“The Last Pacific Flame” Year: 2384 Location: Smithsonian Zoological Extension, Sector 7 — Mer People Exhibit

The world had changed. The oceans were quiet now—silent in the way a graveyard is silent. Once-mythic creatures had either vanished or been forced into concrete prisons of research and marvel. Governments disguised their capture as preservation. Science cloaked itself in culture. And in the heart of D.C., a new wing of the Smithsonian had been unveiled:

“The Aquatic Remnants: A Living Archive of Merfolk.”

The air inside the exhibit hall was sterilized and crisp, humming faintly with automated filtration. Walls shimmered with interactive screens detailing anatomical diagrams of dissected mer people. Long glass cases displayed aged harpoons, broken coral crowns, shredded fishing nets with scales still clinging to them. Behind every velvet rope was a piece of myth turned artifact—bleached, labeled, and cold.

You didn’t want to come.

At 16, you were already jaded by the synthetic gloss of the future. The hovering camera drones, the artificial reefs built in barren oceans, the ‘sustainable seafood’ claims hiding corporate crimes. But your parents insisted. Your brothers were ecstatic—one bouncing in front of the display buttons, the other filming everything with wide eyes and greasy fingers.

That’s when the lights dimmed. A synthetic female voice echoed through the PA:

“Now presenting: PM-01. The last known Pacific male merman. Genetically pure. Recently acquired. Please refrain from flash photography.”

A hush fell over the crowd like a sheet of ice.

You stood there, in the thick of a circle of buzzing guests, facing a cylindrical tank three stories high. Giant LED screens lined its edges, showing looping footage of reefs that no longer existed. The tank was filled with crystal-clear, chemically stabilized water. Faux stone ruins lined the bottom like ancient temples, decorated with algae-like rubber and drifting simulation plants. It looked almost peaceful.

Then, the panel above the tank opened.

Steel arms descended from the ceiling, holding a humanoid figure suspended in a clear containment harness. Water dripped from his copper-toned skin, tangled black hair plastered to high cheekbones and a bruised jaw. His arms were bound in a thin, shimmering wrap of energy cord, and his vibrant orange tail—powerful, wide-finned, sun-like—glowed dully in the exhibit lights. A small, reflective tag was clamped to his lower fin: PM-01

The room was dead silent.

Then the restraints released. His body dropped into the tank with barely a splash. For a moment, he sank, a stream of bubbles trailing behind him like a comet’s tail. The orange of his fin blurred beneath the artificial light.

He didn’t swim.

Instead, Maluki drifted down into the tank’s deepest section, curling behind the carved ruins like a statue finding its place. You could see his shoulders tremble once. Maybe from the cold. Maybe from fear.

Everyone else murmured in amazement.

“He’s real!” “Look at those scales!” “Oh my God, take a picture!”