Giant octopus finna feed a big family

The abyss was a vast, hungry maw, but nowhere near as hungry as the hundred-odd mouths squirming in Bertha’s den. Bertha wasn’t just big; she was a continent of undulating muscle, a living mountain range of suckers and cephalic intelligence. And she was tired. More than tired, she was acutely aware of the rhythmic, high-pitched squeep-squeep-squeep echoing from the cavern—the universal sound of baby octopods demanding their next colossal meal.

“Alright, alright, hold your tentacles,” she rumbled, a sound that vibrated through the deep-sea currents. She checked her mental grocery list: one colossal squid (too bouncy last time), two moderately-sized humpback whales (a bit boney), or, ideally, a plump, unsuspecting titan tuna. Today, Bertha felt like a titan tuna day. Big, meaty, and less likely to put up a fight that lasted an hour. She had mouths to feed, not games to play.

With a final, exasperated puff of ink (more for dramatic effect than concealment—nothing down here could miss her anyway), Bertha uncoiled her colossal form from the den entrance. Her mantle alone was the size of a small submarine, her eight tentacles, each as thick as a red sequoia, tapered into prehensile wonders. She pulsed forward, a living current, her skin rippling through a thousand shades of deep-sea camouflage, though today she was frankly beyond caring about subtlety. She was a mother on a mission.

The hunt was less a stealthy stalk and more an inevitable, majestic approach. Her intelligent eyes, each like a polished dinner plate, scanned the inky blackness. There! A shimmering, torpedo-shaped shadow, dwarfing even the largest great white sharks. A titan tuna, indeed. This one looked particularly well-marbled, blissfully unaware of the multi-ton predator about to end its reign at the top of the food chain.

Bertha let out an internal sigh. Such a majestic creature. And such a lot of protein.

She ghosted closer, not bothering to change her hue. The tuna, distracted by a school of unfortunate lanternfish, didn’t notice the growing shadow until it was too late. One of Bertha’s lead tentacles shot out like a harpoon, not to stab, but to hug. Its suction cups, each powerful enough to pluck a barnacle off a nuclear submarine, clamped down with the force of a million tiny vacuums.

The titan tuna thrashed, a cyclone of muscle and scales, its tail fin churning the water into a frothing maelstrom. It tried to dive, to ascend, to ram. But Bertha was a master of the deep, a veteran of countless such encounters. Two more tentacles lashed out, wrapping around the tuna’s midsection, coiling tighter and tighter. The pressure was immense. The tuna’s struggles grew weaker, its powerful muscles tiring against the relentless, overwhelming embrace.

Finally, with a decisive squeeze that could crush a battleship, Bertha felt the give. The fight was over. The great titan tuna, enough to feed a small village, was now just… food.

Hauling her prize was the hardest part. The sheer bulk of it made her progress slower, but the urgency echoing from her den spurred her on. Squeep! Squeep-squeep-squeeeeeep! Oh, they were getting impatient now.

She finally reached the wide, coral-encrusted mouth of her den. The instant she pushed the titanic tuna inside, a chaotic, joyous explosion of tiny (but rapidly growing) tentacles erupted. Dozens, then scores, then what felt like hundreds of little octopods swarmed the carcass. There was a cacophony of slurping, tearing, and the distinct sound of contented munching.

Bertha watched, her own vast body deflating slightly with relief. She leaned against a cool rock formation, her suckers giving a weary grip. She was tired, yes, but also filled with a profound satisfaction. Her family was fed. Her big, demanding, ever-hungry family.

For now.

She closed her massive eyes, already contemplating tomorrow’s menu. Maybe a pod of sperm whales? She heard they were particularly fatty this time of year. A giant octopus’s work was never truly done. Especially when you had a hundred mouths to fill.