The hum of the deep-sea observatory was a constant, low thrum in Sloane’s bones. Outside the main viewport, the eternal black of the abyss was punctuated only by the occasional, spectral flicker of a bioluminescent jellyfish. Inside Lab 3, the light was sterile and bright, gleaming off stainless steel and the thick, tempered glass of the containment cylinder.
Her focus was split. In one world, her eye was pressed to the microscope’s eyepiece, tracing the mesmerizing, helical dance of alien mitochondria in a sample of Subject Theta’s dermal cells. In the other, a voice, husky and dripping with lust, poured directly into her mind through her wireless earbuds.
“…and the tendrils, slick and cool and impossibly strong, found her wrists, her ankles, pinning her spread-eagle against the moist cavern wall. She struggled, but the protest was a lie her body told her mind. Her core was molten, aching for the violation it knew was coming…”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the facility’s climate control traced a path from the nape of Sloane’s neck down her spine. She’d been on the graveyard shift for four nights now, alone with the ocean’s silence and her own, carefully curated secrets. The audiobook was one of them. Tentacles of the Deep. It was absurd, pulpy, and so deliciously explicit. It would horrify Dr. Aris, with his starched lab coats and disapproving frowns. It would make the techs blush and stammer. Sloane let a slow, private smile touch her lips. Let them think I’m listening to oceanographic podcasts.
She shifted in her chair, the fabric of her sensible skirt tightening across her thighs. The voice in her ear continued, painting a vividly obscene picture.
“The first tentacle breached her, a thick, questing invasion that made her cry out into the dank air. It wasn’t enough. Another, thinner, more agile, circled her peaked nipple before pinching, rolling, sending jolts of sharp pleasure-pain straight to her groin…”
Sloane’s breath hitched. She pulled back from the microscope, blinking. The cellular structures blurred. Her own body was suddenly, overwhelmingly present. A deep, throbbing heat had settled between her legs, persistent and undeniable. The empty lab felt cavernous, a stage for her secret desires. Her gaze, almost of its own volition, slid across the room.
There, in its cylindrical prison, was Subject Theta.
It floated, suspended in the viscous, oxygen-rich saline solution. Humanoid in basic architecture, but profoundly other. Its torso was sleek, muscle mapped under smooth, grey-dappled skin. But where limbs should be, four long, powerful tentacles drifted, each lined with subtle suckers. Its head… Sloane’s scientific mind catalogued it: cephalopod-like, with large, domed eyes that absorbed the light, dark and knowing. The mouth was a ring of sharp, chitinous teeth, surrounded by a shorter, writhing mane of prehensile tendrils. And below, between the two lower base-tentacles, the primary sexual appendage—an 18-inch-long, tapered tentacle, drifting like a sea anemone in a gentle current.
Her mouth went dry.
The audiobook protagonist was moaning now, describing the feeling of a third tentacle forcing its way past her lips, down her throat, as her stomach distended with foreign warmth.
Time for a quick me-break, she thought.
Sloane stood up. She looked around the room timidly, though of course it was empty. Her movements felt deliberate, dreamlike. The rational part of her brain, the part with the PhD, was a distant murmur. The hungry, pulsing part held the reins. She walked towards the containment cylinder, her heels clicking on the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the room’s vastness.
She stopped inches from the glass. The creature’s large, dark eyes rotated slowly, fixing on her. There was an intelligence there, a predatory curiosity that made her heart hammer against her ribs. It wasn’t the blank stare of a specimen. It was an assessment.
What would you do to me if I let you out? she spoke in her mind to the creature.
Giddy with her own naughtiness, she leaned forward. Her lips, painted a shade of berry she never wore during the day, parted. She exhaled, fogging the cold, thick pane for a second. Then, she pressed a soft, full kiss against it. When she pulled back, a perfect, smudged imprint of her mouth remained.
The effect was instantaneous.
Theta drifted closer, one of its upper tentacles uncoiling to press against the glass from the inside, directly opposite her lips. The suckers flexed. A low, resonant thrum, more vibration than sound, echoed through the fluid and into the floor. It wasn’t anger. It was… recognition.
Emboldened, her blood singing, Sloane let her hands rise to the buttons of her white lab blouse. One by one, she popped them open. The air in the lab was cool on her exposed skin. She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. Her bra was plain, practical cotton. With a twist of her arms, she undid the clasp and let it fall away.
Her breasts were full, the tips already hardened into tight peaks from the cool air and the sheer, illicit thrill. She saw her own reflection in the glass—flushed cheeks, darkened eyes—superimposed over the creature’s alien form. She stepped forward again, until the stiff, eager points of her nipples touched the chilled surface.
She gasped at the shock of cold, but held herself there, arching her back slightly.
On the other side, Theta went into a frenzy of slow-motion motion. Two tentacles slapped against the glass, aligning themselves with the outlines of her breasts. They writhed, the suckers flaring and contracting, as if trying to taste her shape through the barrier. The low thrum intensified, vibrating up through the soles of her feet. Its penis-tentacle, previously drifting, now thickened, lengthened, and pressed itself flush against the glass, a thick, questing line aimed right at her core.
Oh, god. It wants me. It sees me.
The audiobook was a distant soundtrack to her own live performance. She imagined those slick, strong tentacles not on glass, but on her bare skin. Wrapping around the soft weight of her breasts, squeezing just shy of pain, the cool, rubbery texture contrasting with her heat. The suckers latching onto her nipples, pulling, milking sensations she’d only fantasized about.
Her eyes were locked on the thick, tapered appendage pressed against the barrier. A bead of something milky, viscous, and iridescent seeped from its tip, smearing on the glass. Without conscious thought, Sloane sank to her knees.
The floor was hard, unforgiving. She didn’t care. Crouched before the cylinder, she was at eye-level with it. She stared, mesmerized, at the intricate patterning along its length, the way it pulsed with a slow rhythm. Her tongue darted out, wetting her own lips.
She leaned in, until her breath fogged the glass right over the tip. Then, she closed her eyes and extended her tongue, dragging the flat of it slowly, sensually, up the smeared, imaginary path of the creature’s fluid.
The fantasy exploded behind her eyelids. It wasn’t glass she was tasting, but the slick, salty-foreign skin of the tentacle itself. It would be cool, alive with movement. It would twitch against her tongue, then push past her lips, filling her mouth. It would be too big, stretching her jaws, and it would writhe, fucking her mouth with slow, deep thrusts before plunging deeper, down her willing throat…
A ragged moan escaped her. Her hand flew between her own legs, pressing hard against the soaked fabric of her panties through her skirt. The ache was a physical scream.
She needed more.
Pushing herself up, she stumbled back until her hips hit the edge of the central lab table. The microscope and slides were forgotten. The whole universe had narrowed to this room, this creature, this desperate, clawing need. She hiked her skirt up around her waist. Her fingers, trembling now, hooked into the waistband of her plain cotton panties and dragged them down her thighs, letting them fall around her ankles. She kicked them aside.
The lab air was a cool kiss on her exposed, wet flesh. She was utterly exposed, on display for those dark, unblinking eyes. One hand braced on the table behind her. The other, her dominant right hand, slid down her trembling abdomen, through the neat thatch of curls, and found her slit.
She was drenched. Swollen. Her own touch was a lightning strike. A gasp ripped from her throat, too loud in the silent lab. Her eyes stayed locked on Theta.
The creature was a maelstrom of contained energy. All four limb-tentacles were pressed flat against the cylinder walls, sucker-side out, pulsing. Its body thrashed in a slow, powerful spiral, making the entire reinforced structure creak ominously. Its penis-tentacle was fully, magnificently erect now, a thick, veined length of alien flesh that throbbed against the glass, the tip leaving slimy, iridescent trails with every jerk of its base.
Sloane began to finger herself in earnest, two fingers sliding easily into her soaked channel, her thumb finding her clit. The rhythm was rough, desperate. But her mind wasn’t on her own hand.
It was on that.
She imagined the glass vanishing. Imagined that thick, tapered tentacle not pressed against it, but pressing against her. The blunt, slick head would probe at her entrance, and she’d be so ready, so open, it would just… slide in.
Her back arched off the table as her fingers plunged deeper. Yes. Like that. But bigger. So much bigger.
It would fill her, stretch her in a way no human partner ever could. The texture would be unlike anything—smooth yet ribbed, cool yet burning with inner life. It wouldn’t just thrust; it would writhe, curling inside her, touching places she didn’t know could be touched. Every sucker along its length would be a tiny, pulling kiss against her sensitive inner walls.
“Both holes,” the audiobook voice purred, perfectly timed, as if cued by a demonic director. “It demanded both.”
Sloane’s free hand flew to her rear, a finger pressing against her other tight, forbidden entrance. She whimpered. She imagined a second, slightly thinner tentacle, slick with the same iridescent fluid, circling there. Applying pressure. Insisting. It would breach her there, too, a twin violation that would send her mind shattering.
And its other limbs… oh, god, its other limbs. One would wrap around her throat, squeezing just right. Another would wind around her torso, pinning her arms so she was utterly helpless, suspended before it. The third would latch on to her breasts, worshiping them, pinching and pulling her nipples until she sobbed with pleasure-pain. The fourth would force its way into her mouth and down her throat.
The creature in the cylinder slammed its body against the glass with a solid, echoing THUMP. The fluid sloshed violently. A warning alarm blared a single, sharp bleat before Sloane, moving with frantic speed, slapped the override on the main panel, silencing it. The emergency lights flashed once, then stopped.
Panting, sweat beading on her forehead and between her breasts, she stared. Theta was right there, separated by a centimeter of tempered glass. Its eyes held hers. The intelligence there was no longer just curious. It was hungry. Consuming. It saw her naked body, her wanton movements, her utter surrender to the fantasy. It understood.
And she understood it. This wasn’t a beast acting on instinct. This was a moment of mutual, devastating recognition.
Her fingers worked furiously at her clit, the coil in her gut winding tighter, tighter. She was close. So close to a crashing, mind-blanking climax. But as the peak loomed, a terrifying, exhilarating truth crystalized in her mind.
She needed the real thing.
A fantasy, her own hand, the cold glass… it was all a pathetic echo. The real thing was right there. Throbbing. Wanting. This would be her only opportunity for an experience no one had ever had except in their fantasies.
The climax that was about to take her would be a small, private thing. What she wanted… what she needed… was to be filled. Stretched. Used by something that truly understood the depth of her depraved desire. To feel that cool, living flesh moving inside her, everywhere, until she was nothing but a vessel for its pleasure and her own.
Her hand stilled between her legs. The moment of release receded, replaced by a deeper, more profound ache.
Breathing in ragged gulps, she pushed off from the table. She stood, naked from the waist down, blouse open, breasts heaving, before the containment cylinder. Her gaze moved from Theta’s pulsating, demanding length, up its thrashing form, to meet its ancient, knowing eyes.
A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire, a sound lost in the hum of the facility but felt in the vibration of the glass. “Okay.”
She turned her back on the creature, her eyes scanning the control panel mounted on the nearby console. The system was simple: magnetic locks, a hydraulic seal, a large, red emergency button. And a small, green-lit lever labeled MANUAL CONTAINMENT RELEASE.
Her hand, still slick with her own arousal, didn’t hesitate. It didn’t shake. It reached out, her fingers wrapping around the cool metal of the lever.
She looked over her shoulder one last time. Theta had gone perfectly still, watching, waiting. Its tentacle-penis gave one last, emphatic throb against the glass.
Sloane pulled the lever.
Chapter 2
The world dissolved into a hiss of hydraulics and the gurgle of draining saline. Sloane stood frozen, a sculpture of want, as the thick fluid inside the containment cylinder sank away. Her pulse was a frantic drum in her ears, louder than the machinery. The creature—Theta—remained upright, its lower tentacles coiled beneath it like muscular pillars, supporting its weight effortlessly. The grey-dappled skin glistened under the lab lights, slick and alive. The dark, protuberant eyes were locked on her, unblinking. Calculating.
The heavy circular door of the cylinder gave a final pneumatic sigh and slid open, retracting into the wall.
A wall of damp, briny air washed over her, carrying an alien musk—ozone, deep sea minerals, and something else, something primal. It hit the back of her throat. For one heartbeat, she saw the intelligence in its gaze, the raw power coiled in its form. This was no mindless beast.
Then, it moved.
It was a blur of slick grey. One moment it was in the cylinder, the next, the cool, rubbery strength of a tentacle wrapped around her upper arm, yanking her forward off-balance. She didn’t even have time to gasp before another limb—thicker, stronger—snaked around her throat from behind, not quite cutting off her air. The pressure was firm, inescapable, positioning her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Her heartbeat hammered against the constricting coil.
Oh god. Oh god it’s real.
The thought was pure electricity, short-circuiting her fear into blinding arousal.
A third tentacle, slender and agile, slid over her shoulder and down her front. It explored the open placket of her blouse, the cool tip tracing the swell of her breast before slipping inside. Her breath hitched. The touch was deliberate, knowing. It found her nipple, already a hard peak, and circled it once, twice, a teasing promise.
Then it squeezed.
“Ah!” The sound was torn from her. It wasn’t gentle. The pressure was sudden, intense, a sharp pinch that danced right on the edge of pain. It rolled the sensitive bud between what felt like two sucker-laden pads, sending jolts of fire straight to her core. Her knees went weak. More. It needs more.
As if hearing her silent plea, the tentacle tightened further, a rough kneading of her soft flesh. The sensation was more than she’d fantasized. The texture wasn’t slimy, but smooth and cool, like wet neoprene, and the subtle tug of each tiny sucker was a separate, exquisite torture. It pulled at her nipple, elongating it, and a fresh gush of wetness soaked her bare thighs.
She was panting now, her hands hanging limp at her sides, making no move to resist. This was the surrender she’d craved.
The tentacle at her throat tightened a fraction, a silent command. Her head was guided down, her body forced to its knees on the cool, hard floor. The impact was jarring, a shock of reality that was instantly swallowed by the overwhelming presence before her.
Theta loomed over her. Its lower tentacles held it steady. And there, at the apex of its muscular form, was its primary appendage. Up close, it was a mesmerizing sight. Eighteen inches of thick, tapered muscle, a deep grey veined with pulsating indigo. It throbbed with a life of its own, the tip slick with a milky, viscous fluid that dripped slowly, rhythmically. It writhed gently in the air, as if scenting her.
It brushed against her cheek, leaving a cool, wet trail.
Her mind went blank, consumed by instinct. Hesitantly, her tongue darted out, catching the droplet that had slid to the corner of her mouth.
The taste exploded on her tongue. Salty, like the ocean, but with a bitter, alien tang—like ozone and deep-sea minerals and something indescribably male. It was strange, potent, not altogether pleasant, but deeply arousing. It was the taste of the forbidden.
She moaned, low in her throat, and extended her tongue again, licking a longer stripe along the tentacle’s underside where it curved near her face.
The reaction was immediate. The phallus jerked, a powerful, reflexive twitch. A fresh bead of the iridescent slime welled at the slit-like tip. Encouraged, driven by a hunger that dwarfed any she’d ever known, Sloane leaned forward. She opened her mouth and took the slick tip between her lips.
Alive. It was so alive. The skin was smooth but firm, and it pulsed against her tongue. She swirled her tongue around the head, lapping up the bitter-salty fluid, her lips closing in a seal. She suckled gently, and a shudder ran through Theta’s entire frame. The tentacle around her throat vibrated with a deep, approving hum.
She took more, her jaw stretching. It was thick, far thicker than any human counterpart. She slathered it with her saliva, coating its length with worshipful licks and kisses, savoring the alien musk, the powerful throb of blood—or whatever passed for it—beneath the skin. She was lost in the act, a devotee at an altar.
Then, Theta took control.
The tentacle at her throat flexed, holding her head firmly in place. The cock-tentacle at her lips pushed forward, not asking, taking. It slid deeper into her mouth, the thick intrusion making her gag reflex clench for a second before she forced herself to relax, to open wider. It didn’t stop. It writhed, exploring the roof of her mouth, her cheeks, before finding the back of her throat.
It’s going to—
It did. With a slow, inexorable pressure, the tapered tip breached her throat. She gagged again, tears springing to her eyes, but the creature held her fast. The tentacle pulsed, and a fresh trickle of its slick fluid coated her throat, a strange numbing coolness that eased the passage. Then it pushed deeper.
Ohgodohgodohgod. Her mind fragmented. She was being face-fucked by an alien creature, and it was the most overwhelming, degrading, perfect thing she had ever experienced. The tentacle slid in and out of her throat with a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust measured and powerful. Each inward plunge sent a wave of that viscous fluid down into her stomach, a slow, filling warmth that spread through her insides. She could feel the subtle suckers along its length tugging at the sensitive flesh of her esophagus, a constant, maddening stimulation. Her nose was filled with its briny scent. Her world narrowed to the stretch of her jaw, the invasion of her throat, the low thrum of Theta’s pleasure vibrating through the limb that held her.
She couldn’t breathe through her mouth, only through flared nostrils. Spit and alien slickness dripped from her lips, coating her chin, her neck. Her hands, finally moving, came up to weakly clutch at the base of the tentacle fucking her face, not to push away, but to feel its power, to anchor herself.
It thickened inside her throat. The pulses became more urgent. She felt a deep, rhythmic clenching at its root.
It’s going to…
Theta’s body went rigid. A guttural, bubbling sound emanated from its core. The tentacle in her throat swelled, then pulsed in a powerful, jetting release. A torrent of that thick, alien cum flooded down her gullet. It was warm, thicker than human seed, with the same bitter-salty taste but overwhelming in volume. It just kept coming, wave after wave, filling her stomach, a tangible, heated weight settling low in her belly. She swallowed convulsively, helplessly, her stomach distending slightly under her open blouse.
With a final, wet pulse, the spent tentacle slid from her mouth, trailing strands of iridescent fluid. Sloane collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing weakly, her throat raw, her mind swimming in a haze of endorphins and submission. She was dripping from her mouth, her chin a mess. Her stomach felt full, strangely warm.
She had no time to recover.
The tentacle around her throat loosened, only to be replaced by two others. They slipped under her arms, their cool strength lifting her effortlessly to her feet and then shoving her backwards. Her spine met the cold edge of the central lab table. The tentacles at her arms forced her to bend forward over it, her bare breasts and flushed cheek pressed against the cool stainless steel.
One limb snaked down, hooking behind her knees, and pulled. Her legs were spread wide, her bare feet slipping on the floor until she was bent over the table at a perfect, vulnerable angle. Exposed. Presented.
She felt the blunt, slick head of Theta’s phallus probe against her soaked entrance. It was still slick with her saliva and its own fluids. It nudged once, twice, a teasing promise of the stretch to come.
Please. Now.
As if granting her wish, it pushed.
“Nnngh!” The sound was a strangled squeal against the metal table. It didn’t enter slowly. The thick, tapered tip breached her, and then, with a single, powerful surge of its lower tentacles, Theta sheathed itself inside her to the root.
Eighteen inches. All at once.
The sensation was beyond anything. It was an occupation, an alien invasion. It stretched her open mercilessly, a burning, delicious fullness that touched depths she didn’t know she had. Her inner walls clenched instinctively around the invading girth, but it was too much, too big. She was stuffed, impaled. The tentacle wasn’t just a static rod; it writhed. It twisted inside her, the subtle ridges and suckers along its length creating a maddening, rippling friction against every hyper-sensitive nerve ending. It curled upwards, pressing against her cervix, a shocking, profound pressure.
“Fuck… fuck…” she sobbed into the table, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth steel.
It began to move. Withdrawing almost completely, then plunging back in with that same devastating, full-depth thrust. The pace was relentless, pounding, each drive knocking a choked gasp from her lips. The tentacle exploring her breasts returned, now joined by a second. They wrapped around the soft mounds, squeezing and kneading with that same roughness, pinching her nipples in time with the deep thrusts, creating a feedback loop of pleasure-pain that centered in her ravaged core.
She was a puppet on its strings, her body jolting with each powerful stroke. The warmth in her belly from its first deposit seemed to amplify the sensations, making her feel heavy, used. The coil of her own orgasm, wound tight by her earlier ministrations and now hammered by this brutal penetration, began to unravel at terrifying speed.
She was so full. So owned.
Theta’s thrusts became erratic, more forceful. The tentacle inside her swelled, the pulsations returning. It pressed impossibly deep and throbbed.
Her vision whited out. A raw, screaming orgasm tore through her, convulsing her around the invading thickness. Her back arched as much as the tentacles holding her would allow, a silent scream locked in her throat. The climax seemed to go on forever, waves of electric pleasure radiating from her core out to her trembling limbs.
As her own contractions subsided, she felt the second eruption. Another hot, gushing flood filled her channel, mixing with her own release, adding to the impossible fullness. The tentacle pulsed inside her, depositing what felt like a pint of its alien seed deep into her womb. Her stomach, already warm, felt heavier, her lower abdomen slightly rounded against the table’s edge.
Spent, it withdrew from her pussy with a wet, obscene sound. She sagged, a limp doll held up only by the tentacles at her arms and breasts. She was mindless, thoughtless, a vessel of sensation.
She felt the slick, tapered tip, now slick with her juices and its own cum, probe at her other, tighter entrance. She flinched, a final spark of instinctive resistance.
A tentacle slid from her breast to her hair, yanking her head back. A silent, forceful reminder of who was in control.
She went pliant. Yes. Everything.
It pressed. The resistance was greater, a sharp, burning sting as the thick head forced its way past the tight ring of muscle. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound that quickly morphed into a guttural moan as it slid in, the burning stretch an exquisite counterpoint to the throbbing, over-filled ache in her pussy. It was another complete, utter violation. It buried itself to the hilt, and immediately began that same, sinuous writhing, stretching her internally in a whole new way.
Simultaneously, one of its lower tentacles found her swollen, sensitive folds and pushed back inside. She was double-stuffed, stretched front and back, filled beyond human capacity. The two tentacles moved in opposite rhythms, one twisting as the other thrust, creating a chaotic, overwhelming storm of sensation inside her. They rubbed against each other through the thin wall of tissue separating her channels, and she saw stars.
It’s too much. I can’t… I’ll break…
And she did. She shattered. Another orgasm, harder than the first, ripped through her with the force of a tsunami. Her body seized, her cries reduced to broken whimpers. The tentacles within her pulsed in unison, another hot, dual release flooding her already overfilled holes. Cum leaked out around the tentacles stretching her, dripping down her inner thighs, pooling on the floor.
Another tentacle, she was beyond knowing which one, slid past her bruised lips and down her tender throat once more, feeding her a third, continuous trickle of its essence until her stomach was taut and full.
Orgasm after helpless orgasm wracked her. They blurred together, a continuous loop of shattering pleasure and overwhelming fullness. She lost count. She lost herself. There was only Theta, and its tentacles, and the endless, pumping, filling completion.
Finally, the movements stilled. The tentacles, one by one, withdrew from her body with soft, wet sounds. The support vanished. She crumpled to the floor beside the table, a boneless heap of trembling flesh. She was covered in sweat, her own juices, and Theta’s iridescent slime. Her stomach was visibly, softly rounded. She could feel the weight of its deposits inside her, a permanent, warm reminder. She couldn’t move. She could barely think. Her eyes were glazed, staring at the ceiling lights without seeing them.
She was aware of cool, powerful limbs sliding beneath her. Theta gathered her up, cradling her limp form against its sleek, muscular torso. It moved with purpose, carrying her across the lab. She didn’t have the strength to care where. Her head lolled against its body, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.
The world tilted. There was a sense of movement, then the cool, curved wall of the empty containment cylinder at her back. Theta deposited her inside, her body slumping into a seated position against the rear wall. The metal was cold on her overheated skin.
Confusion, thick and slow, seeped through the haze. Why…?
Her bleary eyes focused. Theta was at her workstation, its tentacles a blur of motion. One limb, its tip incredibly dexterous, stabbed at the tank’s control console. It hit the same MANUAL RELEASE lever she’d pulled. Then it moved to the main system panel. With brutal, efficient force, it brought several tentacles down on the keyboard, monitors, and delicate instruments. Glass cracked. Plastic shattered. Sparks flew with a sharp pop and the acrid smell of ozone. It was methodical, vengeful. Destroying the records. Erasing its captivity.
The heavy door of the cylinder hissed shut.
Sloane’s breath caught. Realization, cold and sharp, stabbed through her post-coital fog. She struggled, pushing weakly against the glass. “No…” Her voice was a hoarse croak, her throat ravaged.
On the other side of the thick pane, Theta turned. Its dark, knowing eyes met hers. There was no malice. No cruelty. Just that ancient, predatory intelligence. And something else—finality. A transaction completed.
It pressed a sequence on the tank control console before smashing it too.
A low hum filled the cylinder. From ports in the floor, a torrent of cold, saltwater erupted, swirling around her ankles, then her knees. The fill cycle.
No. No no no no.
Panic, pure and primal, gave her a surge of adrenaline. She stumbled to her feet, her legs buckling. She slammed her palms against the unyielding glass. “Stop! Let me out!” Her screams were muffled, pathetic.
Theta watched, unmoved, as the water rose to her waist, then her chest. Its work done, it turned towards the main lab door. One powerful tentacle gripped the manual release wheel and wrenched it. Metal groaned. The door, designed to withstand ocean pressure, gave way with a shriek of stressed alloys.
The water was at her neck now. Icy, burning saltwater. She pounded harder, sobbing, her fists leaving smears of slime and blood. Theta slipped through the ruined doorway into the corridor beyond, a shadow swallowed by the deeper blackness of the facility.
The water closed over her head.
Her last gasp of air burst from her lips in a cloud of bubbles. Instinct made her clamp her mouth shut, but her lungs were already screaming. She stared, wide-eyed with horror, through the glass into the empty, wrecked lab. The silence was absolute but for the roar of water in her ears.
Her body, exhausted, starved for oxygen, betrayed her. Her mouth opened in a final, reflexive gasp.
Saltwater, cold and burning, flooded her mouth and poured down her throat. It filled her lungs, a searing, drowning agony. The last thing she saw was the broken console, the sparking wires, and the dark, open maw of the doorway where Theta had vanished, seeking the endless, free, crushing pressure of the deep.
