I whip my head toward Cole, eyes screaming,SAVE ME!But nope. Just a smirk.
Jerkoff.
King of jerkoffs.
“Next,” I say briskly. “On-camera logistics.”
I outline filming protocols. Volunteer zones. How we manage troll comments and online bullies when we are streaming live. How we protect the integrity of the cause while keeping energy high.
Juliette’s finger lifts again.
Cole beats me by saying, “Ms. Vexford, we’re not turning the Bellwether into a frat house. Scout’s honor.” He winks. “It’s going to be elegant, timeless even. I promise you’ll be hiring extra staff just to manage the reservation frenzy.”
She studies him. Then gives a small, measured nod.
Dammit. He’s winning this meeting!My meeting. The one I planned, prepped, and practiced in the shower for weeks. He didn’t even bring a friggin’ notepad.
HRRNNK.A throat clears.
Every head in the room pivots.
The culprit: the pained scientist seated beside Blaze. Sandy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a Saltwater Saviors quarter-zip zipped to his throat like it’s holding in his personality.
“Dr. Orson Echols,” he begins, voice clipped and methodical. “Head marine biologist for Saltwater Saviors. I need clarification on live chat moderation.”
His eyes drop to his notes. Then back up.
“The entanglement exercise—symbolically sound, I’ll grant you that—nevertheless presents a meaningful risk of misinterpretation by viewers who may perceive the simulationas trivializing marine trauma. I need to better understand the moderation infrastructure to ensure the comment section does not actively contradict the intended conservation messaging.”
Translation: What if the live chat turns into singles sexting each other?
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Cole says. “It’ll be fun.”
Orson regards him the way scientists observe something they cannot classify. “Marine trauma,” he says slowly, “is not fun.”
“We pre-frame,” I say smoothly. “Lower thirds with verified rescue statistics. A clear verbal explanation before the activity begins. Moderated chat with filtered no-no words and redirect links to educational resources. We honor the seriousness without sacrificing engagement.”
Orson adjusts his glasses. “Acceptable.”
Ha! Suck on that, Hartwell.
Blaze’s hand is up again. “Can I adopt one?”
Orson doesn’t bother looking at him. “No.”
Blaze nods as if that was a warm-up question. “Bro, wait! Ya know that movieMr. Popper’s Penguins?He kept ’em as pets in his bathtub. I got a big-ass tub like, steps from the ocean. We could do beach walks, chill sesh, like, seal besties forever!”
Orson finally turns his head. “Sea. Lions… require a saltwater habitat exceeding ten thousand gallons, specialized dietary management, round-the-clock veterinary monitoring, and are federally protected under the Marine Mammal Protection Act of 1972. They are not domestically compatible.”
“Dude.” Blaze puts his hand to his chest. “Those little pups are straight-up blessed to have you, bro.” Then he whispers, “But level with me, man. Have you ever seen Poseidon down there?”
Behind his glasses, the man’s eyes say:this is how civilizations collapse.
“I mean the actual guy. For real? Cause one time I wiped out hard. I mean, bad bro. And I swear this king with a trident justyanked me to shore like, ‘Yo, not today, dude.’ I saw him, man! Full legend mode!”
“That was oxygen deprivation,” the scientist declares.
Blaze slings his meaty arm around Orson and grins at the group. “This guy knows how to party.”
