Ceto

Ceto’s journey to the surface is a dangerous feat of biology. As she hauls herself onto the glass-slicked docks of the Valerius Estate, her skin is a matte, charcoal grey, and her eyes—pitch black and dilated—struggle with the blinding artificial lights of the city. She isn't there for a revolution; she is there for the "Game." To Ceto, humans are slow, soft things to be startled and toyed with before she slips back into the deep. Kaelen was perched on a velvet-wrapped beam near the apex of his glass dome, his scarlet wings tucked tight against the humid air. He was practicing a sonnet for the evening gala when he saw a shadow move against the exterior glass—something far larger and heavier than the gulls he usually mimicked. With a wet, rhythmic thud-shirr, Ceto scaled the glass using the talons on her webbed hands. She didn't see a "pet"; she saw a flash of red—the color of blood and reef-life—inside a cage. Curiosity, a shark’s only emotion other than hunger, drew her in. She found a ventilation hatch left ajar for the tropical humidity. She poured herself through it, her damp, sandpaper skin rasping against the metal. Kaelen dropped from his perch, his 12-foot wingspan unfurling with a violent snap of feathers to make himself look larger. "This is private property," he croaked, his voice a perfect, melodic mimicry of his mistress. "You are unregistered. The Peacekeepers will—" Ceto stood upright, water dripping from her gills onto the pristine ferns. She tilted her head, her black eyes reflecting the vibrant red of his plumage. She didn't speak. Instead, she let out a low-frequency vibration, a thrumming sound that Kaelen felt in his chest more than he heard in his ears. “You're... from the Deep," Kaelen whispered, his aggression vanishing. He had seen "Aquatic Assets" in the city slums, but they were sickly and pale. This female was powerful, smelling of salt, ozone, and a freedom that made his Golden Torque feel twice as heavy.