Dawn Experiment

# Day 16 - 23:41

Zhao woke under the weight of countless bodies. That was the first thing—heat, raw and absolute, from every side. The second was the smell: layered and familiar, yet so strange in its intensity, it shocked him to awareness. The stench of vomit, sweat, urine, and a low, yeasty sweetness he couldn’t name. Old blood. Maybe new blood. Maybe something worse.

He tried to move and found himself pinned. Arms and thighs and bare skin pressed from all angles, sweaty and half-glued, so every attempt to shift just mated him tighter to the pile. Above him, somewhere, voices: high, insistent, echoing in the pressure hull.

The next thing to hit was the pain. His hips ached as if he’d done a thousand squats, his chest was full of knives, and his cock—he looked down, then away—was a riot of red and purple, crusted with blood and mucus, slumping like a snapped hose.

He shut his eyes against it, but there was no going back to black. Someone shook his shoulder. “Hey—Zhao, can you hear me?”

He pried his lids open. Vivienne. Her face was streaked with tears and, inexplicably, glitter. Behind her, Mei-Lin was on her knees, pressing wadded gauze to her own bruised breast, the pink tip dark with dried blood.

He tried to ask a question, but only a dry croak came out.

Aida slid behind him, supporting his back with her chest. Her skin was warm and slick. “Stay still,” she whispered. “You’re not finished.”

He tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing, but all he could summon were flashes: blue light, hands grasping at him, bodies writhing in fever or need. Faces swimming in and out of frame. The next moment, a blast of memory hit him—trying to force himself inside someone who was thrashing and crying, two women holding her down while he did the job, only to have her clamp so tight around him that he nearly blacked out again. After that, it was hands: tugging, slapping, even biting him, the pressure of so many people desperate to not die.

Mei-Lin squirted a water bottle into his mouth. Most of it missed, running down his jaw and onto Aida’s chest, but some got in. “You okay?” she said, as if the answer mattered.

He managed a nod. “What… time?”

Aida said, “You were out for three minutes. Maybe more. We lost track.”

Vivienne’s eyes flicked to the rest of the hull. Women lay sprawled across the floor in various states of distress, some motionless, others twitching. ”The ones who were going to die without you are stabilized now,” she said, voice flat with exhaustion. ”The rest...” She gestured vaguely at the human wreckage. ”We’re still working on them.”

Zhao lifted his head, tried to survey the room. Everywhere, bodies: dozens of limp female bodies scattered like broken dolls, a handful shivering or curled up in fetal knots. Iqbal knelt beside a pair of unconscious patients, her hands slick with blood, mouth set in a grim line as she patched a torn forearm with a strip of T-shirt. Saanvi moved down the line, pushing pills into open mouths, then returning to the next emergency. There were no sheets, no bandages—only the scraps of clothing ripped from the least-injured, now tied off around wounds or twisted into pads.

He saw Isabelle—her tattoos unmistakable even from here—sitting against the wall, naked and trembling with exhaustion. Their eyes met across the room, and she managed to lift her hand in a weak gesture of gratitude, fingers spread then closing to a fist against her heart. Aida followed his gaze. ”She made it,” she whispered. ”Because of you.”

Vivienne pressed his head gently into her lap, stroking his sweat-stuck hair. “We got through most of them. The criticals, anyway. You treated at least twenty of them.”

Mei-Lin leaned close, lips by his ear. “You saved them,” she said, like a secret. Then: “But you broke yourself too.”

He tried to focus. Every muscle in his core trembled with effort, his cock twitched in a micro-spasm of pain. He looked down at his thighs: scratched and streaked with dried blood, tiny tooth marks pocked across the surface. The head of his cock was mottled and raw, the shaft ringed in a bruise. He tried to flex and almost vomited.

Aida held him from behind, arms crossing his chest. “Let us do this now,” she whispered. “You just rest.”

Vivienne and Mei-Lin began cleaning him—wiping away the worst of the blood, applying cool compresses that bit into the wound. When they touched him, he flinched. It took three tries to get the last chunk of something—maybe a chunk of tissue, maybe just a clot—unstuck from the tip. Vivienne kept her expression neutral as she did it.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

She wiped his face, then her own, then pressed her lips to his forehead. He felt it: the shiver, the tears she’d locked down for everyone else.

He tried to sit up, to see beyond their little nest. The women next to him moaned, shifting as he moved, but Aida caught him before he could fall. She sat, pulling him upright, his head resting between her shoulder and neck.

He blinked at the corridor, at the blue-lit chaos. “What… next?” He wasn’t even sure who he was asking.

Aida took a breath, her eyes unfocused as she stared past his shoulder. ”I don’t—” She shook her head slightly, fingers trembling against his skin. ”We need to finish treating everyone first. Then... I don’t know what happens next.”

Zhao struggled to his feet, dizzy. He almost collapsed, but Mei-Lin and Vivienne caught him under the arms. Someone passed a towel, then realized it was useless, so they just propped him up in the nude, like a ragdoll prince.

Saanvi approached, her own body streaked with grime and sweat. “You did well,” she said, checking his pulse at the neck. “You need fluids and rest. Maybe six days in bed.”

He tried to laugh, but only managed a wet cough.

Vivienne helped him dress, though most of the clothing was shredded or sticky. He ended up in a tunic made from two torn shirts and nothing else. Mei-Lin found the last of the pain killer, pressed it into his palm. “For later,” she said, then pocketed it herself.

He walked, legs rubbery, down the hull corridor. All eyes followed him—some in awe, some with a kind of gratitude, a few with something like desperate hope blooming in their eyes. Kim’s swollen eyes met his, then Elena’s—her shoulder still bleeding from the fall. Note sat nearby, knees drawn to her chest, the bruise on her collarbone darkening to purple. Other faces blurred together in his exhaustion, fragments from the hell of the last hour.

He tried to stand tall, but ended up leaning on Vivienne and Aida, who flanked him with professional care. Mei-Lin led the way, her back a slim ribbon of muscle under the bloody strip of towel. The women parted, making a path, silent.

At the far end of the compartment, Sophie Laurent stood, arms crossed, perfectly composed. Her white suit remained pristine as ever, not a wrinkle or stain despite the chaos, her silver-streaked hair swept into that same severe bun she’d worn since the beginning.The monitor behind her glowed with three lines: two flat, one pulsing yellow. VERNE, VICTORIA, MAGGIE. Victoria and Verne were dead—flatlined. Only Maggie, somehow, was still alive.

He tried to ask, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

Sophie’s lips twitched into something almost resembling a smile. ”You did your duty,” she said, her voice still commanding but with a new softness at its edges. She reached out briefly as if to touch his shoulder, then withdrew her hand. ”Now let the others finish theirs.”

He looked at the monitor, then at the forward screen. On it, a view from the conning camera—a burning streak on the surface, then a growing dot of red and orange. The sub had surfaced, or was about to.

Sophie’s gaze never left the screen. “AURA,” she said, “distance to wreck?”

AURA’s voice was honey-smooth and cold: “One point five kilometers and closing. No other vessels detected.”

Sophie’s jaw tightened. “Retrieve the key. Be gentle.”

The women in the room murmured. Some craned their necks to see the monitor. On the screen, the burning ship drew closer, fire licking at the deck, smoke pouring off the shattered hull. The logo on the bow was barely visible—Red Solstice. The vessel that had come to kill them.

The sub shuddered as it maneuvered. Zhao felt the inertia, the low rumble of machinery. Through the side porthole, he saw black water and the glow of flame. A white shape already drifted between them and the burning wreck—something that had been ejected before their arrival. It bobbed in the current like a ghostly buoy, neither sinking nor floating away.

The room fell silent as a thump rattled the pressure hull.

Sophie watched the monitor. “Open compartment six,” she said.

A whirr, then a hiss, and one of the hatches along the port wall slid open. Dripping with seawater, a gleaming metal capsule swung into view on the end of a mechanical claw. The robotic arm positioned it with precise movements, locking the new stasis pod into place between the chambers marked OASIS and VICTORIA.

Zhao craned his neck. He was too weak to move, but Vivienne crossed and wiped the condensation off the glass. She stared, then smiled, a sad twist.

“It’s Carmona,” she said.

Sophie only nodded. “The twin. I thought as much.”

AURA’s voice: “Second pod acquired. Six live signals remain on Red Solstice. Shall I surface?”

Sophie’s hand hovered over the panel. “Wait. Zoom camera to the wreck. Full magnification.”

On the screen, the image jerked, then steadied. The deck was a killing field: bodies sprawled everywhere, black and blue in the strobe of the burning hull. There was movement near the aft rail. A woman, bare-armed and blood-streaked, pacing the deck with something heavy in her hands.

At six hundred meters, the image sharpened.

Vivienne gasped. “It’s Victoria.”

Mei-Lin let out a squeak. “She’s alive?”

On the monitor, Victoria staggered across the ruined deck, one arm hanging limp, the other dragging a rifle behind her. She was naked from the waist up, her torso streaked with cuts and soot. Her face was a mask of blood, teeth bared in a wild grin.

Zhao tried to move closer, but his legs failed.

Linh Hoa Pham, her face still a mess of sweat and blood, slapped a control on the comms panel. “Victoria!” she shouted, “this is Linh. We’re here. You’re not alone.”

On the deck, Victoria looked up, then raised both arms in a V, waving. She paced to the edge and leaned over, scanning the water.

Sophie nodded. “Surface. Now.”

AURA: “Surfacing.”

The sub surged upward. Zhao felt the slight pressure shift, his ears popping. He looked again at the monitor. There were bodies in the water, dozens of them. Near the burning yacht, two small motorboats flamed out, both listing to starboard, black smoke pouring from their hulls.On the deck with Victoria stood a handful of survivors: four, maybe five, all women in civilian clothes—a chef whose white jacket was now stained red, another in a torn evening dress that clung to her legs, a third in a laboratory coat with pockets still bulging with sample vials. They huddled together near the rail, faces pale with shock, their soaked clothing dripping puddles onto the scorched deck.

Victoria paced the deck, then dropped the rifle and crouched beside a naked woman huddled against the rail. The stranger’s delicate features remained striking even through the grime and blood covering her slight frame. Dark bruises bloomed across her ribs and thighs, and a deep gash ran from her shoulder to elbow. The woman clutched a waterproof case to her chest with trembling hands. Victoria studied her face for a moment longer than the others, then grabbed a rope and made a slashing gesture toward the sub.

“She wants us to come closer,” said Vivienne.

Sophie didn’t wait. “AURA, approach to one hundred meters.”

The submarine drove in, engines a low growl. Through the porthole, the world went bright, surface light dazzling compared to the blue glow inside.

On the deck, Victoria moved with desperate purpose, positioning the survivors in a line against the rail. She worked fast, even with one arm hanging limp at her side. Blood poured from a gash at her ribs, darkening her torn shirt, but her movements never faltered as she prepared them for rescue.

Zhao watched, unable to speak. He felt the ache of hope, the impossible ache, as he realized she was alive.

As the sub drew alongside the ruined yacht, Victoria leaned down and screamed at the five women she’d rescued. The women hesitated, then dove—one after another, their bodies vanishing into the oily water. Victoria waited, then jumped herself, slamming into the sea with a splash.

A hatch above the pressure hull swung open. Kim Minjung and two others appeared, hauling the first survivors in by the wrists. The water ran off them in rivers, blood diluting to pink. Mei-Lin sprinted to help, dragging towels and thermal blankets. Aida and Vivienne propped Zhao at the base of the ladder, so he could see everything.

Victoria was the last to emerge, crawling out of the hatch on hands and knees. Her scalp was a patchwork of angry red burns and charred stubble, and the right side of her jaw was swollen double. She blinked in the sudden light, then saw Zhao, and smiled through a mouthful of blood.

“Miss me, asshole?” she rasped.

He tried to answer, but his throat caught. Victoria’s eyes followed his gaze to the aft section where rows of women lay recovering on makeshift pallets, IV bags hanging above them. Aida gave Victoria a meaningful look and tapped her own throat twice. Victoria’s split lips curled into something between a grimace and a grin. ”Our little stud’s been busy,” she croaked, nodding with unmistakable approval.

Kim and the others got her to the bench, where Saanvi started cleaning her wounds. Victoria didn’t flinch, just kept her eyes on Zhao. “Told you I’d make it,” she said. “Never doubted.”

Vivienne laughed, a high, shivery sound. “You’re insane,” she said.

Victoria’s eyes locked with Zhao’s, a flash of recognition passing between them. ”Only way to win,” she replied, the corner of her bloody mouth quirking up. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze saying what her battered body couldn’t—that she saw the same madness in him now, the same willingness to do whatever it took to survive.

Saanvi knelt beside the naked woman Victoria had rescued, the one who’d clutched the waterproof case. Her slender fingers worked methodically over the victim’s body, cataloging a constellation of burns and methodical cuts that spoke of interrogation rather than battle. The woman’s clouded, unfocused eyes stared at nothing—blinded, perhaps permanently.

Sophie watched all of it, her face unreadable. She looked at Zhao, then at the crowd, then at the monitor where Verne’s line was still flat.

She turned to Linh, a spark of determination replacing the exhaustion in her eyes. ”Set course for the Blue Oasis. The Red Solstice is finished. It’s time we reclaimed what’s ours.” Her fingers traced the outline of the home dock on the navigation display, lingering over the familiar berth they’d been forced to abandon a few hours ago.

Linh nodded, already at the panel.

Sophie turned to Victoria. ”The vectors?” she asked, her voice taut with urgency. Victoria spat blood onto the deck. Victoria’s eyes went hollow. ”Carmona. Shot them all. Wouldn’t let Blue Oasis have them.” She swallowed hard. ”Not that it mattered by then. They weren’t... human anymore. Strapped down like lab rats. One missing an arm. Another with—” She looked away. ”Their eyes were empty. Whatever they were before, they were already gone.”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. ”And Carmona?” Victoria’s lips pulled into a crimson smile as she tapped the rifle beside her. ”Thought I had her. Killed three of her elite guards, but...” She shook her head, eyes distant. ”Last one bought her enough time. Saw her speeding away on one of those black tactical boats.” Her fingers tightened around the rifle. Victoria’s words hung in the air. ”Knowing Carmona, she’s already planning her next move. We need to be ready when she finds us again.”

Sophie’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the skin as she gave a single, sharp nod. Her eyes, normally cool and calculating, flashed with something dangerous—not fear, but the quiet fury of a woman who had lost too much already and wouldn’t lose anything more.

Victoria turned away from Sophie’s questions, her body screaming for rest. But as she limped toward the bench where Zhao lay, something caught her eye through the open hatch of the pressure hull.

The stasis pod.

Labeled VICTORIA in stark block letters.

Her twin sister floated inside, pale and still, hair drifting in the suspension gel like seaweed in slow current. The same face that had smiled at her through the glass of Rowan Keur’s holding cell three years ago. The same hands that had reached for her as the door closed.

She pressed her bloodied palm against the cold surface, leaving a crimson print.Her expression shifted—relief, guilt, determination—a silent promise forming in her eyes: When we’ve built something worth waking up to, I’ll bring you home.

Behind her, Vivienne watched, her own reflection ghosting across the adjacent stasis chamber where her identical face slept undisturbed. She narrowed her eyes at Victoria’s bloodied handprint, lips pressed into a thin line as she mouthed something to her own sleeping twin—a vow to uncover what Victoria wasn’t telling them.

Zhao sagged against the bench. Every nerve in his body screamed, but his heart was quiet, a warm throb under the pain.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift, trusting—for the first time since this all began—that the world might still hold something worth surviving for.

He dreamed of the captain’s hands, rough and gentle, guiding him through the dark. Of Verne, somewhere above, alive and waiting.

The ache in his chest was real, and for once, it felt good.

He would live to see her again.