Water. Glass. Four walls. People in lab coats with needles and clipboards and pain.

This became Miguel’s whole existence; condemned to a research facility in a tank just big enough to do a lap in, pieces of him taken out bit by bit, hidden away from prying eyes or salvation. The humans come in a few times per moon phase to take, to poke and prod, occasionally to throw in some frozen fish at his tank, then leave. The rest of the time is spent rotting away in his tank, staring at the white walls, staring at the dim lights on the ceiling, staring at his dulled blue scales and withered fins, so restless and lonely and on edge it’s nearly unbearable.

(He still dreams of a vast, open ocean with all the food and space he could want, and a little pup swimming by his side, tiny hands holding onto his fin to keep up.)

The merman’s massive body settles on the glass bottom of the tank; an agitated plume of air bubbles rising to the surface before they disperse.

How many moons has it been now? Over twenty, for sure.

The only sound in the empty room is sloshing water and a low, agitated, rumble in Miguel’s chest. Vermillion eyes gaze listlessly around the room, taking in the stark grey tiles, the white ceiling, and the little camera pointed straight at him in the corner. Watching. Observing. Waiting.

Miguel's eyes flick to it, narrowing into slits, his tail flicking against the glass in his tank, muscles rippling under his scales. He hates being watched.

Really, he hates everything about this place; the humans, the tanks, the lights, the needles. He hates all of it. The merman snarls and pushes himself off the glass, making another lap in his tiny tank, muscles clenching tightly. He feels claustrophobic. Trapped.

His gills flex as he swims faster, scales scraping against the glass. He should be in the ocean with his pup, not stuck in this tiny glass prison, being studied by the humans.