Night on the Atlantic Ocean
The central dining room of the Argo was brightly lit, crystal chandeliers casting a daylight-like glow over the space. Live music filled the air—light jazz played by a small band—and the room buzzed with laughter and conversation.
Guests dressed in elegant attire sipped champagne as they mingled. Waiters glided smoothly through the crowd, balancing silver trays with practiced ease.
Peter Parker clutched his dinner plate, eyes wide as he stared at the dazzling buffet spread.
"Wow… Kobe beef, French foie gras, and lobster!"
He swallowed hard, having only ever heard of these delicacies but never tasted them. The serving tongs in his hand practically trembled with anticipation.
Nearby, Gwen Stacy selected a few slices of Spanish jamón and a small portion of Greek olives, then added some unfamiliar tropical fruits to her plate. Their vibrant colors shimmered under the chandeliers.
Harry Osborn, by contrast, barely glanced at the offerings. He took a modest portion of smoked salmon and asparagus—just another ordinary meal to him.
At the edge of the group, Damian stood apart, his plate empty. His gaze kept drifting toward the dark sea beyond the porthole, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Hey! Z, what's wrong? Not feeling well?" Gwen asked softly, noticing his distant expression.
Damian blinked, pulled from his reverie. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words that came out were:
"Nothing. Just… thought of something."
Gwen hesitated, sensing he wasn't being truthful, but didn't press further. "Okay," she said gently. "But if you need anything, just let us know."
He nodded. As she turned to join Peter—who was now piling a fifth steak onto his plate—a faint smile tugged at the corner of Damian's mouth.
---
In the Argo's control room, the hum of electronics blended with the soft whir of the air conditioning.
Radar operator Johnson rubbed his tired eyes and yawned. Night shifts were always the worst—especially on calm, uneventful voyages like this one.
Beep. Beep. Beep—!
Just as drowsiness threatened to overtake him, the sonar screen erupted in violent fluctuations.
"What the hell…?"
Johnson jolted upright, fingers flying across the keyboard to zoom in on the anomaly.
A massive biological signature appeared in the deep—its outline indistinct but enormous, nearly filling the entire display.
Even more alarming: the object was closing in on the Argo at over 50 knots.
Johnson's blood ran cold.
"Oh my God… what is that?!"
He switched to the backup sonar system, hands shaking—but the reading was identical.
Heart pounding, Johnson grabbed the ship's communicator.
"Captain! Emergency!"
Static. Crackling. No reply.
Panic rising, he slammed his palm onto the red emergency alarm button.
A shrill alarm suddenly pierced the night sky, and the music in the restaurant stopped abruptly.
"Beep, beep, beep—!"
Laughter, conversation, the clinking of glasses—all sound died away in an instant. Hundreds of guests in the central dining room froze in bewilderment, glancing at one another, unsure what was happening.
Peter Parker set down his plate, turned to Harry Osborn with a look of doubt, and asked,
"Harry, is this normal on a cruise ship?!"
Harry gave him a withering glance. "If this ship were called the Titanic, maybe."
"Sizzle… sizzle…"
Suddenly, the crystal chandelier overhead flickered violently. The stuttering light cast eerie, ghostly shadows across the terrified faces below.
A woman screamed—and then chaos erupted.
"There's something wrong with the circuit!"
"What's happening?!"
"Get out of my way! I need to leave!"
"Don't push! I can't breathe!"
...
Women in evening gowns abandoned all pretense of decorum, their high heels crunching over shattered crystal and leaving sticky prints in spilled caviar and foie gras.
A white-haired man was shoved to the floor; his cane rolled away, ignored by the stampeding crowd.
"Sizzle… sizzle…"
The lights flickered again—then went out completely for three long seconds. In the darkness, screams, sobs, and curses mingled into a wall of panic.
When the lights returned, the guests had lost all composure, surging toward the exits like a panicked herd.
"Move! Don't block the door!"
"Let me through!"
"I've got a child with me—please!"
...
People shoved and stumbled in their desperation to escape. A woman in a sequined gown tripped and vanished beneath the tide of bodies.
Damian was swept along with the crowd, unable to resist the current of panic. Suddenly, a burly man jostled his shoulder, throwing him off balance. He stumbled backward—
"Ah—!"
—just as a slender hand shot out from the side and clamped firmly around his wrist.
Damian steadied himself and turned to see who had saved him. It was a blonde girl, about seventeen or eighteen, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and jeans—strikingly out of place amid the sea of formalwear.
Her eyes were a clear, lake-blue, wide with concern.
"Be careful," she said, her voice cutting through the din with startling clarity. "If you fall now, you'll get trampled."
Damian nodded gratefully. "Thank you! I owe you one—I'll buy you a drink later! I need to find my friends first!"
Before she could respond, he turned and vanished into the chaos.
Pushing against the tide of fleeing passengers, Damian scanned the crowd desperately.
"Peter! Gwen! Harry!!"
His voice was swallowed by the roar of panic.
Across the dining room, Harry Osborn shielded Gwen Stacy, guiding her toward an emergency exit. Nearby, Peter Parker knelt beside an elderly woman who'd fallen, helping her to her feet before steering her away from the stampede.