” echoed the older man. “Gotta be strong in there.”

     “I will, sir,” she said with confidence. 

    They ascended the metal stairs leading to the back of the space. Up close the pod’s striking appeal was even grander. A monsterous whale shark floated suspended amongst schooling fish in a royal sea of blue. Morrison had never heard of this sea creature before.

    “Is this thing real?”

    “Used to be,” replied the man. “They’re gone now, along with all the other sharks. I saw one once, when I was a child around your age. Now it’s your turn.”

     He flipped a switch behind the pod, then came around and played with the controls on its side. The upper-half separated and a larger, sleeker chamber was revealed. 

    “Alright Morrison, this experience is a little… different. It might get hairy in there, but I think you can handle it.” He motioned to the chamber and Morrison crawled in. “Just to give you some comfort, a failsafe’s built into the system. If things get too intense the system will gently bring you back to reality. So, what do ya say, Morrison, ready to swim with the sharks?”

     After she steadied in the warm, salty water, Morrison looked at her father.

    “Ready Mo? I’ll be right here waiting for you when you finish. Happy birthday, little girl.”

     Morrison smiled. She took the mask and pulled it over her head to darken the world once more, then slid back into the lukewarm water..

     White flashes came like before, then reds, blues and greens. Morrison felt her body growing and elongating, her skin hardening, her breathing… changing; tingling sensation spewed across her pliable frame and all issues of identity vanished.

   The world materialized in emerald blue and gray and turquoise, with sunlight just barely reaching this far down. The edge of the world rose above, and the dark, comforting chasm hung below. A school of tuna darted in the distance and the hum of a boat’s engine rumbled nearby, but the old whale shark was only interested in the swarm of krill straight ahead. She honed on the group earlier, hours after giving birth to all two hundred, eighty-four of her young. Rising from the depths with postpartum ecstasy and relief, the whale shark had sensed the tiny invertebrates movement and scent. 

     At one hundred, twenty-six years old, she knew the end was near. The marvelous creature lived a long life and birthed tens of thousands of children, most of whom didn’t make it past infancy. Even though the number was substantial, the shark often thought about her abandoned offspring and experienced something akin to sadness. But deep down she found peace in understanding it was a natural part of a cycle. As she left her new stipple of spawn earlier in the day, that familiar cocktail of feelings swirled around inside anew. She didn’t particularly want to do it, but then she didn’t have much say in the matter. Like the flow of water past her gills, she was compelled ever onward. If she stopped moving she’d drown.

   Warmth. The wise fish was near the surface now. She sensed the krill sucking down phytoplankton with primal drive. The motor was also nearby. After many close calls with catastrophe, including a propeller strike that decapitated the tip of her top fin decades back, the shark knew to keep her distance. Soon she would journey along a pre-programmed migratory pattern, leaving her vulnerable newborns to rely on each other to survive. There was no other option; it was the way things were.

     The oceans were quieter once. In the past century the seas grew busy with inorganic vessels. They affected The fish’s perception, and oftentimes made it difficult to detect food or navigate accurately. One adapts or dies, and she adapted. But she was older now and her senses had dulled. The boat passed behind her. She focused on the krill.

     Nearly to the swarm, anticipation of the overdue meal inspired broader, quicker strokes of her tail. She leveled near the surface and basked in the waning heat of the late-afternoon sun. Two mammoth pinnacles jutted up from the depths, and the whale shark honed on the krill’s growing frenzy behind the farther one. They darted like fireflies in the tropical water, bright and alive. She wasted no time, steadying on a general heading and opening her four-foot-wide mouth to its limits. Filtering out the water, she felt the tiny creatures squirming and wiggling as they moved into her stomach. She continued until the swarm was behind her.

   The experience was nourishing and she wanted more, so she came around and readied for a second run. She opened her mouth and sensed a dip in light from above. Just as the creature reached the swarm, the world darkened and it felt like the sea was pulling her downward. Malleable pressure draped the fisherman’s net around the whale shark. It stopped her swimming and water stopped flowing past her gills. She began choking, gasping for air, but the movement she so desperately needed was unattainable. A rush of panic set in, and the whale shark thrusted wildly, then stopped a moment later to conserve oxygen. Everything turned upside down as she was jerked upwards disoriented and frightened. 

     Trapped in the constricting net, the shark broke the surface into an unfamiliar place as water bucketed from her spotted, blue frame. The net swung in a controlled, mechanical manner bringing her to the deck as grinding gears created a new and excruciating auditory experience. As she gulped at dry stagnant air figures moved around her barking brief and intense noises. The sudden transition caused a hopeless panic. Her leathery skin was drying and it felt like a shell was hardening around her. The sun threatened to dip below the horizon at any moment and envelope the world in a ghostly dusk. A spotlight illuminated the shark as she thrashed around on the non-skid deck.  

   An explosion of pain gushed from her caudal fin, her main propeller, her legs. It was excruciating, and it went back and forth forever. Then the fin was gone. Her feet were gone. She tried wiggling her fin’s upper lobe but the wires were disconnected. Figures appeared above her left pectoral fin and the agony resumed. The sawing continued to her right pectoral, then on her dorsal fin. The shark wriggled and spasmed as shock took hold of her system, her senses shooting like fireworks.

     They tossed her severed fins into a pile like trash bags and backed away. One of them hosed off the blood-soaked deck, and blood gushed from her stumps. The crane lifted the shark’s slumping torso off the deck and maneuvered her back over the water. For a brief moment she was suspended and swinging, then free-falling to a whopping splash. On the verge of death, she sank like a ruptured submarine as blood reddened her trail. She jerked here and there as her heart slowed, but the terror and pain was gone as she came to a rest on the bottom. The agitated sand floated like dust and mixed with the blood to become a maroon cloud. When her heart finally stopped, the whale shark's last thoughts were of her newly born children. 

    White filled the world. Then black. Then the flashing commenced and Morrison returned, confused and scared and sobbing. She tore off the hood and jumped out of the pod, bolting between her father and the other man. She sprinted down the metal stairs and out of the Zenporium with water dripping from her little frame. She wept as she ran, muddled and foggy from the experience. She tripped and fell, landing hard on her knee, but no pain registered. Morrisonl sprang up and resumed her flight past darkened storefronts and empty food courts with no destination in mind. 

     She exited the mall with purpose, exploding into the frigid night. Under the luminaire was the truck surrounded by hailstones. She ran off in the opposite direction as melting hail squished under her naked feet, veering around the corner and bounding a little further before being scooped up and engulfed in caring warmth. Her father held her tight as she sobbed into his shoulder. 

     “Daddy, it was terrible. They caught me and then they cut off my fins... and I died.” The words came slowly through struggle, through gasps and swallows and tears.

     “It’s ok Morrison, I’ve got you now. Everything’s fine, baby girl.” He rubbed his daughter’s back.

     “It felt… so real. I… I never should have been a whale shark. I don’t think I was ready.”

     “Maybe not, sweet girl, but you jumped in anyway and came out the other end. Just remember, it wasn’t real.” He leaned his head back to meet Morrison’s eyes. “You’re an amazing kid. How’d I get so lucky?”

     Morrison shivered and hugged tighter, feeling loved and alive.

     “What do you say we go back and grab your clothes, get out of here?”

     “That sounds good. Thanks for rescuing me, daddy.”

     “Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I love you so much, baby. And I’m so proud of you.” The words hugged her, and she grew warm despite the cold. A metamorphosis was under way.