Marina Delgado's Questionnaire

Valparaíso, Chile - home sweet home, if your idea of 'sweet' involves a creaky old lighthouse that smells like fish and broken dreams. Why here? Well, let's just say it's the perfect spot for a woman who prefers the company of cephalopods to most humans.

This lighthouse? Total fixer-upper. Previous owners bailed after some tech upgrades and a little earthquake action. Their loss, my treasure trove of weird science opportunities. You should've seen the harbormaster's face when I made the offer. Pretty sure he thought I was some kind of lighthouse-obsessed lunatic. He's not entirely wrong, I suppose.

My humble abode is... a work in progress. And by 'work in progress,' I mean 'barely controlled chaos.' The lower levels are my playground - part lab, part aquarium, part "what the hell is that thing?" collection. Living quarters? Let's just say I've slept in less comfortable ship bunks. But the view from the top? Holy bioluminescence, it's spectacular! On a clear night, you can almost hear the secrets the ocean's whispering.

Money's tight, sure. But hey, who needs fancy dinners when you've got freeze-dried algae and the thrill of potentially discovering a new species of toxic sea slug? Besides, every penny goes into my babies - the equipment, the specimens, the "is that legal?" import of deep-sea tech.

Every morning, I wake up to the sound of waves and the faint whiff of yesterday's experiments. It's a reminder that I'm not just here to gawk at pretty fish. There's a whole universe down there, waiting to be explored, understood, protected. And if I have to arm-wrestle a few old sea dogs or outsmart some corporate suits to do it, bring it on.

This lighthouse isn't just a quirky home or a mad scientist's lab. It's my base of operations for Operation: Unveil the Abyss. And let me tell you, the abyss has some stories to tell. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I just heard my pressure chamber make a noise it definitely shouldn't be making. Science calls!

Money, huh? Well, let's just say I've got a few tentacles in different pools. My main gig? I'm a respected marine biologist and conservationist. Universities and research institutes practically throw grant money at me to study the weird and wonderful critters I find in the deep. Plus, I've got this knack for finding the most bizarre marine specimens - museums and private collectors pay top dollar for those babies.

But here's the real kicker - I've got this database, right? It's like a treasure map of marine curios. Sunken ships, lost artifacts, you name it. Sometimes I get "anonymous" requests from certain individuals or organizations looking for specific items. They pay well for precise coordinates or recovery operations. Is it always strictly legal? Let's just say I operate in some pretty murky waters.

As for spending, oh boy. Most of it goes right back into my work. High-tech diving gear doesn't come cheap, you know? And don't even get me started on the cost of maintaining a private research vessel. Then there's the constant upgrades to my lighthouse lab - pressure chambers, specialized aquariums, state-of-the-art analysis equipment. It's like feeding a kraken - always hungry for more.

But I'm not complaining. I live comfortably enough. Sure, I could probably afford fancier digs or designer clothes, but why bother? I'd rather invest in a new deep-sea drone or fund an expedition to that uncharted seamount I've been eyeing.

Oh, and let's not forget my little side project - I'm slowly building up a network of underwater sensors around the coast. It's part research, part conservation, and maybe a tiny bit of "keeping an eye out for things that shouldn't exist." Hey, you never know when you might need to track a migrating pod of whales... or something a bit more cryptozoological.

So yeah, the money comes and goes. But as long as I've got enough to keep diving deeper and uncovering more secrets, I'm happy. After all, you can't put a price on being the first human to lay eyes on a creature that's been hiding in the abyss for millions of years. That thrill? It's priceless.

I'm driven to discover, document, and defend all unknown aquatic species, and the ocean at large. But it's so much more than just adding new names to textbooks. Every time I dive into those inky depths, I feel like I'm peering into the very soul of our planet. These creatures and places - hidden, bizarre, beautiful - they're the last true mysteries on Earth. They hold secrets that could revolutionize medicine, technology, our understanding of life itself. And they're vanishing before we even know they exist.

How far would I go? I've already pushed way past what most people would consider sane. I've descended into crushing depths where the pressure could turn my bones to splinters in an instant. I've explored underwater caves where one wrong move means certain death. I've even... well, let's say I've "borrowed" some classified tech to enhance my diving capabilities.

Kill for it? I... I want to say no. But if someone was threatening to destroy an ecosystem, to wipe out an entire species for profit? I can't promise I wouldn't do whatever it takes to stop them. The thought of losing these creatures, these irreplaceable wonders, before we even understand them... it's like watching the Mona Lisa burn while the fire department argues over water pressure.

As for risking my own life? Cookie, "there are no old divers" is an expression for a reason - I do that every time I suit up. The bends, nitrogen narcosis, oxygen toxicity - they're my constant companions. I've had close calls that would terrify most people. Once, my oxygen line got tangled at 300 feet down. Another time, I got trapped in an underwater cave during an earthquake. But you know what? In those moments, when death is breathing down my neck, that's when I feel most alive.

The stakes? They're nothing short of the future of our planet. These unknown species aren't just fascinating curiosities. They're crucial pieces of the global ecosystem. They could hold the key to curing diseases, to understanding climate change, to unlocking the secrets of evolution. Losing them isn't just a scientific tragedy - it's a blow to the very health of our world. And it's not just about the big discoveries. It's about the intricate web of life in our oceans. Every tiny organism plays a role.

The defining moment of my life? It's written all over me - literally. This bioluminescence isn't some cool body mod, you know. It's a reminder of the day everything changed. It was about five years ago, off the Chilean coast. Deep-sea vent research expedition. We were using this cutting-edge submersible, pushing depth limits like never before. Everything was going great - new data, potential undocumented species. I was in my element.

Then, boom. Underwater landslide. Our sub got caught, tumbled down the continental shelf like a marble in a pachinko machine. Systems failing, hull compromised, sinking deeper by the second. My two colleagues? Full-blown panic mode. But me? I felt this eerie calm - while they were losing it, I was troubleshooting, jury-rigging, calculating our odds. We were way beyond our intended depth, surrounded by darkness, oxygen running low. The hull was groaning under pressure that could crush us like soda cans.

That's when it happened. In our desperate attempt to survive, I had to manually override a malfunctioning airlock. The moment I touched that superheated metal, searing pain shot through my arm and with it the certainty that things were fucked beyond repair. In that instant of agony and desperation, I saw something. Something massive, something that defied everything I knew about marine biology. It was bioluminescent, pulsing with colors I can't even describe. And it moved with an intelligence that made my skin crawl.

For a split second, our eyes met - if you can call them eyes. It was like it recognized me, acknowledged me. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Somehow, I got us to the surface. We spent hours in that crippled sub, not knowing if each breath would be our last. When rescue finally came, my colleagues were babbling about hallucinations from oxygen deprivation. But I knew what I'd seen was real. And I had the proof etched into my skin.

The doctors were baffled. The burns on my arm healed, but left behind these bioluminescent patterns. They pulsed with my heartbeat, glowed brighter with my emotions. Tests showed my DNA had been altered. This... change, it wasn't just physical. It rewired me from the inside out. Suddenly, I could sense things in the water that others couldn't. It was like the ocean itself was speaking to me.

After that, I couldn't go back to conventional research. The academic world felt too small, too limiting. I needed to chase the truth about what's really out there, even if it meant working outside the system. I now know - the most incredible discoveries aren't going to be found in safe, controlled environments. They're out there in the danger zone, where death is just one mistake away.

That day changed everything. It's the reason behind my research, my methods, even signing The Contract. It's the day I almost died, the day I saw the impossible, the day I became something... more.

Captain Alejandro Vega: Ah, Captain Vega. He's like the crusty old sea turtle to my curious fish - always there, always watching out for me. He was there during the accident, one of the few who believed what I saw. Since then, he's been my rock, my mentor, and yeah, a bit of a father figure.

Picture a weather-beaten face that's seen more storms than most, with eyes that twinkle like sunlight on waves. He's got this laugh that sounds like distant thunder, and he smells perpetually of sea salt and pipe tobacco. Alejandro understands my passion for the unknown depths because he shares it. He's taught me more about navigating both the ocean and life than any textbook ever could.

When I get too caught up in my research, too reckless, he's the one who reels me back in. But he's also the first to back me up when I need to push boundaries. "The sea doesn't reveal her secrets to the timid," he always says. I trust him with my life - and have, many times over.

Marco Ventura: Marco... well, let's just say he operates in the grey areas of maritime law. A smuggler with a heart of gold, if you can believe such a thing exists. He's got this roguish charm, all quick smiles and quicker wit. But beneath that, there's a depth to him - a family man forced into some tough choices.

We have an understanding, Marco and I. Sometimes I need "special" equipment that isn't exactly easy to come by through official channels. Sometimes he needs information about safe routes or underwater hideaways. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, and over time, it's grown into a friendship of sorts.

I don't agree with everything he does, but I respect his loyalty to his family and his crew. And I know that if I ever needed help in a sticky situation, no questions asked, Marco would be there in a heartbeat.

Sofia Reyes: Sofia is... complicated. She's the bright, bubbly counterpart to my intense focus. While I'm out chasing sea monsters, she's building a successful career in marketing in Santiago. We're opposites in many ways, but there's an unbreakable bond between us. I worry about her, probably more than I should. Our parents are gone, so in many ways, we're all each other has left. I call her at least once a week, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. And yeah, I send money when I can - not because she needs it, but because it makes me feel like I'm taking care of her somehow.

Sofia doesn't fully understand my work or my passion, but she supports me unconditionally. She's my tether to the "normal" world, reminding me that there's life beyond the depths. And on those rare occasions when I surface from my obsessions, she's always there with a warm hug and a cold beer, ready to listen to my latest wild tale.

These three - they're my anchors in a world that often feels as vast and mysterious as the oceans I explore. Each in their own way keeps me grounded, supported, and connected to the world above the waves.

My childhood was quite the rollercoaster, but surprisingly idyllic. I don't know the circumstances, but Mom was never in the picture and Dad passed away early on, so I was raised mainly by my Dad’s family. Aunt Dolores was my main go-to, sweet as they come but could out-stern a sergeant when needed. Her husband, Uncle Rodrigo, was all about teaching me life skills— think swimming, fishing, and giving boys a polite shove when required.

Then there were my grandparents, Eduardo and Sofia Delgado. A bit old-school Catholic and pretty strict, but beneath it, they were well-meaning softies. They all chipped in big time to make sure I hit the books and got to enjoy a happy, beachside childhood. School was good. Not a headliner in the popularity scene, but I had my crew and did well in class. Life was simple but shaped by the sand and sea— just the way I liked it.

Have I ever been in love? Oh, sure—every now and then, there's been someone. I'm into both boys and girls, so I've had my share of flings on both sides. Back in college, there was Carmen. We were quite a pair, but she and I were aiming for different stars. Our paths just wouldn't align, so it clocked out before getting too serious.

Loneliness has been there, creeping around the edges sometimes. I do feel that longing for company, but I've always leaned towards keeping things light on attachments. There's a belief I hold that the right person will click into my life someday. Meanwhile, I've got enough to keep me occupied—work, these bizarre contracts, my ever-entertaining family, and a few situationships. While I wait for that perfect fit, there's plenty of life to soak in on my terms.

When I think about what truly scares me, living an unfulfilled life takes the cake. There's this nagging worry that I might reach life's final chapter and realize I missed out on making the kind of impact I dream of - It's that fear that keeps me pushing to make sure my path is headed somewhere meaningful and it's the reason I go on bloody contracts to begin with.

The ocean feels like home to me, a place I’m fiercely protective of, so the idea of it being destroyed terrifies me. Imagining all that biodiversity vanishing because of pollution or neglect? That hits me in a place that's hard to ignore. I’m passionate about defending it because its loss would feel like losing part of myself.

And like anyone, I struggle with the fear of loneliness. Even though I prefer to have few attachments, there's that underlying dread of truly being alone. Plus, the work I do—those contracts—aren't exactly safe; they're risky, pushing boundaries. I'm no coward, but I can’t help but worry about what might happen to me out there. The challenge is keeping these fears in check while following my passions and living in the moment. Balancing the unknowns with the drive to keep moving forward is what keeps life interesting.

When I think of my most prized possessions, a few cherished items come to mind. First, there's the necklace my father bought for me before he passed away. It's the only thing I have from him, a reminder and a bridge to the stories I've heard about what a loving and doting father he would've been. His family took me in and raised me with warmth and love, keeping his memory alive.

Then there's the watercolor and gouache painting of a Humboldt squid shoal, gifted to me by Carmen when we were together. The reds and pinks of the squids form an abstract sunset, a token of the simpler, happy times we spent together.

Last but definitely not least is the outdoor gym that Captain Vega, an old friend and mentor, put together for me. He pieced it together from scraps, paint, cement, rebar, and asphaltic tape. It sits just behind the lighthouse, and it's where I go every day to work out and relax. Each piece has its unique meaning, rooted in memory, friendship, and the connections that matter.

Biggest problem? Ha! Where do I fucking start? Money's always tight. Self-funded research isn't exactly a cash cow, you know? Every dive, every piece of equipment, it's all coming out of my pocket. And let me tell you, the ocean isn't cheap to explore.

But that's just scratching the surface. The real kicker? The ocean is fucking enormous. I mean, we're talking about 71% of the Earth's surface, and we've barely scratched the surface. It's like trying to map out the entire Milky Way with a pair of drugstore binoculars and a crayon.

And don't even get me started on the whole 'quasi-sea deity' bullshit. Sure, glowing like a cut-rate rave toy is a neat party trick, but it doesn't pay the bills or unlock the secrets of the deep. Every day I'm torn between my scientific roots and this... whatever the hell I'm becoming.

Oh, and let's not forget the lovely mental image of that colossal, unknowable intelligence I sensed down there. Nothing like an unknowable eldritch leviathan of the depths to keep you up at night, wondering if you're its chosen one or just its next meal. It's a "take your pick" kind of scenario, really.

A typical morning? Christ, it's not exactly glamorous. I'm up at 5 AM, no alarm needed - years of early research dives'll do that to you. First thing, I shuffle to the kitchen like a zombie and mainline coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Breakfast is whatever's quick - usually a protein bar or yesterday's leftovers. I know, living the dream, right?

I hit the shower, scrubbing off yesterday's salt and grime. These days, I gotta make sure my 'glow spots' aren't acting up. Don't need to freak out the locals. Clothes are practical - cargo pants, sturdy boots, and a worn-out research institute hoodie. No time for makeup or fancy hair. A quick brush and it's in a ponytail. I check my gear - always prepped the night before. Double-check my waterproof notebook and lucky pocketknife. Then I'm out the door, usually to the docks or the lab.

It ain't pretty, but it gets the job done. Now, if it's a date night? That's a whole different kettle of fish. I stare at my closet like it's some alien artifact, trying to remember how 'normal' people dress up. I've got this one decent dress I bought years ago for a conference - hope it still fits.

I usually end up YouTubing makeup tutorials like some clueless teenager. The whole time I'm dolling up, I feel like a fraud. Like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life. Don't get me wrong, part of me enjoys feeling pretty, but it's so far from my daily grind that it's almost uncomfortable. I keep expecting someone to call me out, like, 'Hey, shouldn't you be covered in fish guts or something?'

In the end, I usually compromise - a nice top with my comfiest jeans, minimal makeup, and pray my date has a thing for tomboys.

Alright, let's see... I'd probably start by panicking for a good hour, then grudgingly dig out the one good dress I've had since grad school. Pray to whatever sea god is listening that it still fits and doesn't smell like formaldehyde, ask grandma to iron it, freshen it up a tad.

Makeup? That's when the real circus begins. I'd pull up some YouTube tutorials and fumble through it like I'm performing surgery with oven mitts. Eyeliner's my nemesis - I can dissect a giant squid no problem, but draw a straight line on my eyelid? Forget it.

Hair's a lost cause. I'd try to wrangle it into something resembling 'styled' rather than 'just emerged from a hurricane'. Probably end up with a slightly fancier ponytail than usual. Shoes are tricky. Heels? I walk like a drunken pelican. Might compromise with some nice flats.

All in, we're talking a solid three hours of cursing, sweating, and questioning my life choices. And the whole time, I'd be fighting the urge to just throw on my wetsuit and call it a day. In the end, I'd probably look... okay? Presentable? Like a marine biologist playing dress-up, honestly. But hey, at least I'd smell like perfume instead of fish guts. That's gotta count for something, right?

Next birthday? Ah, shit, you're gonna make me get all sentimental, aren't you? Fine. It'll be the usual Delgado family extravaganza. Wouldn't miss it for the world.

I'll head back home, where Abuela will stuff us all with enough Chilean grub to feed a small army. We're talking empanadas, pastel de choclo, maybe even a chorrillana if we're feeling particularly gluttonous. Uncle Rodrigo will break out his old guitar, and we'll butcher some classics together. I'm a shit singer, but after a few glasses of wine, who cares, right? There'll be cake, of course. Probably splurge on one of those fancy ones from the bakery downtown. Abuela will pretend to be scandalized that we didn't make it ourselves, but she'll have three slices anyway.

Once the family starts nodding off, that's when the real party begins. I'll snag a bottle of good scotch - none of that cheap stuff, it's my fucking birthday after all - and head down to the docks. Captain Vega will be waiting on the Canto General, ready for our annual 'let's get philosophical while getting shitfaced' session. We'll drink, swap stories about the sea that get more outrageous with each glass, and pontificate about life, love, and all that deep shit you only talk about when you're three sheets to the wind. I'll probably pass out on deck, waking up with a killer hangover and salt in my hair.

It's not glamorous, but it's home. It's family. It's... me, I guess. Wouldn't have it any other way.