Ayame returned the strange, glowing fish to its tank in the deep-sea exhibit and hurried back to the control room.
Disabling the mysterious device had calmed the animals' frenzy, but the aquarium remained in disarray. Flooded corridors teemed with flopping fish and drifting jellyfish, while water leaked from cracked tanks, worsening the chaos. Her sensors pinged with new alerts—emergency signals from the tropical fish area and the penguin pool.
"It's not over yet," she murmured. "I have to settle everything."
In the control room, she checked the monitors. In the tropical fish area, vibrant angelfish and bettas tore into each other, clouding the water with blood and scales. At the penguin pool, normally docile penguins shrieked and slammed themselves against the pool's edges in a frenzy.
Her device showed no anomalies in water quality or temperature. Yet the animals' erratic behavior persisted.
Grabbing an emergency gear bag, Ayame raced to the tropical fish area. As she navigated the corridors, a tiny crab scuttled across her path, and sea urchins rolled, spines bristling. She sidestepped them carefully, but a sudden crash overhead made her look up. A small tank near the ceiling had shattered, and a bannerfish plummeted onto her shoulder, thrashing wildly, its sharp fins slicing her suit.
"Easy now!" she said, netting the fish and tossing it into a nearby tank. "I'll get you back."
But the tropical fish area was a warzone. In one massive tank, clownfish swarmed, ramming the glass, leaving cracks snaking across its surface. In another, a pufferfish, grotesquely inflated, darted at unnatural speed, crushing smaller fish in its path. The entire area thrummed with violent chaos.
Ayame approached the clownfish tank first. Accessing the sound system, she played a frequency known to soothe clownfish. Their frenzied charges slowed, and she seized the moment to fire a tranquilizer dart into the water. The sedative dissolved, and the clownfish grew sluggish. But the pufferfish was trickier—its solitary, erratic movements dodged her darts.
"Come on, not you too," she pleaded. "Please, calm down."
She reached for the pufferfish with a net, but it puffed up, knocking the net aside. Retreating, she tried another tactic: dimming the tank's lights to reduce its stress. Adjusting the lighting through her device, she darkened the tank. The pufferfish's movements eased, and she swiftly netted it, transferring it to an isolation tank and administering a sedative.
With the tropical fish area's main threats contained, Ayame headed for the penguin pool. But halfway there, that distorted voice slithered into her systems again.
"It's pointless, Ayame. Their rage won't fade. The cages are destined to break."
"Shut up!" she snapped, trying to trace the signal. This time, it came from multiple points within the aquarium. She froze for a moment. She'd destroyed the device—how was this possible? But the penguin pool's piercing, scream-like cries urged her onward.
At the pool, penguins battered themselves against the edges, blood staining the water red. In the center, several bit at each other, feathers scattering. A pang—unfamiliar, unprogrammed—tightened in Ayame's chest. She needed a way to calm them without harm, and fast.
"Sound won't work," she muttered. "Penguins don't respond to it. But water…"
She accessed the pool's water flow system, triggering a strong current. The penguins, drawn to the movement, stopped attacking and began swimming. Seizing the chance, she mixed sedative into the water. Their frantic cries softened, their movements slowing. But one penguin leaped from the pool, charging her. She dodged, netting it gently.
"It's okay," she said, easing it back into the pool. "You're safe now."
She fine-tuned the water flow until the pool grew quiet. Exhaling in relief, she checked her device—only to find more emergency signals flooding in.
In the stingray tank, a massive manta ray was slamming its barbed tail against the glass, threatening to shatter it. In another, an electric eel unleashed erratic discharges, shocking fish in nearby tanks.
Ayame sprinted to the stingray tank. The manta's barbs had pierced the glass, and water was leaking. She readied a tranquilizer dart, but the ray's swift movements made aiming impossible. Instead, she manipulated the tank's water intake, creating a strong current to slow it. With the ray's movements restricted, she fired the dart, and it stilled.
But before she could reach the electric eel, a stray discharge grazed her suit, nearly shorting it. "Not yet," she growled, activating her suit's backup power. At the eel's tank, she cut the power supply, halting its shocks temporarily. The eel still thrashed, striking the tank with its tail. Carefully, she netted it and moved it to an isolation tank.
Finally, the animals' rampage began to subside. Back in the control room, Ayame checked every tank. The sedatives and environmental adjustments had worked, and temporary patches held the cracked glass. But that voice echoed one last time.
"You think you've won?" it taunted. "Their hearts have already tasted freedom."
Ayame slammed the console, resuming the signal trace. It was now diffused through the aquarium's air, impossible to pinpoint. Device in hand, she began patrolling the corridors.
The animals were quiet, but her sensors detected a faint anomaly lingering. Somewhere, the cause still lurked.