BEEPBEEPBEEP—
CLICK—
"Good morning, everyone tuning in to 77.7 The Groove. Today is June 12th, 20##, and you're in for a beautiful start to your morning. Clear skies, cool breezes, and a steady 20 degrees across the coast. So kick back, relax, and enjoy this lovely weather—while it lasts…"
The voice faded beneath the soft hum of static and jazz as Lee rolled onto his back, eyes still closed, one arm flung lazily over the side of the bed. His hand hung near the floor, fingertips grazing a pile of data sheets he swore he'd filed last night.
"…lovely weather… yeah, lets hope it stays like that unlike yesterday," he muttered, voice gravelly.
He didn't need to check the time. His body was a metronome trained by early mornings and late nights. He sat up, scratched the back of his head, and blinked against the morning sun filtering through half-drawn blinds. His apartment was still—almost eerily so.
A small mechanical whir sounded from the corner as his cheap but loyal coffeemaker sputtered to life, triggered by its smart plug at precisely 7:01 AM.
"Bless you," he told it, standing and stretching until his spine popped.
Lee stood about 5'11", his frame lean but wiry, a product of long walks and stubborn meal habits. His skin bore the golden-brown tan of someone who spent enough time near open water, though he hadn't swum in it in months. Dark, slightly messy hair fell in uneven clumps across his forehead, as if even his follicles had trouble keeping up with him. A few strands were still damp from last night's shower—he hadn't bothered drying his head properly again.
He moved through his routine with practiced efficiency—shower, shave, brush, ignore the stack of laundry by the door, argue briefly with the radio DJ about the ecological future of the planet, and then pour himself a cup of aggressively dark roast.
Breakfast was nothing special. Toast. Two eggs. And a strip of protein that swore it was bacon but never quite convinced him.
He sat by the small kitchen counter, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on a notepad he'd scribbled on during the night. Even in his dreams, he couldn't stop thinking about Sample 43b.
"Three years dormant, no cellular breakdown. Metabolically inert… until we woke it up. Spiral response to EM pulses. Light-reactive photocytes? Or are they communication nodes? No, too regular—more like coding strands."
He stared at the note, then sighed and took another bite of toast. Something about the way the colony shifted in the tank yesterday—it wasn't random. It was too organized.
Too deliberate.
By 7:40 AM, he was dressed and ready, bag slung over one shoulder, tablet in hand, and a sealed thermos clutched tightly like a ritual object. He paused at the door and glanced back at his apartment.
Books stacked like tectonic plates.
A whiteboard covered in diagrams and DNA helix sketches.
A photo of his team on the day the new project started, all smiles and white coats.
An old, slightly wrinkled Subnautica poster above his bed with the quote: "Below zero, there is discovery."
He smiled faintly, then stepped out into the morning air.
The seaside city always had that early-morning hush before the traffic and tourists kicked in. Lee took the long way down—six flights of creaking stairs instead of the elevator, just to feel his legs wake up. His boots hit the cracked sidewalk with a satisfying crunch of gravel and fallen salt crust. The air was crisp and laced with the briny breath of the ocean, curling in from the east like a whispered reminder.
The streets were still half-asleep. A few automated delivery drones buzzed overhead, their stubby wings blinking red against the pale sky. The usual café owner across the block was already sweeping the front steps. She waved lazily; Lee nodded back.
His route hugged the coastline, a concrete path worn smooth by generations of fishermen, researchers, and wanderers with nowhere else to be. Waves lapped rhythmically against the breakwater, foam trailing like the remnants of ancient whispers.
Lee sipped from his thermos and let the warmth soak in.
"Let's hope it stays like this," he muttered again, remembering yesterday's weird thermal spike offshore. The water temperature had spiked overnight—just a tiny change, but big enough to raise eyebrows in the lab.
He passed a crumbling mural painted on the seawall—faded images of whales, corals, plankton swirls, and a tagline from the city's heyday of ocean conservation:
"We are stewards, not owners."
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Lee's thoughts drifted back to Sample 43b, the subject of quiet obsession and rising unease among the team. The specimen was small, invisible to the naked eye, but oddly beautiful under the microscope—its spiral body glimmered with photoreactive bands and symmetrical ridges that looked too perfect, too designed.
Three years ago, they pulled it from a hydrothermal vent so deep it could've kissed the planet's mantle. It had survived cryostasis, biocontainment, and multiple failed attempts at stimulation. Until last week. When they ran a mild EM pulse scan, just to see how it responded to oscillating fields… and it woke up.
It was too responsive. Too structured. Photocytes? Maybe. But those symmetrical ridges looked more like circuits than cells he thought slowing as he reached the overlook near the sea.
He stopped here most mornings. The view was always worth it. Below, the research facility jutted from the cliff like a modernist barnacle—half glass, half synthetic concrete, all stubborn ambition.
"I'm probably being paranoid," he thought.
"But something about this doesn't add up. Photocyte arrays? Code-like protein structures? Self-repairing membranes? It's not just alive—it's built to persist."
And lately… he was having dreams. Not just stress dreams, either—strange, lucid ones. Underwater landscapes with colors that didn't exist. Shapes forming patterns in his peripheral vision. Rhythms that felt like language, even though no one was speaking.
He shook his head and finished the last of his coffee. Worrying too much around live cultures was a good way to mess up everyone's work and the sample.
A gull shrieked overhead and broke the spell. His tablet vibrated—a message from Dr. Harrow, timestamped ten minutes ago.
"Need you in containment as soon as you arrive. We ran the thermal scan again. It changed shape."
Lee blinked, reread the message, and narrowed his eyes.
"Changed shape?"
That's not how inert samples behave.
He pocketed the tablet and resumed walking. The city was waking now—shuttles revving, digital billboards coming to life, the smell of ocean mingling with distant coffee shops and hot asphalt. But beneath it all, a thin, buzzing anxiety built in his chest.
The kind of anxiety that knew a quiet morning never stayed quiet for long.
The facility loomed closer with every step—its monolithic silhouette cutting sharp against the sky, all glass glare and steel bones. To outsiders, it was just another government-funded oceanographic hub perched on the edge of nowhere. But to Lee, it had become something else entirely: a second skin, equal parts haven and pressure chamber.
As he approached the outer gate, the biometric scanner pulsed to life.
PING-
"Lee Vareen. Clearance: Level 3. Welcome back."
The gates slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Inside, the air changed. Cooler, drier—scrubbed clean by the building's internal filtration systems. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to every surface. He passed the front desk, nodded to the receptionist, and headed straight down the corridor toward Containment.
He moved through the halls on autopilot. Concrete beneath synthetic tiling. Low, humming lights. The gentle buzz of ceiling panels processing filtered sunlight. Everything was engineered to feel calm, clinical—even welcoming. But today, the weight of the building pressed harder than usual.
As he stepped into the elevator and keyed in his level, he caught a flicker of his reflection in the brushed metal walls. Tired eyes. Tension in the jaw. Whatever was happening in Lab C, it wasn't going to be routine.
DING-
"Sublevel -2. Containment Wing."
The hallway was quieter here, soundproofed and sterner. Only secure labs, heavy bulkhead doors, and tight security lived on this level. Lee scanned his ID badge at the double-sealed airlock and stepped into the prep zone. He slid into a thin polymer lab coat, gloves, and retinal shield glasses. Standard procedure—though lately, even the standard was starting to feel outdated.
Dr. Harrow, the lead researcher, was already inside Containment Lab C—his back turned, eyes locked onto a floating monitor populated with shifting points of data on the sample.
"Glad you made it," Harrow muttered without looking up. "You're going to want to see this."
Lee moved closer. The central chamber, sealed off behind a layer of glass, held Sample 43b suspended in a small sterile aquatic medium. Yesterday, it had been a tightly curled spiral on the monitor, inert and unmoving. Today…
He frowned.
The spiral had uncoiled—partially. Filament-like tendrils now drifted outward in radial symmetry, twitching at irregular intervals. At first glance, it resembled a jellyfish unfurling after sleep. But the movements were too smooth. Too…strange.
"That's not growth," Lee said quietly. "That's behavior."
Dr. Harrow nodded, jaw tense. "Exactly. We triple-checked the data. It's reacting. Not just to the EM pulse this time, but to the thermal gradient we introduced an hour ago. It's tracking temperature like it's learning."
Lee leaned closer, his breath fogging the containment glass slightly.
Sample 43b pulsed once, a ripple passing through its semi-translucent body like a wave of breath.
He whispered, "That shouldn't be possible."
Behind them, one of the assistant techs piped up from the control station. "It also responded to low level inputs. Such as vibrations mimicking macroscopic life."
Lee's head turned. "What kind of response?"
The tech hesitated. "It moved toward every stimulus. Like it was… searching."
Lee frowned. "It's not that strange."
The tech's voice dropped. "No. It tried to reach them. All of them."
Dr. Harrow didn't speak for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "We need to test it. Controlled interactions. Passive biological inputs."
Lee gave a slow nod. "You want to feed it."
"Not exactly," Harrow replied. "Observe how it reacts to the presence of life—simple, tiered complexity. Just enough to map a curve. Nothing more. If we're wrong, we'll prove it. If we're right…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Test One: Algae Culture
An hour later, the lab was quiet but bristling with a tension that hummed beneath every surface. A sterilized micro-cartridge of common algae—a photosynthetic, non-motile strain—was introduced into the aquatic chamber through the remote sluice system.
Sample 43b showed no immediate reaction.
Then it drifted, subtly adjusting its position. One of its tendrils elongated, curling in slow spirals toward the green bloom. It didn't consume. Didn't bind.
Instead—it entered.
The filament threaded through the cluster like smoke curling into cracks. The algae didn't react visibly, but within seconds, the spectrograph lit up—chemical compositions were shifting. Cellular activity spiked, but not from the algae.
From 43b.
Lee's eyes darted across the data. "It's infiltrating."
"It's… becoming it," said the tech, voice thin.
On screen, the algae culture shimmered faintly, as if lit from within. Then a section of the bloom broke away—moved of its own accord, drifting in a new, unnatural spiral.
Harrow stared. "The algae are still algae. But it's… in there."
Lee's voice was barely above a whisper. "No—it's imitating them. Using them."
Test Two: Nematode
At T+60 minutes, the second subject—a single, fully active nematode—was introduced into the containment chamber. No sedation. No inhibitors. Just a live, free-moving organism, writhing and twisting through the fluid like a thread in a storm.
Lee crossed his arms, watching the monitors. "Let's see how it handles something unpredictable."
The nematode began its usual erratic movement—looping, darting, turning with natural reflex. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Sample 43b remained still, its tendrils swaying in the current like seaweed caught in deep tide.
Then it moved.
One tendril curled back like a fist pulled into muscle, while another shot forward—quick, elegant, and straight.
It didn't strike.
It paralleled.
The filament mirrored the nematode's motion, matching its loops, spirals, and sudden twists with surgical precision—but never touching. Almost like it was… learning the rhythm.
"That's predictive," said Harrow quietly.
Lee's jaw tightened. "It's tracking reflex, not just reaction time."
Then, the tendril twitched—and altered its path half a second before the nematode turned.
The worm jerked in confusion. As it darted away, Sample 43b surged again, cutting across the chamber to intercept, faster this time. Two more tendrils unfurled, forming a kind of corral—not quite a trap, but a guidance pattern.
And it worked.
The nematode tried to flee, but every escape vector was cut off a half-second early.
Then came contact.
Three filaments lashed forward—not piercing, not grasping, but threading into the nematode's dorsal nerve cord, mid-body and anterior. The creature convulsed once, wriggled violently—and then froze.
Lee stepped closer to the glass. "That was voluntary movement. It fought."
"And it lost," Harrow said grimly.
The nematode twitched again, but not in panic. It adjusted position slowly—deliberately—and began swimming. Not in its usual chaotic corkscrews, but in the same spiraling, symmetrical pattern Sample 43b had exhibited hours earlier.
Then it paused… and reversed direction.
The spectrograph flared.
"Wait…" Lee muttered, "those aren't just motor signals—it's generating protein shifts."
The nematode's cells were changing. Rebuilding. Fluorescent markers pulsed through the microscope feed as localized regions of the worm's body began expressing foreign proteins. Some looked like modified muscle tissue. Others resembled simplified neural filaments—branched and structured.
"It's rewriting it," said the tech behind them, staring in disbelief. "The worm's not just infected… it's being recompiled."
The nematode curled into a perfect spiral mid-chamber, then extended outward again—exactly as Sample 43b had done that morning.
Lee leaned closer. "It's no longer a test subject."
Harrow's voice dropped to a whisper.
"It's a vessel."
Test Three: Artemia salina – Sea Monkey
T+120 minutes.
The third subject—a single Artemia salina, commonly known as a sea monkey—was introduced into the chamber.
Unlike the nematode, this organism had basic appendages, more advanced musculature, and complex photoreception. It swam with rhythmic, purposeful strokes through the fluid medium, kicking its translucent limbs like a lazy oar.
For the first thirty seconds, Sample 43b remained still. Then it began to retreat—receding slowly toward the bottom of the chamber, tendrils curling inward like a flower folding in darkness.
"Why's it pulling back?" one of the techs asked, frowning.
"It's either watching… or waiting," Lee murmured. "Just like last time."
The sea monkey moved curiously toward the retreating form. Tentative at first. Then closer. The distance closed to just centimeters.
Without warning, Sample 43b snapped into motion.
Tendrils surged outward—not erratic, not panicked—but in staged formation. They formed a cage around the Artemia, then released a pulse. Not physical. Not thermal. Photonic.
On the monitor, it registered as a burst of tightly patterned light waves—too regular for a biological glitch.
"What was that?" Harrow said, his eyes narrowing.
"Some kind of… signaling? Like a flash code," Lee replied.
The Artemia jerked once. Then again. Its limbs stiffened, strokes disrupted, but it didn't try to flee. Instead, it floated.
Still. Waiting.
One tendril brushed the underside of the sea monkey's abdomen—delicate, careful contact. Then it split, dividing into sub-filaments that laced into the micro-joints between appendages.
"No invasion point," the tech muttered nervously. "It's not piercing tissue. It's…" He paused. "It's entering along neural gaps."
Just like the nematode.
Within forty-five seconds, the Artemia salina resumed swimming—but now in perfect radial loops. Patterned. Clocked. Precise.
Lee's hands clenched behind his back.
"Check for protein conversion," he said sharply.
The analysis took seconds. The screen shifted—cellular overlays revealing internal changes.
Localized restructuring had begun in the thoracic ganglia. Simple motor neurons were being replaced by an unfamiliar, lattice-like protein. The eye stalks, previously basic light sensors, now emitted faint pulses of their own—barely measurable, but present.
"It's building infrastructure," Harrow said.
Lee nodded grimly. "No infection markers. No immune response. It's not attacking the host. It's rewriting it willingly."
Then the Sea Monkey paused mid-loop. Its eyes locked onto one of the embedded temperature sensors in the wall. Not random—intentional.
It swam directly toward it. And stopped. Hovered.
A flicker passed through Sample 43b's original mass—still drifting at the base of the tank.
And then, slowly, gracefully, the transformed Artemia salina turned… and mimicked the exact posture.
Two entities. One original. One rewritten.
Identical.
Harrow's voice broke the silence.
"Not just replication."
Lee nodded slowly.
"Propagation."