Octo #110

The trench water was cold, oppressive. He shifted his luminescence, a dimmer blue, blending into the abyss. Being a Chromajelly was a life of ceaseless vigilance. Paranoia, that was his survival skill, questioning every flicker in the dark, every odd current. Tonight was no different. An unauthorized Cyctopi drone buzzed, collecting data near the trench's edge. An easy target, right? He reached out with his tendrils. The instant contact was made, a sting - the drone was rigged. The scaling shock resonated through his very essence, leaving him to drift, another brief casualty in the silent, ongoing war below.

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