Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I stood on the deck of my small boat, breathing in the salty air and feeling the soft waves rock the boat hull. The morning sun shone across the ocean in beautiful shades of blue and gold that stretched toward the horizon. In the distance, a lighthouse stood on the rocky beach. My shoulders dropped from where they'd been hunched near my ears for weeks.

Ah, finally. No one asking me to fix this or change that. No emergencies. No "quick favors." Just me and the ocean, and I have all the time in the world to enjoy it.

Those last few months of adventures, missions and tasks, made me crave alone time for myself. From those high-speed chase defeating Eggman. Then Sonic's plane needed to be fixed after that. Then Amy wanted fixes to her hammer's targeting system. While this was going on, Knuckles asked me to look into some old tech on Angel Island. Everyone always came to me with their problems, emergencies, and "quick favors" that somehow took up hours of my free time.

It's not that I don't like helping my friends. I just really needed to be Tails for once instead of "the genius kid who can fix anything" after all those weeks of everyone needing something from me. I had no plans today. I even didn't tell anyone about this diving trip on purpose. No coordinates shared, no flight plan filed, and no "hey Sonic, I'll be back by evening" messages sent.

While I was getting my gear ready, I saw someone moving on the distant beach near the lighthouse. I could see a person in dark clothes working on some kind of equipment through the morning fog. It had white hair and... bat wings? Is that Rouge? But they were too far away to be sure, and after a while, they disappeared behind some rocks. I shrugged. Even if it was Rouge, she was probably on one of her secret "business trips" and wouldn't want to be bothered anyway. She probably wouldn't want company anyway.

I went back to getting ready. I put on my weight belt and adjusted it around my waist until it felt secure but not too tight. Then I slid my fins over my feet to make sure they fit comfortably without pinching. I wore my diving watch, made sure it was working and set to zero. I took one of the three tanks that were strapped down on the deck. If the weather stays nice, those two extras are going to another dive site later. Then I pulled my diving mask over my head and left it resting on my forehead for now.

And now time for the important checks.

I opened the valve on my tank and heard the familiar sound of high-pressure air rushing in. I purged out my regulator to get rid of any dirt, then I put it in my mouth and took a few test breaths. The air flowed smoothly and steadily. I pulled the regulator out and set it aside. The tank pressure gauge read full at around 3000 PSI. So far, everything looked good. Then I tested my BCD by inflating and deflating it with the buttons. After making sure it was all working perfectly, I picked it up and slipped it on, making sure the clips and straps were tight so it fit well. I attached my dive knife to the BCD strap where I could reach it easily—standard safety equipment that I hoped I'd never need to use. I took a deep breath. Time for the last piece. I pulled my mask down over my face and made sure it was sealed properly by adjusting it one more time. The smell of silicone and salt from old dives was familiar to me; it was a smell I had grown to love over the years.

"And now, Just me and the ocean," I murmured.

Then I put my regulator in my mouth and breathed through it steadily to get used to the rhythm. The familiar hiss of compressed air was oddly comforting. One last check of my air gauge—

Wait, what! Why am I having to suck harder to get air? And why had the needle dropped nearly empty? But when I stopped breathing for a second, I watched it slowly climb back toward full.

By reflex, I reached around to my tank valve on my back and found it wasn't fully open. Gave it another quarter turn and heard the change in airflow right away. Breathing became easier immediately and the gauge needle climbed back up to full.

Ah, there we go. Basic mistake, I chuckled. That's a close call though. At least I caught it before getting in the water. Could have been a real problem down there. I shook my head at myself. Even experienced divers forget the simple stuff sometimes. Alright, systems check complete. Everything's working perfectly now. 

I took one last look at the sunny horizon, then positioned myself at the edge of the boat. With everything ready, I rolled backward off the gunwale. The cool water rose up to meet me, and for the first time in weeks, I felt truly free.

Chapter Text

As I went under on my back, the cool water surrounded me, and I hovered motionless under the surface, with bubbles floating past my mask. I floated for a moment to get used to the feeling of being in the water. The weight belt pulled me down slowly, while my BCD kept me neutrally buoyant underwater. I could hear the steady sound of my breathing through the regulator: hiss... pause... bubble release... pause... and then it kept repeating indefinitely. Those rhythms and sounds were oddly calming for me.

I took my time savoring the moment, away from the busy world above and into the peaceful depths. I closed my eyes and let myself float on my back, with my face turned up toward the surface. The water held me completely, wrapping around me in a way that felt almost unreal. In the quiet, all of my worries and responsibilities seemed to go away. I could feel currents moving through my fur even when I moved my hand a little.

When I opened my eyes and looked up, the surface sparkled far above like a portal to another dimension. Just me and the ocean. Just like I wanted.

Down here, I could float and fly in ways I never could on land. I don't need to move my tails, I chuckled. I was truly free here, suspended between the seafloor and the sky. I felt completely at home in this calm blue-green space. The only catch? Without my scuba tank, I couldn't breathe.

Quick check—regulator smooth, watch working, air gauge full. All good to go.

I began my descent by pressing the button that slowly let air out of my BCD so that I could sink slowly. As I went deeper, I equalized my ears. The water was crystal clear, and I could see far down into the blue depths below. I felt that familiar peace that came with being underwater, the muffled quiet, the gentle pressure, and the soothing breathing sounds. It felt like suddenly all my worries about being on land seemed to go away.

When I was near the sea floor, I could see schools of bright orange garibaldi darting between the rocky outcrops. They seemed not to care at all that I was there. A harbor seal spiraled past with fluid grace, gave me a curious glance, then disappeared into.

The sunlight from above made dancing patterns on the sandy bottom below. I took deeper, slower breaths, settling into the meditative rhythm that made diving so good for me. I swam through a small canyon between two rocky walls covered in colorful anemones. I was always amazed by how many different kinds of life were hiding in every crack. Wolf eels peeked out from their holes. Rockfish hovered in formation near the reef. Larger lingcod waited patiently while tiny señorita fish went about their cleaning work.

Being free underwater made me feel incredible. On the surface, I was always 'on,' ready to invent, fix, rescue, or help anyone who needed me. But down here, I was just another living thing in this ecosystem, no more important than the fish around me.

Time seemed to flow differently underwater. Had I been down fifteen minutes? Thirty?

I looked at my air gauge, and it said it was about three-quarters full. That seemed like the right amount of time I'd been down. I felt much more relaxed than I had in months. After going down a gentle slope, I ended up in a small valley underwater with rocky outcrops all around it. Different animals found shelter in small caves and overhangs. I spent a few minutes watching the little dramas that were happening, predator and prey, cleaner and client, the never-ending dance of survival and cooperation.

I paused to check my gauge again before exploring deeper.

Still showing three-quarters.

Uh... is that okay? Is that how calm I am?

Maybe I was breathing more efficiently than usual in my relaxed state. Sometimes when you were really calm underwater, your air consumption could be surprisingly low. I'd heard of experienced divers having incredibly low consumption rates when they were completely in their element.

I swam deeper into the valley. As I swam deeper into the valley, a beautiful rocky reef came into view. Clusters of brilliant cup corals in reds and oranges dotted the rocks. I saw massive purple sea stars clinging to vertical surfaces and delicate gorgonian sea fans swaying in the current. A leopard shark glided past along the bottom, completely ignoring me. I explored the rocky formations, found a wolf eel watching me pass from its den. Then I discovered a cleaning station where larger rockfish hovered while tiny señorita fish picked parasites from their scales.

After what felt like another ten minutes, I checked my gauge once more.

Still three-quarters full.

I frowned behind my mask. That's definitely strange. I tapped the gauge face lightly, but the needle didn't move. I'd been underwater for at least twenty-five minutes now. Even with calm breathing, this didn't seem right.

As I looked around, I caught a glimpse of something moving in the deeper water beyond the large rocky outcrop. A dark silhouette, too far away to make out clearly, but it seemed to be another diver. The figure moved with purpose, not the leisurely pace of a recreational diver, and disappeared behind a large coral head before I could get a better look.

Is that, another diver?

I couldn't figure out where I had seen the shape before. Is that the same person I saw on the beach?

I kept watching for a few more seconds, but the figure went into the cave system. There was no one there when I looked back a moment later.

I shrugged and looked back at the reef. Maybe it's just another diver having fun at the site.

Ahead, I spotted a kelp forest swaying gently in the current, the long fronds moving like underwater curtains. I swam into it slowly, weaving between the swaying stalks. The filtered sunlight created dancing shadows that shifted with every movement of the kelp. The giant bull kelp stretched from the rocky bottom all the way up toward the surface, creating towering columns of golden-brown that swayed in the gentle surge. It felt like swimming through a living cathedral, peaceful and beautiful.

I kept my movements smooth and controlled, my arms close to my body so the kelp wouldn't catch on my equipment. The fronds brushed against my wetsuit as I passed, a gentle touch that felt almost welcoming. Small fish darted in and out of the kelp forest, using it as shelter. Tiny invertebrates clung to the kelp blades, and I spotted a bright red nudibranch slowly making its way up a stalk.

I emerged from the kelp forest feeling accomplished. Perfect navigation, no entanglement. This was exactly the kind of diving I loved—challenging but controlled, beautiful but safe.

I glanced at my dive watch.

Wait... how long had I been down here?

Chapter Text

I glanced at my dive watch and froze. Thirty-five minutes!?

That can't be right! Worry crept in. I tapped the gauge face, but the needle wouldn't budge.

At sixty feet for thirty-five minutes, I should have burned through at least two-thirds of my tank by now. But the gauge still read three-quarters full—the same reading it had shown fifteen minutes ago.

As I realized what was happening, my breathing grew shallower and my eyes widened behind the mask. The gauge wasn't just stuck, it was frozen, completely useless. A cold weight settled in my chest as the truth hit me. I had no idea how much air I actually had left. It could be plenty, or it could be nearly empty.

I must end the dive, right now! I immediately started my ascent. This is the kind of equipment failure that kills people, and I'm not going to be the next one.

As I ascended from sixty feet, I kept my eyes fixed on the depth gauge. The needle moved as it should, and that brought a flicker of relief. At least this one wasn't broken. Each kick upward felt longer than it should, but I forced my strokes to stay slow and steady, telling myself it was control, not panic.

When I reached thirty-three feet, I leveled off and held position. Technically, a single dive to sixty feet didn't require a decompression stop here, but I wasn't taking any chances with decompression sickness. One minute would be enough. Just to be safe.

I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears. My breath was coming too fast, too shallow.

Take it easy. Calm down. I forced myself to stay still. I closed my eyes, hugged myself, and focused on each breath. Take it easy. One breath at a time. You still have air. You're not stuck. Just relax.

When I opened my eyes again, my breathing had steadied slightly. That's when I caught a glimpse of movement in the distance—that same dark figure from earlier, now at a shallower depth, maybe forty feet down. The diver seemed to be working near what looked like an underwater structure.

The figure seemed to notice my ascent and looked in my direction for a long moment, as if assessing whether I was okay, but then returned to whatever work they were doing. Too far away to signal for help, even if I wanted to.

Focus, Tails. Deal with your own emergency first.

I continued my ascent, trying to stay calm and maintain a safe rate despite my growing anxiety. The regulator still delivered air normally. Maybe I still had enough. Maybe the gauge had failed high, and I actually had more air than I feared.

At fifteen feet, I stopped for my last safety stop. This was the protocol drilled into every diver—three to five minutes at fifteen feet to allow nitrogen to off-gas and prevent decompression sickness.

But as I hovered there, watching my timer count down the minutes, I started to feel a subtle change in my breathing. Each breath required just a little more effort than before.

Oh no.

The air was starting to run low. I felt a little resistance with each breath, which meant I was pulling from the reserve. My gauge was still lying to me, still showing air that might not be there.

I looked up at the surface, which was only fifteen feet above. So close that I could see the shadow of my boat on the bright sky. Just a few kicks and I'd be free, breathing air again. But my timer still said I had three minutes left. Three minutes that felt like forever. If you skip it, you could get decompression sickness. Staying meant gambling on air I didn't know I had.

The breathing got harder. Not critical yet, but definitely noticeable. My heart rate started to climb as I faced the terrible dilemma.

I remembered what I'd read about diving. The risk of decompression sickness from skipping a safety stop after a thirty-five-minute dive to sixty feet was relatively low. This last stop was recommended, not mandatory. I even knew how to do the math, but my brain wouldn't slow down. My thoughts were racing, slipping away from me faster than I could catch them.

Come on, Tails, think... please think, I begged myself. I knew the bends were bad, but drowning was worse. But if I got bent here, the nearest hospital with a hyperbaric chamber was too far away. Performing in-water recompression alone was just as dangerous. Which one should I choose?

My chest ached, my breaths came in shallow, shaking gasps, and my eyes stung with the threat of tears. All I could think about was how badly I needed air.

Another breath. Harder now. Definitely harder.

I looked at my safety stop timer: two minutes remaining.

The air was getting thinner with each breath. My body was starting to work for each lungful, and panic was beginning to creep in at the edges of my vision.

C'mon, Tails, make a decision! Now!

I decided to finish the safety stop. Just two more minutes, I told myself. The air will last two more minutes. It has to.

But thirty seconds later, I was struggling. Really struggling now, having to suck hard on the regulator to get anything at all. The gauge still lying to me, showing air that simply wasn't there anymore.

No, no, no, not now! I realized with growing terror. I'm not going to make it.

The timer showed one minute left. Now, each breath was a battle. My lungs weren't getting satisfied, and real panic was starting to take hold.

Forty-five seconds left. The regulator was giving me air, but each breath felt shallower, unsatisfying. Like trying to breathe through a straw that was slowly collapsing.

Thirty seconds. My chest was working hard now, expanding fully just to draw in enough to function. The panic wasn't just on the edges anymore. It was right there in my chest, competing with my lungs for space.

Surface! Now! my instincts screamed. I wanted to go up, but my mind raced with rules and warnings—safety stops, decompression sickness, doing everything right. I couldn't think straight. Drowning or DCS. Oh no, no, no. What should I do? I froze for a heartbeat too long.

That hesitation cost me everything.

Fsssss... click.

The regulator cut off mid-breath. Half a lungful. Not enough. I tried again—nothing. Just the hollow click of an empty tank.

The tank was completely dry, and I was still fifteen feet underwater.

The incomplete breath in my lungs felt pathetically inadequate for the remaining distance. Fifteen feet—normally nothing, but with no air left and my lungs already burning, it felt impossible.

You can make it, I told myself desperately. Just fifteen feet. Hold your breath and swim.

But my body was already in full panic mode. My heart hammered, chewing through what little oxygen I had left in my lung. The primal terror of suffocation clawed at my mind, shredding my focus.

I kicked hard toward the surface, but the water was thick and sticky, like syrup. Ten feet more. The sunlight was so close, so bright above me. My lungs were screaming, my chest cramping with the desperate need for air.

Then I noticed the weight of my gear pulling me back down—weight belt and hoses dragging like anchors. Drop it! Drop it! my mind screamed. I clawed at the buckles, trying to release my weights, my tank, anything. My fingers were clumsy with terror. Nothing would come free. I kept kicking, fighting the pull, and keeping my eyes on the light above as everything inside me screamed for air.

At five feet from the surface, I couldn't hold it anymore. My body betrayed me. I grabbed the regulator with both hands, pressing it to my mouth, groaning and sucking desperately—trying to pull every last molecule of air while keeping seawater out. My chest felt like it was on fire, and the tank straps pulled me down, fighting every stroke.

I tried to cough without letting go, tried to keep drawing whatever air remained, but my arms and legs dissolved into useless flailing. I could see the ripples and sunlight on the surface, but my brain was shutting down things that weren't important because it didn't have enough oxygen.

So close... I kept reaching for the bright ceiling above. Just... a few more... feet...

And then it happened. My body gave up. The regulator slipped from my mouth, and seawater rushed in. I felt it filling my lungs—burning, choking. My arms and legs jerked in chaotic spasms before going limp completely. Darkness swallowed me as my movements slowed, my vision tunneling to a tiny pinprick of light above.

The last thing I remembered, before everything went black, was the bitter irony of it all. I had come here seeking independence, trying to prove I didn't need anyone's help.

Now, as consciousness fled and my body began its inexorable sink back toward the bottom, I realized that sometimes needing help wasn't a weakness.

Sometimes, it was just being alive.