The Food Waits

The hook hits the water with an audible plot, and the lure sinks beneath the surface quickly. The water is dark and ominous, but a comfort nonetheless. It's a sanctuary, quiet and still, untouched yet by the bugs that will skim the surface with the rising sun, and the birds that will come hungrily looking for the foolish minnows they bring. In the pale light that illuminates the sky, the peaceful lull in between the night and the day, there's an unparalleled calm, and all the beasts collectively breathe in deeply the brief coexistence. Creatures stir, taking advantage of the night's gifts, readying for the coming dawn. There's the gentlest breeze kissing the water's surface, stirring the lingering haze and making the ripples dance to its tune. It's tranquil. For most.

He swims lazily through the water, his tail undulating in a soft rhythmic pattern that propels him forward, weaving amongst the tall weeds yawning from the bottom of the lakebed. Small pieces of algae float across his never-ending path, and he sucks them up greedily. In the pale, murky light filtering down from the surface, something sparkles, catching his eye, and the cavernous hunger in his belly encourages him to investigate. As he approaches, he recognizes the shiny object as a little minnow! It's perfect and delicious-looking, tempting him to take a bite. As he swims closer, he slows, cautious about the fact that this minnow doesn't move like most. It's movements are jerky like a minnow's, but oddly predictable in a way most minnows aren't. From the short distance between them, it doesn't smell very much like a minnow either... But hunger and curiosity wars with his instinct, and he swims closer anyway. Each twitch and dart of the minnow only piques his intrigue further, and when he finally can't resist any longer, his mouth closes over the little fish. Ugh. It doesn't taste like a minnow at all. It's a plastic-like taste, one that coats his taste buds, and he goes to spit it out, but with an aggressive tug, he's jerked forward. Pain sensors go off, the immediate need to escape overwhelming all other basic needs in his mind. He jerks against the forces dragging him upward, trying desperately to free himself from the not-minnow minnow that must be the cause of this chaos, but it's a fruitless attempt. His body twists and pulls every which way, and every time that unseen force seems to give just a little, he's yanked up twice as hard again. There's blood in his mouth, seeping through his gills with every frantic breath. It's several long minutes, and he's so tired, but it's not an option to give up. If he wants to live, he has to fight, and fight he does. But with with agonizing patience, he is dragged slowly closer to the surface of the water, desperately wary of the lightening of the water with every inch, no matter how hard he tries. There's no comprehension in his mind of what he'll meet at the end of this, just that if he doesn't fight, he dies.

He grins wildly as he pulls the young musky out of the water. He'd been fishing for pike, but musky are almost better. Lots of people don't like their flavor or say some crap or other about the mercury levels in 'em, but they're actually good eatin', especially the youngins'. Cackling real quiet so as not to scare off any other fish nearby, he yanks the hook out of the struggling fish's mouth and throws it into the open cooler behind him in the boat. It's a good first catch, that's for sure. A good sign that his morning haul should be even better than he'd hoped. With thick, rough-skinned fingers, numb to the chill around him, he skillfully resets his hook and lure, and it's cast expertly back into the water before he's finished his silent laughter. A real good sign. It's another few peaceful minutes that pass with nothing but the sound of the waking birds in the trees at the water's edge, the water so gently lapping against the edge of the boat, and the occasional thump of the musky fighting inside his cooler. Poor sod. An older, wiser fish might've thought twice before biting at that lure, he thinks. Ah, well, such is life. The fish's folly is his gain. Eventually, the muffled thrashing in the cooler quiets, and he thinks nothing more of the fish, instead waiting greedily for another bite at his line. There's a splash some distance behind him, and he turns around only in time to see the ripples dissipating across the surface of the water. The water striders must've come out early if there's already fish at the surface, and the thought brings a smile to the sun-stained wrinkles of his weathered face. This is his favorite fishing spot on the big lake for a reason; Reason being, it's chock-full of fish. A splash sounds behind him, louder this time, but again, the water is starting to still by the time he turns around to see the fish. A good sign, he thinks contentedly. Looking out across the water in front of him, he admires the way the trees at the water's edge grip the clouds sliding lazily along the ground. There's a hair-raising and brief sense of disquiet that grips him out of nowhere, though he can't quite place why. Glancing around the boat, nothing seems amiss. The surface of the water is clear, perfectly reflecting the early morning sky. The fog is settling, spilling down onto the water, as it usually does. He hears the lapping of the water against the boat. It hits him then; The birds. They've stopped singing. Suddenly, there's another splash behind him, closer, but before he can turn and look, there's a bite on his line, and all other thoughts fly from his mind. No matter how many years he's been doing this, his heart still pumps faster every time he sets the hook on another fish. He tests the rod, pulling just slightly, and feeling the resistance, he gives it a hard yank. On the other end of his line, there's a clear struggle, and a grin reveals the maw of yellowed or missing teeth in his face. Another one hooked! He begins the slow, laborious process of reeling in his catch, and he recognizes that this must be a bigger fish than his first because he gets less slack from this one with each reel. Sweat beads on his forehead beneath the lip of his bucket hat, and the longer the fight continues, the more his arms shake, the wider his smile gets. It's a darn good fish, he just knows it. He feels it getting closer to the surface, feels the erratic movement approaching, and he leans over the edge of the boat just enough to see if he can glimpse the beast, but the water is too murky. A deep sound of exasperation leaves his lips in a muttered curse as the fish fights harder, but just as he knows it's about to breach the surface, the battle stops, his line going slack. No, no, no, he thinks, leaning over the edge of the boat. He finds the line, pulling it up until the lure, fish-less, breaches the surface, and a stronger curse than the last comes out his mouth. But, studying the lure, his bushy brows crease. It's bent, the mouth of the fake minnow almost touching its tail. Never, in all his years, has he seen that. His eyes catch on something shimmering under the water, just past his line of sight, a flash of something metallic maybe, and he squints past the reflection to see better. Scales, he realizes, not quite green or blue, but iridescent and mesmerizing. Not a fish he's ever seen before, and it swims past him as quickly as he glimpsed it. No, wait, come back, he thinks. He needs to see more of that mesmerizing color, and something in him is lost right then, as the need overwhelms him. There's a tug on his pounding heart, like a fishing line attached to the front of his chest, that pulls him towards the water. It calls to him, those scales, that color, that fish. He needs it. He needs it. He needs it. Face-first, he slides into the water, disturbing the tranquility around him as the splash echoes across the silent lake. Under the water, he's disoriented, surrounded by the air bubbles being forced from his clothes, only able to make sense of direction by the bubbles gurgling upwards. Breaching the surface of the water, he gasps, spluttering through the liquid in his lungs. His boots, pants, and jacket, completely sodden, fight against his attempt to tread water. He turns, wiping water from his eyes, and blindly feels for the boat, but when he opens his eyes again, his heart nearly stops. The boat is floating nearly a hundred feet away. How in the heck did it get so far away, he wonders frantically. Desperately, he starts to flounder his way to the boat, coughing water from his mouth as his clothes try to drag him down. There's a splash behind him. He turns. His eyes widen in shock, and a scream lodges in his throat, but as it dips back down below the water, and he feels something wraps around his ankle, the scream is yanked from his lungs, filling the air for just a moment before silence overtakes the lake once more.

He rips the meat off the bone with sharp, pointed teeth, swallowing the morsel whole. Two-legs are a rare and delicious treat, better than the birds at the surface, and much, much better than fish. This one is old, the meat tougher and fattier than the younger ones. And wrapped in all those disgusting layers. It was a harrowing task, trying to peel its coverings off, but eventually, he managed to get it unwrapped, and the reward was worth it. The meal will keep his belly full for a month at least, lining the sinuous muscles of his body and tail in a protective layer of fat for the increasingly cold season. He rests at the bottom of the lake, in his lair, with the carcass, surrounded by darkness so far from the water's surface. It's normally not safe to venture so far from the lakebed, but he was hungry enough, and this one was alone. It was a good find, as he well knows from his millennia of experience, since the two-legs tend not to send others in search of the old ones. The young ones, though... Oh, the young ones are valued. The two-legs send many others in search of young ones, and he knows now better than to let the carcass of a young one go unfound. Otherwise, the two-legs stay longer, just endlessly searching for their young. He muses the bizarre behavior of the two-legs, inebriated in a state of euphoria from his impressive catch and a filling belly while he discards the skeletal remains of a hand into the growing pile of bones at his side. He grabs a leg next. One of the ancient, armored fish swims past the entrance of his lair, and he gnashes his fangs, a series of territorial clicking noises that has the armored one swimming quickly in the opposite direction. They're the other alpha predators in the lake, but stupid, forgetful, and stubborn. It's no wonder they were almost hunted to extinction, foolishly competing with the two-legs to the point of their mass genocide, in which many of his kind were killed by accident. It's a bitterness that still lingers between the two species, and he remembers it well with prejudice against the large fish as he cleans the bones of the leg efficiently. Mmmm. Even fat and old with leathery skin, the protein-rich meat is satisfying, and the insides are even more so, so he saves them for last as they rest, guarded by a cage of bone under the skin. With webbed and clawed fingers, he slices the skin to access the harder to reach meat, devouring each cut appreciatively, simultaneously baring his fangs threateningly at any bottom-dwellers that get too close to his lair. There are more than usual, drawn in by the scent of the two-leg's blood, but they wisely acknowledge his warnings, and all swim away hurriedly. He's just finished with the second leg when he senses another of his kind approaching, and the membranes of his large, pointed ears vibrate, picking up the clicking sounds of the approaching rival's teeth. Solitary by nature, his kind don't intermingle well, if at all, save for mating, which is brief and often violent, and it's nowhere near the season for such things. Abandoning his catch in the depths of his lair, he slithers along the lakebed to the mouth of his cavern and adopts a threatening stance. His arms are spread to the side of his body, bent at the elbows with his palms on the ground, and his tail behind him undulates in a territorial display that stirs up the dirt in a cloud around him, meant to dissuade an opponent from progressing further. But the nymph draws closer, clicking in challenge. It's a young female, he smells as she approaches. A fool, he thinks venomously. When she appears suddenly, his mouth opens with a hiss, his teeth on full display and his gills fanned out around him. His scales raise and he slams his hands down on the ground in front of him, lunging forward. The young nymph, with grey and brown scales that contrast his greenish blue ones, backs up slightly, mirroring his aggressive position, her body pressed against the lakebed as she tries to circle around him, edging toward the entrance to his lair. He isn't intimidated. He hisses with a loud click as his teeth gnash together, thrusting forward again, and again, she backs up slightly. Yet, she isn't deterred, and he notices her thin appearance. Perhaps she is even younger than he thinks, possibly still part of a pod that the young nymphs stay in until they're old enough to defend themselves against the older, more aggressive nymphs. If she is, she is weaker than the members of her pod, and any food she catches is taken from her, nature's way of weeding out the weak from the strong for a better chance at species survival. In that case, he cannot allow her to infiltrate his lair, no matter how desperate she is. When she inches closer still, he reaches out, swiping a webbed claw at her before whipping his tail around his body at her. The almost translucent fin is lined with barbs, thin and sharp enough to cleave meat from bone. She screeches in fury, thumping her tail on the lakebed, but with another swipe of his claws that almost glances off her cheek, she hesitates, pulling back further. Her ears flatten against her skull, an early sign of submission, and he clicks his teeth together. It's a truce, an offer for her to leave now, and with the first ounce of wisdom she's exhibited, she takes it, spinning and swimming away quickly with a blur of swishing tail and fin. He turns back toward his lair, toward his meal, but a moment too late, he senses it. He has just enough time to look up at the monster barreling toward him, opening his mouth with a screech, and the last thing he sees is the many rows of deadly spiked teeth lining its mouth before they close over him.

She glides along the floor of the big lake, in the darkest depths with other unnamed creatures of the deep. They matter not. All the same. All tasty. The nymph's body slides down her throat to her stomach, joining the countless other carcasses, pushed further by the movement of her slithering. Very tasty. If only its tail fin wasn't stuck in her teeth. Oh, well. Worth it.

Oh, yes. A tranquil morning, indeed. For most.