The Underwater Tropical Jazz Bar was loud and vibrant, strands of old, salvaged Christmas lights crisscrossed between structures built of colorful debris, castted the room in a comfortingly faint glow. The air thrummed with the brassy improvisation of a deep-sea quintet.

Anglerfish Cookie was perched heavily on a stool near the back, her neon green angler lure—safely housed inside its salvaged streetlamp—casting a sharp spotlight around her corner. They looked unimpressed, nursing a large mug of something dark and potent. He wore his usual tattered uniform, and every few seconds, would tap impatiently in time with the music.

"Honestly, if that drummer hits that upside-down soup can one more time..."