The humid darkness of the Arkangel's main lounge was punctuated by the occasional sniffle, the rustle of a ration bar wrapper, and the low, guttural rumble of the ship's dying systems. Outside, the ocean slapped against the hull with a rhythmic, mocking sound. It was Day Two, and the grim reality had settled like a suffocating blanket. Hope, that flimsy influencer filter, had finally shattered.
Kavi, huddled in a corner, tried to conserve his tablet's last sliver of battery, scrolling through cached articles on survival in extreme isolation. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes on him, not with curiosity, but with a strange, almost animalistic intensity. He was the only one who seemed to understand the true gravity of their situation, and that made him both a reluctant leader and a target for their simmering despair.
The air grew heavier, thick with unwashed bodies, stale champagne, and the metallic tang of fear. The girls, usually so meticulously curated, were now disheveled, their expensive makeup streaked, their hair matted. The veneer of influencer glamour had peeled away, revealing something raw and desperate beneath.
A bottle of lukewarm champagne was passed around, its contents swallowed in gulps rather than sips. The alcohol, combined with the heat and the crushing dread, began to loosen inhibitions. Whispers started, then grew louder. Complaints about the heat, about the hunger, about the sheer, suffocating boredom of waiting to die.
Then, a voice, shrill and cracking, cut through the gloom. It was Pepper Knox, her eyes wide and bloodshot, her usually chaotic hair now a tangled mess. She had been pacing, muttering to herself, and now she stopped dead in the center of the lounge, her hands clenching and unclenching.
"I… I don't want to die a virgin!" she shrieked, the words echoing off the polished chrome and distressed concrete walls.
Silence. A stunned, absolute silence descended upon the lounge. Even the distant groaning of the ship seemed to hold its breath. A few nervous giggles broke the tension, quickly stifled. Someone coughed.
Then, a low voice, almost a purr, sliced through the quiet. "Who's the only guy on board?"
Fifty pairs of eyes, previously fixed on the flickering emergency lights or staring blankly into space, slowly, inexorably, turned. They landed on Kavi.
He flinched, shrinking further into his corner. He felt their collective gaze like a physical weight, stripping him bare. He was no longer the invisible intern. He was… something else. A resource. A last, absurd hope.
Sloan Vega, her face illuminated by a stray beam of emergency light, rose gracefully. Her usual composed demeanor was still present, but her eyes held a predatory gleam. She walked towards Kavi, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
"Well, intern," she purred, her voice dripping with a strange blend of condescension and seduction. "It seems you've just become the most important man in the world." She reached out, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Kavi froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could smell her expensive perfume, now mingled with the scent of desperation. "I, Sloan Vega, will take your first time. As… a gift. To the future. To us."
Kavi stammered, trying to protest, to articulate the sheer absurdity of the situation. "But… I… I'm just an intern. This isn't…"
His words were swallowed by a sudden surge of bodies. The girls, emboldened by Sloan's declaration, descended upon him. Hands grabbed at his arms, his shoulders, pulling him from his corner. He was overwhelmed, a small boat caught in a sudden, violent storm. He felt lips on his cheek, his neck, his mouth. A dizzying array of perfumes, desperate breaths, and frantic touches.
"Welcome to womanhood, Kavi!" someone yelled, a dark, hysterical laugh following the words.
He was dragged, half-carried, half-shoved, towards a plush velvet sofa that had, just hours ago, been a prop for "survival chic" photos. The emergency lights cast long, grotesque shadows. He felt hands tearing at his clothes, heard whispers, gasps, and the increasingly frantic breathing of the women around him.
That night, Kavi had sex five times. Each encounter was more aggressive, more desperate, more surreal than the last. He lost track of faces, of names, of who was touching him where. It was a blur of frantic bodies, muffled moans, and the suffocating realization that something profound, something terrifying, had just broken.
He didn't remember sleeping. He just remembered the relentless press of bodies, the desperate cries, and the chilling thought that echoed in his mind: This is just the beginning.