Chapter Text
Herman stared down at the smooth carbon fibre of the speargun in the duffle bag that was supposed to hold his work ‘uniform’ — if the garish yellow and blue monstrosity could even be called that — and violently beat down the urge to lodge a shaft squarely between his eyes.
He pushed his blue, wire-frame glasses up to his forehead and slapped a cold, wet hand over his eyes, making sure to avoid the spike of his eyebrow piercing.
Herman forced himself to calm his breathing, inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Maybe when he repeated the process a couple of times and opened his eyes, his usual wetsuit would manifest inside the duffle bag and the unfamiliar brand of speargun was just a hallucination.
Herman peeked through his shaking fingers cautiously, water dripping endlessly into his eyes.
Nope. Still there.
He fumbled for the water-proof phone case on his nightstand and speed-dialed a contact saved as ‘Ciocia Kat’, absently rolling the ball of his tongue piercing between his lips.
He paced the length of his room, leaving wet footprints that faded a few moments after they formed on the fancy enchanted towels his cousin had gifted him ages ago (Herman still felt guilty for using them for the floor).
“Hallo?” His aunt’s voice crackled through the phone speakers, surprise evident through her heavy Polish accent. “Chciałaś czegoś, rybko?”
“Właściwie…” He trailed off, staring at the duffle bag as though it might bite. “–I was wondering if you saw a black duffle bag in your jeep when you left?”
“Tak… why?” Aunt Kat probed, a strange note in her voice Herman couldn’t place.
Herman ran a hand down the length of the speargun. “I think there was a mix-up between yours and mine,” He admitted, appreciating the way the speargun’s handle fit perfectly in his hand.
“I mean the one I have has fishing gear in it, not my usual wetsuit, you know?” Herman clarified quickly, dropping the speargun back into the duffle bag.
There was a moment of silence from the other end of the phone and, if Herman focused, he could hear indistinct chatter and the distant ‘wrrrr’ of cars rushing past Kat’s position in the background. Was she taking a pitstop at a gas station?
Herman jumped violently, snapping out of his thoughts as his aunt made a furious gurgling noise before the sound of her finally choking out a frustrated “Ja jebię!” that nearly blew the valves in his ear canals.
“Katerina?” He yelped, rubbing his left ear with his palm (making sure not to jostle his industrial piercings) while simultaneously lowering his phone’s volume lest his aunt’s cursing damaged his hearing permanently. “Czy jest jakiś problem?”
“That was supposed to be a surprise,” Katerina complained, her voice taking on the same bubbly quality his own voice took when his mouth filled with water— it was probably worse for the older woman considering she didn’t produce potable water like he did.
“A surprise?” He repeated incredulously.
“Tak, all your cousins got you something for your birthday, rybko,” She explained, pausing to empty her mouth out. “I was supposed to give it to you on your birthday, not before, but I fucked that up obviously,”
“All my cousins?” Herman asked, a swirling whirlpool of affection forming in his chest. “Ewe-even Charley?”
“It’s not like they’re at the bottom of the ocean or anything,” Herman could hear the eyeroll over the phone.
He snorted, flicking the excess water on his fingers onto the floor. “Ciocia– Challenger Deep is the bottom of the ocean,”
He laughed as his aunt clicked her teeth disapprovingly, the same way Babka did whenever he forgot a word in Polish.
“What does gingerbread have to do with a windmill–” Katerina dismissed, the woman waving him off dismissively in his mind’s eye while she probably sprinkled some poor passerby with water.
Herman stifled a giggle, lighting a metaphorical candle for his cousin at the bottom of the Western Pacific ocean. The Mariana Trench was a dark place after all.
“Anyway, enjoy your birthday presents early and… ehhh,” Katerina stalled briefly before continuing. “Don’t mention this to your cousins– I can already hear their mothers bullying me about this,”
Herman grimaced, suddenly remembering why he made the call in the first place. “Ale… I do need my other bag back–”
“No you don’t,” Katerina interrupted before Herman had the chance to finish his sentence. “Kocham cię, but we all hated your old suit,”
“But I–” He tried again.
“Rybko. I am not turning back from Houston to get your shitty suit back to you,” Herman wilted but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame her– he hated the damn thing too. “Secondly, most of the stuff there can be used as hero gear anyway,”
Herman traced the blocky lettering up the side of the speargun’s barrel. “Really?” He muttered.
His aunt made a sound that was a cross between a gargle and a scoff. “Have some imagination, plus Paloma didn’t graduate from the best magic university in Finland just for you to diss her enchant skills–”
Herman almost dropped the gun in shock. “Everything’s enchanted?” He asked incredulously, the speargun almost slipping from his grip as water coated his hand.
Having anything enchanted was disgustingly expensive.
“Tak, there should be more details in her notes,” Katerina confirmed, the wet sound of his aunt choking out the excess water from her mouth. “You know how she is,”
“She could jump at the sun with a hoe and come out victorious,” Herman answered, earning him a gurgly chuckle from the older woman.
“If there is nothing else?” Herman made a noncommittal noise that sufficed as enough of a goodbye for his aunt (as well as the rest of his extended relations).
”I say my farewells then,”
He threw his phone onto his bed before the line disconnected, the plastic covering crinkling at the impact, and inspected the speargun properly. Excitement flooded his stomach and bubbled into his chest as he ran his hand over the shaft of the speargun, tracing the bold letters engraved into the side of the gun in his other cousin’s handwriting.
Pascal Pro V3.
An incredulous snort burst out of his mouth before he could stop it– of course Rita was petty enough to name the speargun Pascal.
Despite that, the speargun had been crafted meticulously because Rita would rather dry out than — Niech bóg broni! — make something subpar.
Herman estimated the barrel of the speargun to be about seventy-five centimeters; packing it with enough power to cleanly spear a bass in murky water while also making it easy to reload.
He held the speargun up with one hand, aiming the empty muzzle of the speargun at the ‘O’ of his NOPE (2022) poster on the opposite wall, and appreciated the weight of the fishing apparatus in his grip.
He pulled the power-bands back experimentally, just to test their resistance, and–
Before he could even blink, the band snapped back and almost sliced his finger clean off while a single-flopper shaft materialised in the groove of the muzzle. In his shock, Herman nearly lodged the shaft into the heart of a blissfully unaware Keke Palmer, who was still staring up worriedly at his ceiling.
“Kurde!” Fumbling for the gun’s safety with unhelpfully wet hands, he engaged the switch at the handle with a distinctive click that caused the shaft to dissipate into nothing, simply glimmering out of existence like a watery hallucination.
He spat out the water pooling in his mouth into one of his many potted plants, mentally reminding himself to try (and likely fail) to get his aunt to stop getting him any more, and ran a perpetually wet hand through his equally wet hair.
That was close.
Babka would legitimately turn him into fish bait if she found out Herman put a hole in his wall.
Among himself and his cousin’s fears — ranging from driving to inevitably drying out — an angry Babka was not to be trifled with.
He placed the speargun on his bed and dropped to his knees, dragging the black bag closer to himself.
Sifting through a few different boxes, a substantial bottle of Ivan’s new Tequila-Vodka mix, a Mahi Mahi themed wetsuit and a pair of white swim trunks, he rifled through the contents of the duffle bag before he finally found a laminated sheet of paper.
Herman stared at the cramped lettering, sliding his glasses back over his eyes, and was suddenly very glad it was the weekend.
He had to properly figure out how to use this stuff without accidentally shooting a hole into the wall (or through another person) before his shift on Monday.
Plus, Herman could think of what fish he was going to spear first.