Ghosts of Turtles and Lichens - A short story (experimental)
Trigger Warning: This is a fictional story that includes references to wildlife abuse, environmental destruction, animal death, alcoholism, trauma, corporate corruption,cartels and claustrophobia. Reader discretion is advised.
Ghosts of Turtles and Lichens
Dad’s laptop is louder than the resort AC—its fan gasping like it’s dying a slow, dusty death. He’s been grumbling about “EPA loopholes” and “soil toxicity thresholds” ever since we landed in Puerto Escondido. Meanwhile, the Pacific’s out there doing its best impression of a drum solo. Divorced-parents guilt landed me here for the summer:Me, Robin, pre-law student, self appointed lichen archivist of my mom and proud owner of exactly zero social plans, locked in with a man who thinks “bonding” involves sitting near the same router. We haven’t had a real conversation since the Great Birthday Amnesia of 2019. And 2021. The resort TV mumbles in the lobby as I walk by: “INTERPOL’s Wildlife Crime Unit reports a 300% increase in marine trafficking along the Oaxaca coast. Authorities urge citizens to report suspicious—”
I escape to the beach, flip flops slapping the boardwalk past half built resorts skeletal in the sunlight. The air reeks of brine and overripe mangoes rotting in the heat, a sweetness clawing at the back of my throat. The resort’s manicured coast bleeds into wilder shores where the sand bristles with driftwood and the rusted husks of fishing boats. That’s where I see her, an olive ridley sea turtle, dragging herself inland. Her left flipper is mangled, twisted like a plastic straw, shell gouged with scars that look like… drill marks? Not the random gashes of propellers. Precise. Intentional.
“¡Oye! Don’t touch her!”
I jerk back. The voice belongs to a guy my age, sun bleached curls matted with salt, a faded ¡Protege los Corales! tee clinging to his chest. His Spanish is rapid, edged with the same irritation Dad reserves for missed deadlines.
“Es una hembra—una madre. Si se estresa, no pondrá sus huevos” [She’s a mother. If she 's stressed she won’t lay her eggs.]
“lo sé ” I snap in clumsy Spanish, my cheeks burning. Lichen don’t judge your accent or grammar. “Pero está herida. Mira su—” What was the word for shell, again?
“Sí. That is why.” Great! My Spanish was so good that he started speaking in english. He crouches, gloves snapping from his cargo shorts like a surgeon prepping for battle.
“Tourists never listen. You think this is a petting zoo?”
“I’m not a tourist. I’m Robin.”
His glare softens but only just. “Alex. Marine bio, UNAM. Here with Protección Costera.”
He nods north, where a cluster of tents hug the shore like barnacles. Volunteers in vests log data, their radios crackling with static.
One of them shouts, “¡Otra tortuga sin señal!” [Another turtle’s tag went dark]
Alex’s jaw twitches. “Help me move her.”
We kneel in the sand, the grit biting my knees. His calluses scrape my palm as we steady the turtle—Luna, he calls her. Her labored breaths fog his waterproof notepad.
“Her tag went silent last week” he says, fingers probing the scar. “We track their movement with satellite tags—tiny GPS transmitters glued near the shell. It pings location data every few hours. Helps us monitor migration, health, patterns. When it stops…” He pauses, jaw tightening. “We started monitoring closely after—” He cut himself off. “Now she’s back… but this?” The drill marks are clean, geometric.
“No es natural” [It’s not natural]
“Could’ve been a boat propeller” I say though the words taste wrong even as I say them. I’ve seen propeller injuries—messy, random, chaotic. This was methodical. A neat square punched right into her shell, like it belonged to a blueprint. I glance at Alex. He’s crouched beside her, tracing the edges with one gloved finger.
“Propellers don’t leave square holes.” he mutters, still focused. The breeze shifts, carrying the sharp scent of diesel from the construction site. It curls in my throat. I swallow hard. I linger a second longer, then straighten.
“I should head back” I say. “My dad’s waiting.”
He nods, barely.
I hesitate, then pull my phone from my pocket. “Look, just... if anything changes with her. Luna. I’d like to know.”
He blinks at me, a little caught off guard. “You give your number out to everyone you meet on the beach?”
I shrug, awkward. “Just the ones elbow-deep in turtle guts.”
That gets the smallest huff of a laugh from him. I tap my number into his notes app and hand it back.
“Text me. Seriously” I say. “I want to know she’s okay.”
He nods, this time with more intention. “Está bien” [Alright]
That night, my phone buzzed.
Dad: Dinner?
It’s the third message tonight. The first two were about a missing USB drive. I didn’t respond. I still don’t. Instead, I lie back on the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the search bar. “Solería Construction environmental violations”
I hit enter. The page half loads—then the screen freezes. Wi Fi out. It always cuts out at exactly 11:47 pm—same time every night since we got here. I thought it was a glitch. Now it feels like a pattern. No accident. Just another blindfold tied with corporate ribbon. I step onto the balcony, needing air. The sky is a smear of grey clouds and thin moonlight. Waves roll lazily in the dark.
Then I see it– A speedboat, no lights, no sound but the wake it slices into the ocean. It veers toward the headland where the construction site starts—toward the mouth of the estuary. The boat doesn’t dock. It just slows, lingers near the cove, then peels away.
No reason to be out there. Not this late. Not silently.
My stomach knots.
Don’t jump to conclusions, I tell myself. But the knots tighten anyway.
Back inside, I pace the room, eyes flitting toward Dad’s laptop on the desk. I shouldn’t. But I do. It’s open, the lid half shut like he meant to come back. I tap the trackpad. The screen blinks to life—unlocked.
First thing I see: a document titled “Revised Impact Report— Copy.” I scroll.
There are diagrams. Drilling schematics. Tagging data. Biological impact assessments. All heavily redacted.
Then an email thread.
Solería Internal - URGENT
“Estuary drilling window confirmed. Effluent release within threshold. Sea turtle interference to be mitigated via temporary sonar masking. Local surveyor waved..”
Waved.
Translation : Bribed.
There’s an attachment—satellite maps with red dots clustered near the shore. One dot is labeled L-003. Luna.
The laptop slips a little in my hands as I close the lid, too quickly.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Dad’s in his suite, light on, still dressed—.Button down shirt half off, sleeves rolled up, the kind of look he used to have on long nights in his office at home.
He looks up when I burst in.
“I know what they’re doing” I say, holding up the laptop like evidence.
“The sonar jamming. The effluents. You knew.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just exhales… rubs the bridge of his nose.
“They said the species weren’t endangered” he says finally.
“They ran the data. The construction’s legal.”
“Legal doesn’t mean harmless. And it’s not just the construction—it’s the partners. The boats. The violations.”
“I didn’t approve that.”
“But you looked away.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand—”
“I do understand.” My voice is shaking. “You used to explain carbon cycles to me at the breakfast table, remember? You read Mom’s lichen papers. You helped her collect samples after she got chemo and couldn’t bend over. You understood.”
He flinches. I don’t let up.
“Somewhere along the way you stopped choosing to care. That’s worse than not understanding at all.”
I leave before he can defend himself with another shrug.
At dawn, my phone buzzed again.
Alex: Luna passed away. Meet at the estuary.
I don’t bother brushing my hair. I run.
The air reeks when I reach the shore. A warm, rotting smell—dead fish float belly-up, silver paint flaking off them like wallpaper. Luna lies on the mudbank, her body bloated, eyes sunken. Alex is kneeling beside her, blade in hand.
“She had spasms during the night” he says. “I stayed with her.”
His knife cuts cleanly through the underbelly. No ceremony.
“Mira esto” [ Look here]
Inside her gut, something glints. He reaches in. Tiny pearls spill into his palm, glinting like misplaced stars. They’re not the milky orbs of boutique jewelry—these are jagged, asymmetrical, still crusted with bile.
“They’re forcing them to swallow pearls.” His voice tightens. “They use metal tubes. Hurt them so they can’t spit them out.”
A fly lands on Luna’s cracked eye. I swallow bile. “Who?”
“Cárteles” [Cartels] He doesn’t look up. “Drugs get sniffed out. Pearls? They’re clean. Más valiosas que la coca” [More valuable than coke]
I think of Dad’s permits stacked on his desk,the emails, the Solería Construction logo stamped on every file—Approved for Coastal Drilling, Phase 2.
“You think they’re using the drill sites to… what? Distract people?”
“Sí” Alex wipes his knife on his thigh. “The noise masks boat engines. The runoff—” He gestures to the dead fish. “Kills everything. Nobody asks why the turtles vanish.”
Alex pockets his knife.
“Protección Costera tagged a turtle last month with the same scars. We sent the data to INTERPOL”
“And?”
“They said ‘insufficient evidence’” He flicks a pearl into the estuary. “But they are tracking the tags, I guess. I am not privy to more information on this.” He paused. “ Hasta que alguien rico se muera, no harán nada” [Until someone rich dies, they won’t act.]
My phone buzzes. Dad’s third call today. His voicemail clicks on: “Robin, we need to talk. Solería’s team found something in the water. We don’t want to involve others. I want you to—
I hang up.
Alex freezes. “¿Qué?...Who’s that?”
“Nothing. Just my dad.” But he’s already snatching the phone, replaying the message. His face darkens when he realizes who I am.
“They found something?” He stalks to his dinged up pickup, yanks a map from the glovebox. Red Xs swarm the coast like bloodstains.
“Your father’s drills are here, here, and here.” He stabs the paper. “Same spots where turtles wash up. Coincidencia?” [Coincidence?]
The accusation hangs between us. I want to defend Dad—he’s clueless, not cruel—but the words curdle. Instead, I kneel beside Luna and pry open her mouth. The scars inside are raw, metallic. Tubes.
“Show me” I say with false bravery.
We drive out to Protección Costera’s field shack, tucked behind an abandoned fishery. The electricity’s spotty, the Wi Fi worse. Alex talks fast in Spanish to Nico, a grad student from Tabasco who handles data transfers. A solar powered laptop blinks slowly to life.
“Unit 17C’s last ping was near the mangroves” Nico says, tapping the screen. “That’s the one we tagged last month. Ridley, mid-size female. Scarred flipper—tubing or confinement, probably.”
“And INTERPOL?” I ask.
Alex doesn’t look at me right away. His jaw tightens. “They said it’s ‘insufficient evidence.’ Again. Tracking the tags, refusing to escalate. Maybe they’re waiting for a turtle to give a testimony under oath.”
I flinch, but he doesn’t stop there.
“Then again, why would they act fast when some people already have one foot in the other camp?”
I blink. “What?”
He meets my eyes finally—and for a second, I think he might walk off. But something shifts. His voice loses the edge. “Lo siento. Long day.” [ Sorry, Long day]
My phone buzzes again. Not Dad.
Mom: How is it going?
I should let mom know about all this but first things first. We spend hours cross referencing GPS coordinates from tagged turtles with old shrimping permits, unofficial fishing logs, and aerial surveillance. Nico's laptop is a spiderweb of tabs—satellite images, coast guard reports, even dark web market alerts for black market pearls. He’s muttering to himself in Spanish and English, eyes darting across his screens.
“There’s a pattern” I say, tapping the mangrove section on the map.
“Multiple tagged turtles—all from Protección Costera—stopped transmitting within three kilometers of this shrimp plant.”
Alex stared at the satellite feed “Locals say that plant was shut down years ago.”
“Then someone forgot to tell the tires.” Nico swipes to fresh tracks in the mud. “Three boats docked last week. No registry, no permits. This reeks.”
He messages something rapidly on a private chat server.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Old contact from Sea Shepherd, now with MarVigil. They monitor IUU fishing—Illegal, Unreported, Unregulated. I’m looping them in, sending tag data. If they escalate to the regional authorities, maybe we’ll get official eyes before it’s too late.”
Alex nods “And the INTERPOL?”
“If they get enough to flag it as a transnational wildlife crime, they’ll move. But only if we give them something actionable. No more hunches.”
Nico shrugs. “And that—” he pulls up a screen of intercepted radio chatter “—was broadcast on marine channel 78. It’s encrypted, but keyword flagged: kilos, ‘perlas’ and a match on cartel codenames used in Veracruz. We’re close.”
Alex leans over the table. “We need eyes on that water. We might not get another ping. We need to gather evidence for the INTERPOL. Local authorities are mostly owned by the Cartel.”
He lays the faded kayak map open, circling the estuary inlet.
“Southern approach is quiet” he says. “I can go in, try to spot some Turtle tags..”
Nico frowns. “ I’ll keep logging signals and upload the case file to the Wildlife Crime Database—if something breaks, I’ll ping them directly. Also, take Luna’s tag with you as an emergency alert.” He pushes his glasses up. “If anything moves, if Luna's tag twitches, if they reply—I’ll be ready.”
Alex grabs his drybag. “I’ll go. You two—”
“I’m coming too,” I say. He stops. Looks at me. “Robin—”
“I’m not sitting this one out. You said there’s no time.”
He hesitates. His gaze flicks to Nico, who already has the portable tracker feeds up.
“I’ll stay on comms,” Nico says, not looking up. “You two focus on the tags and the turtles. I’ll monitor vessel movement, log activity, push everything to the watchdog servers.”
Nico meets my eyes. “If something goes wrong—if you don’t check in—I trigger the escalation. Not just INTERPOL. MarVigil, the regional marine unit, the environmental crimes task force, CITES, activists and journalists. Even an Inst@gram live. I’ve got the chain ready.”
Alex exhales sharply. “That’s a lot of firepower.”
Nico nods. “They won’t come unless it’s solid. So give me solid.”
He looks at me again—steady, no theatrics. “Coordinates. Audio. Photo. Anything. You get it, I move it.”
I nodded once,“Está bien” [Alright]
The sun’s falling fast, bleeding orange and red through salt haze. We drag our kayaks from Alex’s trailer, load them with a portable tag reader, a flashlight, protein bars and a backup phone stashed in a waterproof case.
We launch at golden hour. The estuary water warms our hands as we paddle in.
By the time we reach the mangroves, the world has narrowed. Roots writhe like bones under the dark water, and the thick green canopy claws the sky. Alex paddles quietly beside me. For a while, neither of us speaks. The air buzzes with mosquitoes. Far off, a generator hums like a distant storm. Then, softly—
“Mi papá… was a fisherman.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Used to take me out at dawn before the sea emptied. He taught me to mend nets, read currents. To respect turtles.”
A pause. His paddle dips.
“But then the trawlers came. The fish vanished. Overnight… we had nothing.”
He swallows. “Papa started drinking. Didn’t care about turtles anymore. Or much of anything. I used to hide in the closet from him. He—he died when I was fifteen. Cirrhosis.”
I glance at him. His voice is calm but the grief is settled in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “ I know, It’s not fair to punish someone for the sins of their father.”
I glance at him. His voice is steady. But I hear the ache tucked between syllables.
“I am not defending–” My voice comes out sharp. Then softer: “He’s not clueless. He’s complicit.”
Alex nods once. No judgment.
Ahead, his paddle strikes something with a hollow clunk—a net, tangled with trash. Floating inside: a pale curve of shell. The smell hits us. I gag… pulling my shirt over my nose.
“I used to think neglect wasn’t evil ” I mutter. “But apathy leaves corpses too.”
The mangroves close around us like ribs.
Alex’s eyes flick to mine—A radio crackles ahead.
“¿Cuántos kilos hoy?” [How many kilos today?]
We freeze. The water slithers against the hull, loud as a scream.
“Cincuenta.” [Fifty]
A laugh, sharp as a knife.
“Las tortugas se tragan las perlas en el mar, las cagamos en el muelle.”
[The turtles swallow pearls at sea, we harvest them at the dock.]
Alex grips my arm tight. Through the mangrove lattice, I spot them—three men in wetsuits, loading crates onto a speedboat. Its hull is smeared with algae and old blood. One swings a machete lazily, its edge catching the last red gasp of sunset.
“Cártel de la Perla” Alex mutters. “They’ve been here for months.”
We edge closer. Alex lifts a crate lid—pearls packed in ziplocks, each one tagged. One has Solería Construction’s black scorpion logo burned into the plastic. My phone’s already out. I snap a burst of photos. Alex steadies the crate. I hit send to Nico. Sent. Delivered.
My phone buzzes.
Dad: Where are you?
The glow gives us away.
“¡Aquí hay ratas!” [Rats are here]
A flashlight sears through the dark.
Alex shoves my kayak into the roots. “¡Corre!” [Run]
Too late. Boots splash. Hands yank me from the water. Mud fills my mouth.
Alex snarls—then a crack. The butt of a rifle. He collapses beside me.
They drag us into a clearing lit by floodlights. Crates ripped open. Pearls. Ziplocks. A few turtles still alive, stitched up and barely breathing. A man steps forward. Scar from his jaw to his brow, teeth yellow behind a cold grin.
“¿Qué hacen aquí, científicos estúpidos?” [What are you doing here stupid scientists?]
Alex coughs blood. “Protegiendo lo que ustedes destruyen.” [Protecting what you destroy]
The man turns to me. Looks longer. Tilts his head.
He says in English, squinting, “You look familiar.”
Steps closer. Smiles, but there’s no humour in it.
“You’ve got your father’s eyes. But a nose for sticking where it doesn’t belong.”
I spit near his boots. “I’m not one of you”
He chuckles. “No? Let’s call your daddy then” He nods to the others.
“Quítenles los teléfonos” [Take their phones]
Rough hands snatch my phone. Smashed it.
“Enciérrenlos.” [Lock them up]
We’re shoved into a rusting cage—steel mesh, chain latch, barely human-sized. The metal stinks of dead fish and rusted diesel. My knees scrape against cold mud. They slam the door. The lock clicks. Alex is breathing too fast. The air feels thinner than it should.
His shoulder bumps mine.
“Luna” he says, voice tight. “Still on you?”
I nod, fumbling under my shirt. The cracked GPS chip digs into my ribs. My fingers are slick with sweat, maybe blood. I yank it off, hands shaking.
Alex pulls a flat rock from the sludge. “Hurry.”
I place the chip on the floor, hesitating just a second. He brings the rock down—hard.
Crack.
The chip shatters. A shrill beep escapes before it fizzles into static. I freeze, heart hammering.
We wait.
Nothing changes.
Somewhere outside, a gull screeches. A radio buzzes faintly in the distance. Footsteps crunch through gravel, but they’re not coming toward us. Someone laughs. Then silence again.
I shift, trying not to make noise, trying not to look at Alex’s face. He’s hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands buried in his curls. His breath’s gone shallow—too shallow. In-out-in.
“Alex?” He doesn’t respond. His eyes dart to the corners of the cage, then up at the mesh above.
“Aquí… está muy apretado” he mutters. “I didn’t think it’d feel this tight.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “It’s temporary.”
“Ajá” he says. But it’s brittle. He grips his knees. His nails dig into the denim.
“Just—keep talking. Say something. Anything.”
“I… I don’t know what to say.”
He laughs.
“You know what I wish I’d done? Before all this? Taken one of those dumb kayaking tours. The ones for tourists. Just paddling with turtles instead of tracking them with stolen NGO gear.”
I try to smile. “You mean legally?”
“That too.” He rubs his chest. “Mierda. My lungs feel weird.”
“You’re okay. You’re okay.” I press my shoulder against his. “We sent the signal. Nico will see it. Just give it time.”
“What if he doesn’t? What if the chip was too damaged or he’s offline or—”
“He’s not. He’s probably yelling at a screen right now and dragging every local cop with a badge.”
Alex pulls at the collar of his shirt. “It’s too hot. Or cold. I can’t tell.”
The mud beneath us is freezing, but sweat is dripping from my neck.
“I shouldn’t have brought you” he says suddenly. “This is my fault. You didn’t sign up for—”
“Alex. Stop.”
We fall quiet again. A mosquito buzzes near my ear. Someone’s yelling in the distance—could be a worker, could be a drunk. Hard to tell here. I check the mesh for gaps. Nothing. It’s reinforced with wire. Not even a turtle could get out. Alex leans forward until his forehead touches the cage door.
“I can’t breathe in here.”
“You are breathing.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
I take a breath and without thinking, start whispering. “Lichens can survive in space.”
His head lifts just slightly.
“It’s true. Mom told me once. There was this ESA experiment—they stuck lichens outside the ISS, and they came back fine. Like, fine fine. Kept photosynthesizing. You can’t kill them. Cold, heat, vacuum? Doesn’t matter.”
“Why are you talking about lichens?”
“Because I need you to remember you’re tougher than this cage.” I bump his shoulder. “And because they’re cool.”
He gives me a sideways look.“Thank you.”
Alex exhales. It’s shaky but real. I keep going.
“Dad used to love lichens too. Before he went full turtle-cartel mode” I try to laugh. “He’d say they were nature’s little rebellions. Not one organism, not two—just this weird alliance between fungus and algae. Or sometimes cyanobacteria. Sometimes all three.”
“Like an open relationship?”
“A very clingy one.”
That gets a real laugh, small but raw. He closes his eyes, leans back against the wall.
“I still can’t breathe right.”
“Yeah” I whisper. “Me neither.”
We both fell silent. Time is stretching out weird and long.
Then—somewhere far off—a new sound.
A low whirring, mechanical, not from the compound.
We both look up.
A drone.
Tiny. Unobtrusive. Just a blinking light at first. Then another. And another.
Alex exhales. “ I see it.”
Floodlights don’t come on yet. No gunfire. Just methodical circling.
Then, finally, boots. Dozens this time. Not guards—too heavy. Too disciplined.
A voice in Spanish, loud and authoritative:
“¡Confirmen señal! Equipo Alpha, avanzar.”
[Confirm the signal. Team Alpha advance]
Alex grips the bars. “They’re here.”
I don’t let myself exhale until I see the helmets. Black. Marked with the white letters: INTERPOL.
The floodlights finally kick in—searing white, slicing through the coastal fog like judgment.
Boots slam the gravel.
“¡Manos arriba! INTERPOL! No se muevan!”
[Hands up! INTERPOL Don’t move]
The guards outside scatter—some yelling, one stupid enough to reach for a machete before a baton snaps his wrist. But in the cage, we don’t move. We can’t. The light blinds. My legs are numb.
“¡Allí!” someone shouts, pointing to us. “They’re in the holding cage!”
The lock rattles. A voice, sharp and irritated, barks:
“¿Por qué está sellado esto? Get me bolt cutters—now.”
[Why the h3ll is this sealed?]
The cutters arrive. The latch groans open. A woman in tactical gear yanks the door, grabs Alex first. He stumbles out, still dazed. I follow, blinking against the light. Everything feels too loud now. Metal crashing. Radios squawking. Drones above us still circling.
@azurePond
“Names” says a man with a German accent, one eye on a clipboard, the other scanning us. “Ahora.”
I open my mouth, but a voice beats me to it. Familiar. Frantic.
“Robin!”
Nico.
He’s not in tactical gear—just a field vest over a wrinkled button-down, sweat-streaked, clearly not meant to be here. He pushes past two agents.
“Where the h3ll have you—”
He stops when he sees us properly. Mud-smeared. ***. Pale.
His expression falters.
Then he swears under his breath and hugs Alex too hard.
“What were you thinking? What the actual—”
“Triggered the tag” I say. “Luna’s chip. It worked, didn’t it?”
One of the tactical agents cuts in.
“Barely. Signal was corrupted. We thought it was a misfire. This entire op was already in motion.”
A taller woman steps forward now—mid-30s, Mexican by the accent, scar above one brow. She eyes us like we’re paperwork that grew legs. “You two are Protección Costera?”
Alex nods. “Field researchers.”
She sighs, already annoyed. “Kids.”
“We tried—”
She snaps. “You entered private property with no warrant, no coordination, and almost tanked a six month investigation with a broken tag and a rock.”
Her badge reads Alejandra Rousseau – INTERPOL Wildlife Crime Unit.
“Agent Rousseau…” Nico tries, more gently.
But she holds up a hand. “They’re lucky they didn’t get shot. We had to divert Alpha teams to extract two eco-grads with no training, no backup and zero legal cover.”
“I’m pre-law,” I mumble, because I don’t know what else to say.
She just looks at me. “Not today you’re not.”
One of the agents nearby yells
“¡Tenemos las cajas de Solería! Tubos y documentación confirmados.”
[We’ve got the Solería crates. Tubes and confirmed paperwork]
Agent Rousseau spins. “Secure them. Double-tag everything for the Fiscalía.”
Then, to us again “ You’re lucky. And a headache.”
Alex sways slightly. Nico catches him. “He needs a medic.”
Rousseau waves one over.
“You’ll both be processed as material witnesses. Stay in the compound. No press. No calls. No Inst@gram stories.”
A younger agent snorts.
She glares at him. “Yes, López, that’s happened before.”
Someone pulls a thermal blanket over my shoulders. I feel it but don’t feel warm.
Alex is shaking now. Quietly. Like his body’s catching up to what his brain knew all along—that we could’ve died. Nico doesn’t let go of both of us.
Rousseau mutters something into her radio. Then, more softly, almost an afterthought:
“...Thank the turtle for the signal.”
By the time they release us, the sky’s pinking with dawn. The air outside is thick with humidity and salt. Dad’s in the lobby of the resort. Tie askew. Hair mussed. A phone still in one hand, an untouched espresso in the other. The bags under his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen.He sees me and stands immediately. “Jesus, Robin.” His voice is low, tight. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” His voice rises a notch. “You walked into a—into their zone. With strangers. You didn’t even tell me where you were—”
“You mean into the mangroves your permits destroyed? That ‘zone’ Dad?” I snap. “Say it. Say the word.”
He flinches. “Robin, please.”
“It was the CARTEL, Dad. Not a few shady contractors. Not some accidental spill. Cartel. Stop calling it business and call it what it is.”
He exhales, long and shaking. “If they hadn’t realized who you were—if they hadn’t figured out you were my daughter—those people might have done worse than lock you up. Thank God they didn’t hurt you or that boy—”
“His name is Alex” I bite out. “And maybe if someone had hurt me, you’d have actually done something earlier.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but another voice cuts in.
“Robin. James.” Mom’s voice.
I turn, and my chest tightens. She came. She walks toward us from the lobby café, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, her short hair pulled into a messy knot like she got on a plane without thinking twice.
“She texted me last night. Didn’t say cartel. Just said, ‘It’s not working out with Dad. I’m going with Alex into the mangroves. Tell you more later.’ So I got on a red-eye. And when the embassy called an hour later? I was already landing.”
Mom turns to Dad. “And you didn’t even know she was gone until then.”
“I didn’t know she was in–” he says. “She cut contact—”
“You mean I stopped replying when you sent those PR briefings, telling me everything was under control” I shot back.
Mom steps between us.
“I told you years ago, this greenwashed empire of yours was rotting from the inside. You didn’t listen. And now you let her walk into cartel territory. You and your board and your faked sustainability reports—stay the h3ll away from my daughter.”
Dad looks like he’s been slapped.
Mom pulls me into a tight hug. “You okay?”
“Mostly” I say, muffled. “Thanks for coming.”
“You texted. That was enough.”
“I didn’t know” Dad says again. “I didn’t think it went that deep.”
“You knew enough” I say. “Enough to sign off. Enough to stay quiet.”
He rubs his face with one hand, sagging.
“The EPA’s freezing Solería’s assets. The board’s panicking. They’re suing for damages.”
“Wow” I say.
“I’ll testify. I’ll give them anything they need.”
“You think that fixes it?” I say.
“I’m trying, Robin” Dad says, his voice cracking.
But I’m already turning away when Mom cuts in—sharp, quiet, dangerous.
“Oh, now you’re trying?”
He stiffens. “Not now, Liz.”
“No, now exactly” she snaps. “Now, when it’s safe. When it’s public. When lawyers are circling and your PR team has a strategy.”
He looks exhausted. “Can we not do this here?”
She ignores him. “You didn’t listen to her. She came to you. You brushed her off, like always.”
“I didn’t know it was this. I didn’t know it was—cartel level—”
“Jesus, James” she cuts in, laughing bitterly. “Cartel. That’s what it took to get your attention? Not your kid breaking down in my kitchen last month? Not the classes she stopped attending. Not the calls she stopped returning? Not the way she left home? Now she’s walking into dang–”
His jaw tightens. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you wanted comfort. And plausible deniability.”
I keep walking. They keep going.
“Liz, don’t put this on me like—”
“She almost died!” she hisses. “And thank god they knew who she was—thank god they had just enough respect for your name to throw her in a cage instead of a ditch!”
I kept walking towards Alex.
He was lingering by the elevators, duffel slung over his shoulder. He gives me a small nod, tired but warm.
“Nico texted Chiapas needs volunteers” he says. “¿Vas a seguir coleccionando líquenes?” [You gonna keep cataloging lichen?]
I shake my head, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips.
“Someone has to save the turtles.”
He tosses me a mangled GPS tag. Luna’s tag. “Better not lose this.”
I didn’t.
Not when border paperwork delayed me three days. Not when the bus broke down outside Villahermosa. Not even when I woke up in a hammock, mosquito bitten and sunburned, wondering if I’d made a mistake. Now, weeks later, the satellite phone buzzes —Dad’s check-in: All ok?
I ignore it, knee deep in Chiapas estuary mud. Alex grins, holding up a tagged turtle.
“¡Esta se llama Robin!” [This one’s named Robin]
Agent Rousseau’s voice plays in my head:
Prioritize evidence. You want charges, you need paper. Photos. Tags. Blood if it comes to it.
But evidence won’t heal drill scars. It doesn’t fix a collapsed reef. It doesn’t un-extinct a species.
The sat phone buzzes again.
Not Dad this time.
Nico.
“Signal’s crap, but I see one new ping. Is Luna still on you? Upload anything you get, even blurry. I’ll stitch metadata later.”
“Luna’s fine” I mutter, checking the cracked GPS tag duct taped to my vest. Alex crouches beside me and starts tagging the flipper.
My phone vibrates against the mud—a news alert
SOLERÍA CONSTRUCTION SETTLES FOR $275M IN EPA CASE; NO CRIMINAL CHARGES FOR EXECUTIVES
A photo of Dad flashes below the headline. His tie’s crooked, eyes hollow. The caption: “SVP James Carter retains board seat despite permit violations.” No words on the Cartel connection.
Alex reads over my shoulder. “Third-largest shareholder. Still breathing boardroom air. Must be nice.”
“He’s a ghost too” I mutter, tossing the phone into my bag. It buzzes again—a voicemail.
Dad’s voice, sanded smooth by PR training: “Roby… the board approved a grant for coastal rehab. Anonymous. No oversight. Use it how you want.”
Fantasma squirms in my grip. Her shell is pocked with fresh drill marks—smaller, cruder than Luna’s. The cartels are learning.
Alex nods at a Solería-branded tube half buried in the mangroves.
“Otra vez.” [Again]
I dig it out. Rusted, but the logo’s still legible.
“Evidence?”
“Nah. Raw material.” He lobs it into the pickup bed, where a dozen others clatter. We’ll melt them into tags later—their poison into our trackers.
Back at camp, I upload photos of Fantasma’s scars to INTERPOL’s portal. Case #4821-B auto replies: “Thank you for your submission. This case is pending review.”
Alex slumps into a camp chair, scrubbing turtle blood from his hands with gasoline.
“Another ghost in the machine.”
At dusk, we tag Fantasma. The drill marks gape like empty sockets, but the epoxy holds. Alex smears the scars with quicklime—a trick he learned from his father.
“Makes the shell look dead. They’ll ignore her.”
The tracker blinks red. Active.
“Next team will find her in Guerrero” he says.
“If she makes it.”
“Cuando” he corrects. Not if. When.
We watch her crawl seaward, waves erasing her tracks.
Somewhere, a drill whines.A boardroom votes to rebrand Solería as “eco-conscious.” A cartel boss tosses a pearl into his whiskey.
Alex cracks two warm beers.
“To Fantasma.”
“To Fantasma.”
The cans hiss. The tide rises. We wait. THE END!
@azurePond
“Names” says a man with a German accent, one eye on a clipboard, the other scanning us. “Ahora.”
I open my mouth, but a voice beats me to it. Familiar. Frantic.
“Robin!”
Nico.
He’s not in tactical gear—just a field vest over a wrinkled button-down, sweat-streaked, clearly not meant to be here. He pushes past two agents.
“Where the h3ll have you—”
He stops when he sees us properly. Mud-smeared. ***. Pale.
His expression falters.
Then he swears under his breath and hugs Alex too hard.
“What were you thinking? What the actual—”
“Triggered the tag” I say. “Luna’s chip. It worked, didn’t it?”
One of the tactical agents cuts in.
“Barely. Signal was corrupted. We thought it was a misfire. This entire op was already in motion.”
A taller woman steps forward now—mid-30s, Mexican by the accent, scar above one brow. She eyes us like we’re paperwork that grew legs. “You two are Protección Costera?”
Alex nods. “Field researchers.”
She sighs, already annoyed. “Kids.”
“We tried—”
She snaps. “You entered private property with no warrant, no coordination, and almost tanked a six month investigation with a broken tag and a rock.”
Her badge reads Alejandra Rousseau – INTERPOL Wildlife Crime Unit.
“Agent Rousseau…” Nico tries, more gently.
But she holds up a hand. “They’re lucky they didn’t get shot. We had to divert Alpha teams to extract two eco-grads with no training, no backup and zero legal cover.”
“I’m pre-law,” I mumble, because I don’t know what else to say.
She just looks at me. “Not today you’re not.”
One of the agents nearby yells
“¡Tenemos las cajas de Solería! Tubos y documentación confirmados.”
[We’ve got the Solería crates. Tubes and confirmed paperwork]
Agent Rousseau spins. “Secure them. Double-tag everything for the Fiscalía.”
Then, to us again “ You’re lucky. And a headache.”
Alex sways slightly. Nico catches him. “He needs a medic.”
Rousseau waves one over.
“You’ll both be processed as material witnesses. Stay in the compound. No press. No calls. No Inst@gram stories.”
A younger agent snorts.
She glares at him. “Yes, López, that’s happened before.”
Someone pulls a thermal blanket over my shoulders. I feel it but don’t feel warm.
Alex is shaking now. Quietly. Like his body’s catching up to what his brain knew all along—that we could’ve died. Nico doesn’t let go of both of us.
Rousseau mutters something into her radio. Then, more softly, almost an afterthought:
“...Thank the turtle for the signal.”
By the time they release us, the sky’s pinking with dawn. The air outside is thick with humidity and salt. Dad’s in the lobby of the resort. Tie askew. Hair mussed. A phone still in one hand, an untouched espresso in the other. The bags under his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen.He sees me and stands immediately. “Jesus, Robin.” His voice is low, tight. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” His voice rises a notch. “You walked into a—into their zone. With strangers. You didn’t even tell me where you were—”
“You mean into the mangroves your permits destroyed? That ‘zone’ Dad?” I snap. “Say it. Say the word.”
He flinches. “Robin, please.”
“It was the CARTEL, Dad. Not a few shady contractors. Not some accidental spill. Cartel. Stop calling it business and call it what it is.”
He exhales, long and shaking. “If they hadn’t realized who you were—if they hadn’t figured out you were my daughter—those people might have done worse than lock you up. Thank God they didn’t hurt you or that boy—”
“His name is Alex” I bite out. “And maybe if someone had hurt me, you’d have actually done something earlier.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but another voice cuts in.
“Robin. James.” Mom’s voice.
I turn, and my chest tightens. She came. She walks toward us from the lobby café, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, her short hair pulled into a messy knot like she got on a plane without thinking twice.
“She texted me last night. Didn’t say cartel. Just said, ‘It’s not working out with Dad. I’m going with Alex into the mangroves. Tell you more later.’ So I got on a red-eye. And when the embassy called an hour later? I was already landing.”
Mom turns to Dad. “And you didn’t even know she was gone until then.”
“I didn’t know she was in–” he says. “She cut contact—”
“You mean I stopped replying when you sent those PR briefings, telling me everything was under control” I shot back.
Mom steps between us.
“I told you years ago, this greenwashed empire of yours was rotting from the inside. You didn’t listen. And now you let her walk into cartel territory. You and your board and your faked sustainability reports—stay the h3ll away from my daughter.”
Dad looks like he’s been slapped.
Mom pulls me into a tight hug. “You okay?”
“Mostly” I say, muffled. “Thanks for coming.”
“You texted. That was enough.”
“I didn’t know” Dad says again. “I didn’t think it went that deep.”
“You knew enough” I say. “Enough to sign off. Enough to stay quiet.”
He rubs his face with one hand, sagging.
“The EPA’s freezing Solería’s assets. The board’s panicking. They’re suing for damages.”
“Wow” I say.
“I’ll testify. I’ll give them anything they need.”
“You think that fixes it?” I say.
“I’m trying, Robin” Dad says, his voice cracking.
But I’m already turning away when Mom cuts in—sharp, quiet, dangerous.
“Oh, now you’re trying?”
He stiffens. “Not now, Liz.”
“No, now exactly” she snaps. “Now, when it’s safe. When it’s public. When lawyers are circling and your PR team has a strategy.”
He looks exhausted. “Can we not do this here?”
She ignores him. “You didn’t listen to her. She came to you. You brushed her off, like always.”
“I didn’t know it was this. I didn’t know it was—cartel level—”
“Jesus, James” she cuts in, laughing bitterly. “Cartel. That’s what it took to get your attention? Not your kid breaking down in my kitchen last month? Not the classes she stopped attending. Not the calls she stopped returning? Not the way she left home? Now she’s walking into dang–”
His jaw tightens. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you wanted comfort. And plausible deniability.”
I keep walking. They keep going.
“Liz, don’t put this on me like—”
“She almost died!” she hisses. “And thank god they knew who she was—thank god they had just enough respect for your name to throw her in a cage instead of a ditch!”
I kept walking towards Alex.
He was lingering by the elevators, duffel slung over his shoulder. He gives me a small nod, tired but warm.
“Nico texted Chiapas needs volunteers” he says. “¿Vas a seguir coleccionando líquenes?” [You gonna keep cataloging lichen?]
I shake my head, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips.
“Someone has to save the turtles.”
He tosses me a mangled GPS tag. Luna’s tag. “Better not lose this.”
I didn’t.
Not when border paperwork delayed me three days. Not when the bus broke down outside Villahermosa. Not even when I woke up in a hammock, mosquito bitten and sunburned, wondering if I’d made a mistake. Now, weeks later, the satellite phone buzzes —Dad’s check-in: All ok?
I ignore it, knee deep in Chiapas estuary mud. Alex grins, holding up a tagged turtle.
“¡Esta se llama Robin!” [This one’s named Robin]
Agent Rousseau’s voice plays in my head:
Prioritize evidence. You want charges, you need paper. Photos. Tags. Blood if it comes to it.
But evidence won’t heal drill scars. It doesn’t fix a collapsed reef. It doesn’t un-extinct a species.
The sat phone buzzes again.
Not Dad this time.
Nico.
“Signal’s crap, but I see one new ping. Is Luna still on you? Upload anything you get, even blurry. I’ll stitch metadata later.”
“Luna’s fine” I mutter, checking the cracked GPS tag duct taped to my vest. Alex crouches beside me and starts tagging the flipper.
My phone vibrates against the mud—a news alert
SOLERÍA CONSTRUCTION SETTLES FOR $275M IN EPA CASE; NO CRIMINAL CHARGES FOR EXECUTIVES
A photo of Dad flashes below the headline. His tie’s crooked, eyes hollow. The caption: “SVP James Carter retains board seat despite permit violations.” No words on the Cartel connection.
Alex reads over my shoulder. “Third-largest shareholder. Still breathing boardroom air. Must be nice.”
“He’s a ghost too” I mutter, tossing the phone into my bag. It buzzes again—a voicemail.
Dad’s voice, sanded smooth by PR training: “Roby… the board approved a grant for coastal rehab. Anonymous. No oversight. Use it how you want.”
Fantasma squirms in my grip. Her shell is pocked with fresh drill marks—smaller, cruder than Luna’s. The cartels are learning.
Alex nods at a Solería-branded tube half buried in the mangroves.
“Otra vez.” [Again]
I dig it out. Rusted, but the logo’s still legible.
“Evidence?”
“Nah. Raw material.” He lobs it into the pickup bed, where a dozen others clatter. We’ll melt them into tags later—their poison into our trackers.
Back at camp, I upload photos of Fantasma’s scars to INTERPOL’s portal. Case #4821-B auto replies: “Thank you for your submission. This case is pending review.”
Alex slumps into a camp chair, scrubbing turtle blood from his hands with gasoline.
“Another ghost in the machine.”
At dusk, we tag Fantasma. The drill marks gape like empty sockets, but the epoxy holds. Alex smears the scars with quicklime—a trick he learned from his father.
“Makes the shell look dead. They’ll ignore her.”
The tracker blinks red. Active.
“Next team will find her in Guerrero” he says.
“If she makes it.”
“Cuando” he corrects. Not if. When.
We watch her crawl seaward, waves erasing her tracks.
Somewhere, a drill whines.A boardroom votes to rebrand Solería as “eco-conscious.” A cartel boss tosses a pearl into his whiskey.
Alex cracks two warm beers.
“To Fantasma.”
“To Fantasma.”
The cans hiss. The tide rises. We wait.
@azurePond I should let mom know about all this but first things first. We spend hours cross referencing GPS coordinates from tagged turtles with old shrimping permits, unofficial fishing logs, and aerial surveillance. Nico's laptop is a spiderweb of tabs—satellite images, coast guard reports, even dark web market alerts for black market pearls. He’s muttering to himself in Spanish and English, eyes darting across his screens.
“There’s a pattern” I say, tapping the mangrove section on the map.
“Multiple tagged turtles—all from Protección Costera—stopped transmitting within three kilometers of this shrimp plant.”
Alex stared at the satellite feed “Locals say that plant was shut down years ago.”
“Then someone forgot to tell the tires.” Nico swipes to fresh tracks in the mud. “Three boats docked last week. No registry, no permits. This reeks.”
He messages something rapidly on a private chat server.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Old contact from Sea Shepherd, now with MarVigil. They monitor IUU fishing—Illegal, Unreported, Unregulated. I’m looping them in, sending tag data. If they escalate to the regional authorities, maybe we’ll get official eyes before it’s too late.”
Alex nods “And the INTERPOL?”
“If they get enough to flag it as a transnational wildlife crime, they’ll move. But only if we give them something actionable. No more hunches.”
Nico shrugs. “And that—” he pulls up a screen of intercepted radio chatter “—was broadcast on marine channel 78. It’s encrypted, but keyword flagged: kilos, ‘perlas’ and a match on cartel codenames used in Veracruz. We’re close.”
Alex leans over the table. “We need eyes on that water. We might not get another ping. We need to gather evidence for the INTERPOL. Local authorities are mostly owned by the Cartel.”
He lays the faded kayak map open, circling the estuary inlet.
“Southern approach is quiet” he says. “I can go in, try to spot some Turtle tags..”
Nico frowns. “ I’ll keep logging signals and upload the case file to the Wildlife Crime Database—if something breaks, I’ll ping them directly. Also, take Luna’s tag with you as an emergency alert.” He pushes his glasses up. “If anything moves, if Luna's tag twitches, if they reply—I’ll be ready.”
Alex grabs his drybag. “I’ll go. You two—”
“I’m coming too,” I say. He stops. Looks at me. “Robin—”
“I’m not sitting this one out. You said there’s no time.”
He hesitates. His gaze flicks to Nico, who already has the portable tracker feeds up.
“I’ll stay on comms,” Nico says, not looking up. “You two focus on the tags and the turtles. I’ll monitor vessel movement, log activity, push everything to the watchdog servers.”
Nico meets my eyes. “If something goes wrong—if you don’t check in—I trigger the escalation. Not just INTERPOL. MarVigil, the regional marine unit, the environmental crimes task force, CITES, activists and journalists. Even an Inst@gram live. I’ve got the chain ready.”
Alex exhales sharply. “That’s a lot of firepower.”
Nico nods. “They won’t come unless it’s solid. So give me solid.”
He looks at me again—steady, no theatrics. “Coordinates. Audio. Photo. Anything. You get it, I move it.”
I nodded once,“Está bien” [Alright]
The sun’s falling fast, bleeding orange and red through salt haze. We drag our kayaks from Alex’s trailer, load them with a portable tag reader, a flashlight, protein bars and a backup phone stashed in a waterproof case.
We launch at golden hour. The estuary water warms our hands as we paddle in.
By the time we reach the mangroves, the world has narrowed. Roots writhe like bones under the dark water, and the thick green canopy claws the sky. Alex paddles quietly beside me. For a while, neither of us speaks. The air buzzes with mosquitoes. Far off, a generator hums like a distant storm. Then, softly—
“Mi papá… was a fisherman.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Used to take me out at dawn before the sea emptied. He taught me to mend nets, read currents. To respect turtles.”
A pause. His paddle dips.
“But then the trawlers came. The fish vanished. Overnight… we had nothing.”
He swallows. “Papa started drinking. Didn’t care about turtles anymore. Or much of anything. I used to hide in the closet from him. He—he died when I was fifteen. Cirrhosis.”
I glance at him. His voice is calm but the grief is settled in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “ I know, It’s not fair to punish someone for the sins of their father.”
I glance at him. His voice is steady. But I hear the ache tucked between syllables.
“I am not defending–” My voice comes out sharp. Then softer: “He’s not clueless. He’s complicit.”
Alex nods once. No judgment.
Ahead, his paddle strikes something with a hollow clunk—a net, tangled with trash. Floating inside: a pale curve of shell. The smell hits us. I gag… pulling my shirt over my nose.
“I used to think neglect wasn’t evil ” I mutter. “But apathy leaves corpses too.”
The mangroves close around us like ribs.
Alex’s eyes flick to mine—A radio crackles ahead.
“¿Cuántos kilos hoy?” [How many kilos today?]
We freeze. The water slithers against the hull, loud as a scream.
“Cincuenta.” [Fifty]
A laugh, sharp as a knife.
“Las tortugas se tragan las perlas en el mar, las cagamos en el muelle.”
[The turtles swallow pearls at sea, we harvest them at the dock.]
Alex grips my arm tight. Through the mangrove lattice, I spot them—three men in wetsuits, loading crates onto a speedboat. Its hull is smeared with algae and old blood. One swings a machete lazily, its edge catching the last red gasp of sunset.
“Cártel de la Perla” Alex mutters. “They’ve been here for months.”
We edge closer. Alex lifts a crate lid—pearls packed in ziplocks, each one tagged. One has Solería Construction’s black scorpion logo burned into the plastic. My phone’s already out. I snap a burst of photos. Alex steadies the crate. I hit send to Nico. Sent. Delivered.
My phone buzzes.
Dad: Where are you?
The glow gives us away.
“¡Aquí hay ratas!” [Rats are here]
A flashlight sears through the dark.
Alex shoves my kayak into the roots. “¡Corre!” [Run]
Too late. Boots splash. Hands yank me from the water. Mud fills my mouth.
Alex snarls—then a crack. The butt of a rifle. He collapses beside me.
They drag us into a clearing lit by floodlights. Crates ripped open. Pearls. Ziplocks. A few turtles still alive, stitched up and barely breathing. A man steps forward. Scar from his jaw to his brow, teeth yellow behind a cold grin.
“¿Qué hacen aquí, científicos estúpidos?” [What are you doing here stupid scientists?]
Alex coughs blood. “Protegiendo lo que ustedes destruyen.” [Protecting what you destroy]
The man turns to me. Looks longer. Tilts his head.
He says in English, squinting, “You look familiar.”
Steps closer. Smiles, but there’s no humour in it.
“You’ve got your father’s eyes. But a nose for sticking where it doesn’t belong.”
I spit near his boots. “I’m not one of you”
He chuckles. “No? Let’s call your daddy then” He nods to the others.
“Quítenles los teléfonos” [Take their phones]
Rough hands snatch my phone. Smashed it.
“Enciérrenlos.” [Lock them up]
We’re shoved into a rusting cage—steel mesh, chain latch, barely human-sized. The metal stinks of dead fish and rusted diesel. My knees scrape against cold mud. They slam the door. The lock clicks. Alex is breathing too fast. The air feels thinner than it should.
His shoulder bumps mine.
“Luna” he says, voice tight. “Still on you?”
I nod, fumbling under my shirt. The cracked GPS chip digs into my ribs. My fingers are slick with sweat, maybe blood. I yank it off, hands shaking.
Alex pulls a flat rock from the sludge. “Hurry.”
I place the chip on the floor, hesitating just a second. He brings the rock down—hard.
Crack.
The chip shatters. A shrill beep escapes before it fizzles into static. I freeze, heart hammering.
We wait.
Nothing changes.
Somewhere outside, a gull screeches. A radio buzzes faintly in the distance. Footsteps crunch through gravel, but they’re not coming toward us. Someone laughs. Then silence again.
I shift, trying not to make noise, trying not to look at Alex’s face. He’s hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands buried in his curls. His breath’s gone shallow—too shallow. In-out-in.
“Alex?” He doesn’t respond. His eyes dart to the corners of the cage, then up at the mesh above.
“Aquí… está muy apretado” he mutters. “I didn’t think it’d feel this tight.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “It’s temporary.”
“Ajá” he says. But it’s brittle. He grips his knees. His nails dig into the denim.
“Just—keep talking. Say something. Anything.”
“I… I don’t know what to say.”
He laughs.
“You know what I wish I’d done? Before all this? Taken one of those dumb kayaking tours. The ones for tourists. Just paddling with turtles instead of tracking them with stolen NGO gear.”
I try to smile. “You mean legally?”
“That too.” He rubs his chest. “Mierda. My lungs feel weird.”
“You’re okay. You’re okay.” I press my shoulder against his. “We sent the signal. Nico will see it. Just give it time.”
“What if he doesn’t? What if the chip was too damaged or he’s offline or—”
“He’s not. He’s probably yelling at a screen right now and dragging every local cop with a badge.”
Alex pulls at the collar of his shirt. “It’s too hot. Or cold. I can’t tell.”
The mud beneath us is freezing, but sweat is dripping from my neck.
“I shouldn’t have brought you” he says suddenly. “This is my fault. You didn’t sign up for—”
“Alex. Stop.”
We fall quiet again. A mosquito buzzes near my ear. Someone’s yelling in the distance—could be a worker, could be a drunk. Hard to tell here. I check the mesh for gaps. Nothing. It’s reinforced with wire. Not even a turtle could get out. Alex leans forward until his forehead touches the cage door.
“I can’t breathe in here.”
“You are breathing.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
I take a breath and without thinking, start whispering. “Lichens can survive in space.”
His head lifts just slightly.
“It’s true. Mom told me once. There was this ESA experiment—they stuck lichens outside the ISS, and they came back fine. Like, fine fine. Kept photosynthesizing. You can’t kill them. Cold, heat, vacuum? Doesn’t matter.”
“Why are you talking about lichens?”
“Because I need you to remember you’re tougher than this cage.” I bump his shoulder. “And because they’re cool.”
He gives me a sideways look.“Thank you.”
Alex exhales. It’s shaky but real. I keep going.
“Dad used to love lichens too. Before he went full turtle-cartel mode” I try to laugh. “He’d say they were nature’s little rebellions. Not one organism, not two—just this weird alliance between fungus and algae. Or sometimes cyanobacteria. Sometimes all three.”
“Like an open relationship?”
“A very clingy one.”
That gets a real laugh, small but raw. He closes his eyes, leans back against the wall.
“I still can’t breathe right.”
“Yeah” I whisper. “Me neither.”
We both fell silent. Time is stretching out weird and long.
Then—somewhere far off—a new sound.
A low whirring, mechanical, not from the compound.
We both look up.
A drone.
Tiny. Unobtrusive. Just a blinking light at first. Then another. And another.
Alex exhales. “ I see it.”
Floodlights don’t come on yet. No gunfire. Just methodical circling.
Then, finally, boots. Dozens this time. Not guards—too heavy. Too disciplined.
A voice in Spanish, loud and authoritative:
“¡Confirmen señal! Equipo Alpha, avanzar.”
[Confirm the signal. Team Alpha advance]
Alex grips the bars. “They’re here.”
I don’t let myself exhale until I see the helmets. Black. Marked with the white letters: INTERPOL.
The floodlights finally kick in—searing white, slicing through the coastal fog like judgment.
Boots slam the gravel.
“¡Manos arriba! INTERPOL! No se muevan!”
[Hands up! INTERPOL Don’t move]
The guards outside scatter—some yelling, one stupid enough to reach for a machete before a baton snaps his wrist. But in the cage, we don’t move. We can’t. The light blinds. My legs are numb.
“¡Allí!” someone shouts, pointing to us. “They’re in the holding cage!”
The lock rattles. A voice, sharp and irritated, barks:
“¿Por qué está sellado esto? Get me bolt cutters—now.”
[Why the h3ll is this sealed?]
The cutters arrive. The latch groans open. A woman in tactical gear yanks the door, grabs Alex first. He stumbles out, still dazed. I follow, blinking against the light. Everything feels too loud now. Metal crashing. Radios squawking. Drones above us still circling.
