Chapter 2
“ F ive.”
The mechanical voice cut through the pounding in Greta’s ears with clinical calm.
She was still pressed against the rear curve of her capsule, heart slamming so hard she could feel it in her throat, when the first hiss sounded. Not from the males’ capsules. From hers.
A seam she hadn’t noticed opened near the base. Clear seawater surged in, icy and relentless, flooding across the floor in seconds.
“What— no!” Greta shoved herself upright, boots slipping on the suddenly wet surface. The water rose fast—ankles, calves, knees—cold enough to shock the breath from her lungs. She slammed her palms against the glass again. “Stop! Turn it off!”
The five blue males watched her.
Their expressions had shifted from predatory hunger to open, undisguised lust. Gills flared wide along their necks and ribs as they breathed the water that was still only inches deep in their own capsules .
The biggest one with the shark-fin crest pressed his webbed hand flat to the glass separating them, amber eyes tracking every frantic movement she made. His bioluminescent markings pulsed in slow, deliberate waves.
They knew exactly what was happening to her.
And they were enjoying it.
“Four.”
The water climbed to her waist. Greta’s torn cargo shorts darkened instantly, the fabric clinging heavy and cold. She tried to climb the molded seat, but there was nowhere to go. The capsule was sealed tight.
Her scientist’s brain raced: pressure differential, rapid flooding, no airlock visible—designed for submersion. Engineer’s brain supplied the worse detail: the rate was too fast for any natural system. This was intentional.
She was going to drown.
“Greta, think,” she hissed to herself, voice shaking. “You build underwater drones. You’ve tested pressure hulls. There has to be?—”
The water hit her chest. She gasped as the cold stole her breath, arms flailing for purchase on the slick glass.
One of the slimmer males smiled again—that slow, knowing curve of too-sharp teeth—and his markings flared bright. He leaned closer to his own wall, watching her breasts rise and fall rapidly above the rising line.
“Three.”
Seawater rushed up to her neck. Greta tilted her head back, sucking desperate gulps of the thinning air pocket. Her fingers scrabbled at the ceiling seam, nails breaking. “Please—stop this! I can’t— I don’t?—”
The water crested over her head.
Greta’s eyes flew wide. She instinctively slammed her palms against the glass wall again, still fighting, still refusing to accept what was happening.
Through the warped, water-filled capsule she saw the five blue males clearly now — completely submerged, gills flaring lazily, watching her with open, predatory hunger. Their expressions had shifted from mere lust to something darker, more expectant.
Her stomach sank like a stone.
Oh no. They’re not worried at all. They’re waiting for this.
A new sound joined the hiss: a soft mechanical whir from a hidden vent below.
A fine liquid sprayed into the water and floated upward in lazy, shimmering threads before slowly dissipating around her.
Warm and faintly metallic, it brushed against her face and shoulders.
Only into her capsule, she noticed. The males’ pods remained untouched.
It hit her skin like liquid fire.
Pain bloomed first — sharp, electric, racing along every nerve. Greta screamed underwater. The sound came out as a distorted warble, and in her panic she accidentally gulped in a lungful of seawater.
She choked hard, body convulsing, gills not yet formed. For one terrifying second she was drowning for real — water burning down her throat, vision tunneling.
Well done, Greta, she thought bitterly as black spots danced across her sight. Screaming underwater. Top-tier survival instincts. Teacher of the year.
Her vision whited out. Then the changes began.
Gills.
She felt them bloom along the sides of her neck first—slits opening with wet, tearing heat, three delicate rows on each side, then lower along her ribs.
The sensation was obscene, like her body was being unzipped and rewritten from the inside.
She clawed at her throat, gasping, and water flooded her mouth.
Instead of choking, her new gills fluttered open and pulled in oxygen-rich seawater.
Her skin prickled violently. The human tone shifted, softening to a delicate pink with subtle, iridescent scales that caught the dim light like mother-of-pearl.
Webbing grew between her fingers and toes—thin, translucent membranes stretching with a sting that made her whimper. Her legs remained legs, no tail forming, but the muscles felt restructured, lighter, built for thrust in water.
The pain crested and faded into a strange, humming warmth that pooled low in her belly. Unwanted. Invasive. Her body was changing, adapting, and part of it was already responding to the males watching her with raw need.
“Two.”
Greta thrashed, half in panic, half in the overwhelming sensory overload. The water was everywhere now—full submersion. Her torn clothes floated around her like useless rags.
The pink-toned skin of her arms looked alien under the glow of the capsule. She could breathe. She was breathing water, gills flaring with each panicked inhale.
The males’ lust had turned feral.
The big crested one slammed his body against his wall again and again, the impacts booming.
His markings blazed. The lean one with silver jaw markings had his hand wrapped around his own massive throbbing cock, eyes half-lidded as he watched her new form take shape.
All five of them were hard, visibly aroused, their sleek blue bodies taut with anticipation.
They wanted her like this. Needed her like this .
“One.”
Greta’s new webbed hands pressed against the glass. She stared at the five predators, chest heaving, gills working frantically. Terror and something darker—something the serum had woken—warred inside her.
The voice spoke its final word.
“Launch.”
The floor of her capsule dropped away without warning.
And Greta fell.