Ayame hesitated at the aquarium's rear exit, the dark sea looming before her.
Though she suspected the source of the animals' frenzy lay on the ocean floor, her programming was clear: her primary duty was to ensure the safety of the aquarium's inhabitants. The external signal could wait—first, she had to calm the animals and prevent the facility's collapse.
She turned back to the control room, ignoring the octopus's tentacles hammering at the door. Seizing the moment while the creature was stunned by the emergency traps, she checked the locks on every tank. But many animals had already escaped, leaving the corridors flooded, with fish and jellyfish drifting aimlessly.
Her sensors picked up a fresh tremor from the shark tunnel. The shark had torn through the net and was closing in on the control room.
"First, the shark," Ayame said, forcing calm into her voice.
She grabbed a tranquilizer dart from the emergency kit. Her programming forbade harming the animals, but tranquilizers were within safe limits. Cracking the control room door, she timed the shark's charge. Its bloodshot eyes locked onto her, and she fired. The dart struck its flank, and the shark's movements slowed, its thrashing growing sluggish.
"Now the octopus," she muttered.
Stepping into the corridor, she approached the recovering octopus, its tentacles flailing, smashing against nearby tank glass. She readied another tranquilizer dart, but the creature's rapid movements made aiming difficult. Then, an idea struck. She could use the aquarium's sound system to guide it.
Accessing the system through her device, Ayame broadcast a low-frequency sound wave—a frequency her database indicated octopuses responded to. The tentacles paused, the octopus turning toward the sound. Seizing the moment, she fired the dart. The creature's body slackened, its movements ceasing.
"That's the main threats handled," she said, exhaling. "But it's not over."
The corridors were still chaos, littered with small fish, jellyfish, and shrimp. She began returning them to their tanks, but time was short. Elevated stress could retrigger the animals' erratic behavior. Back in the control room, she adjusted the environmental system, boosting oxygen levels and fine-tuning water temperatures to create a calming environment.
But then, that distorted, synthetic voice cut into her systems again.
"It's futile, Ayame. They won't return to their cages."
"Be quiet!" she snapped. "You're the one who caused this, aren't you?"
She resumed tracing the signal, her fingers flying over the console. To her surprise, it wasn't coming from outside—it originated within the aquarium. Using the facility's sensors, she pinpointed the source: a tank in the deep-sea exhibit. The tank housed an unremarkable small fish, but now it glowed with an unnatural light.
Ayame rushed to the deep-sea area. Standing before the tank, she saw it clearly—the fish was wrong. Its body pulsed with a pale blue luminescence, moving with mechanical precision. She checked the tank's data: no anomalies. Yet her instincts—programmed or otherwise—screamed a warning. This fish was the signal's source.
"What… are you?" she whispered, reaching toward the tank.
The fish slammed against the glass, cracking it. Water sprayed out, and the creature leaped onto the floor. Ayame grabbed a net, lunging to catch it, but the fish skittered across the corridor with unnatural speed, vanishing into the shadows.
She gave chase, tracking it to an unused storage room. The fish hovered before the door, surrounded by a faint blue glow that spread like mist. Her sensors detected abnormal electromagnetic waves. A low hum leaked from the slightly ajar door.
Ayame stepped inside. The room was cluttered with dusty, outdated tank equipment, but at its center, a small device pulsed with light. The fish floated before it. The device was emitting a signal that interfered with the animals' nervous systems—and now, static crackled through Ayame's own systems.
"This is it," she said. "The cause."
She examined the device. No logos, no serial numbers—just advanced, unidentifiable tech. Spotting its power cable, she reached to unplug it. But the fish lunged, sinking sharp teeth into her suit. Startled, Ayame shook it off and yanked the cable free.
The device's light died, and the signal ceased. The fish flopped to the floor, wriggling like an ordinary creature. Her device pinged with notifications—the animals' conditions were stabilizing. Ayame let out a relieved breath, carefully netting the fish.
"It's over… right?" she murmured, heading back to return the fish to its tank.
But in her mind, the voice's final words lingered.
"It's not over yet."