The first thing Kavi Dhar noticed about The Arkangel wasn't its absurd, gleaming superstructure, nor the fake, rust-streaked "apocalypse aesthetic" painted onto its hull. It was the smell. A cloying, sickly-sweet blend of synthetic coconut, ozone, and something faintly metallic, like a freshly opened can of expensive dog food. It clung to the air, promising luxury and a vague sense of danger, like a high-end perfume designed to mask a chemical spill.
He clutched his worn backpack, its straps digging into his shoulders, as he shuffled up the gangplank. Ahead of him, a gaggle of women, all impossibly tall and impossibly tanned, giggled into their phones, posing with mock-terrified expressions against the backdrop of the "doomsday simulation" signage. They wore outfits that seemed designed for maximum exposure and minimal utility: strategically ripped denim, crop tops that defied gravity, and heels that could double as weapons. Kavi, in his sensible cargo shorts and a faded Caltech t-shirt, felt like a misplaced algorithm in a fashion show.
"Oh my God, this is, like, so immersive," a blonde woman with a laugh that sounded like wind chimes made of glass shrieked, striking a pose with one hand on her hip, the other dramatically covering her mouth. "#ArkangelApocalypse #SurvivalChic #NoFilter."
Kavi sidestepped a rolling suitcase covered in designer stickers, trying to make himself smaller. He was here for an internship, a "field study in AI-managed logistics for extreme environments," as his professor had enthusiastically put it. He'd imagined servers, schematics, maybe a quiet corner with a terminal. Instead, he found himself adrift in a sea of performative anxiety and curated selfies.
The ship's interior was a dizzying blend of opulent cruise liner and dystopian bunker chic. Polished chrome met distressed concrete. Lush velvet lounges were punctuated by "emergency" red lights and fake biohazard symbols. In the main atrium, a DJ spun a thumping EDM track, while a holographic projection of a grim-faced general cycled through "survival tips" that mostly involved looking good while panicking.
"Excuse me, intern?" A woman with a severe bob and a clipboard, who Kavi vaguely recognized as one of the ship's "experience managers," materialized beside him. "You're Kavi, correct? The… AI ethics fellow?" She said "ethics" like it was a particularly obscure fungal infection. "Your quarters are… below deck. Section Gamma-7. Don't touch anything." She gestured vaguely towards a service elevator before disappearing into a throng of influencers vying for a prime spot near the "decontamination shower" photo op.
He found his cabin, a cramped, windowless space that smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and despair. He dropped his bag and pulled out his tablet, checking the ship's internal network schematics. His job, apparently, was to monitor the automated food distribution system and ensure the "simulated" power fluctuations didn't actually cause a blackout. A simple task, he thought, trying to ignore the bass thumping through the floorboards.
Later that evening, the party was in full swing. Kavi, having finished his initial system checks, wandered onto a deck overlooking the churning, inky ocean. The air was thick with the scent of cheap champagne and expensive perfume. Girls danced wildly, their movements exaggerated for the cameras that seemed to sprout from every corner. He saw Sloan Vega, the "womb energy" influencer, doing a slow, sensual sway, her eyes closed as if communing with the waves. Pepper Knox, the former child star, was attempting to chug a bottle of champagne while filming herself. Lili Zhang, the tantric priestess, sat cross-legged in a corner, eyes half-closed, a serene smile on her face amidst the chaos. They were all beautiful, unattainable, and utterly oblivious to his existence.
He watched as a group of them gathered near a mock "emergency power conduit," posing with dramatic expressions of terror. "Oh my god, what if the power actually goes out?" one shrieked, laughing. "Like, for real? I'd literally die."
Kavi, leaning against a railing, felt a faint tremor under his feet. He frowned, checking his tablet. A minor power surge. Nothing to worry about, the system logs assured him. Just part of the "simulation." He'd seen a few of these spikes throughout the day. The ship's AI, Arkangel Prime, was supposed to handle them seamlessly.
He turned back to the party, the laughter and music a dull roar. Then, the tremor intensified. Not a gentle hum, but a violent shudder that ran through the entire deck. The lights flickered, not in the pre-programmed, dramatic way, but erratically, wildly, like a dying heart. The music sputtered, then died. The holographic general flickered, his stern face distorting into a pixelated nightmare before winking out.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. The laughter died. The phones, which had been so omnipresent, were now held aloft, their screens dark.
"Is this… part of the show?" someone whispered, a nervous giggle escaping.
Kavi's tablet, usually a beacon of calm data, suddenly flashed a series of angry red warnings. SURGE OVERLOAD. CENTRAL AI OFFLINE. ALL SYSTEMS LOCKED. EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS FAILED.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't a simulation. This was real.
The ship groaned, a deep, metallic shriek that echoed through the sudden, terrifying silence. Then, with a final, shuddering lurch, The Arkangel plunged into absolute darkness. The only light was the faint, sickly green glow of the emergency exit signs, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the swaying of the ship.
A single, terrified scream pierced the black.