Inklift

Hold anywhere and Ollo's tentacle lashes toward your finger, sticking to whatever it touches. Grab a dumbo octopus drifting overhead and it hauls him up; let go at the top of the swing and he sails on toward the next ride. Without a ride a newborn octopus only sinks, and the dark below keeps rising after him. Every layer of sea has its own riders and its own trouble. Nautiluses bob, lantern shoals shake him off after two seconds, ribbon oars sprint straight up. Anglers dangle a glow that looks exactly like a ride, and jelly curtains sting him loose. A double tap puffs ink, jetting him upward and blinding anything hungry nearby. Glowbeads ride in his mantle until a string of lantern jellies takes them in; a swallowed octopus loses whatever he carried. The surface is two thousand metres up, and the moon is brighter than he imagined.