Natali Lonskaïa
It has been three years since I entered the service of President Atlas Eumélos.From a young age, I was trained in the heart of Atlantis—a secluded nation hidden between Russia and India—to become both protector and shadow.
My education was mercilessly thorough.Mastery of martial arts, expertise with firearms and blades, political strategy, diplomacy, etiquette—everything required to serve the President not merely as a bodyguard,but as an extension of his will.
Our unit was small, elite, and feared across borders.We were known as the LADA Division,an order as discreet as it was formidable—our reputation rivaled that of the GIGN in France or Russia's Spetsnaz.
Some of my comrades were ghosts:sent to foreign lands to observe conflicts,to infiltrate political circles,or to quietly erase threats before they were born.
I, however, remained close to the President.It was a privilege—and a burden.
Each day brought its share of secrets, of delicate balances to maintain.Yet none of us were prepared for the report that arrived this morning.
Two, in fact.Two that I had to read twice to believe.
The first spoke of an unidentified flying craftmoving at extreme speed across several European capitals,releasing thousands of leaflets in its wake,each one linking to simultaneous livestreams across multiple networks.
If it had been a prank by our agents, it would have been in terribly poor taste.But the footage was genuine.Civilian phones captured it from every angle.The world was watching something it did not understand.
From the upper walkway of the Central Operations Hall,I overlooked a vast amphitheater of light and data.Three tiers of operators faced enormous screens,their fingers racing across holographic keyboards.The tension in the room was palpable, like static before a storm.
"Have we verified the authenticity of these videos?" I asked, my voice steady but firm."Could they be fabrications—AI composites, deepfakes?"
All eyes remained fixed on their monitors.Operator 13 raised his hand.
"Negative, ma'am. Several independent analysts confirmed the recordings are genuine.The footage originates from random civilian sources across multiple countries.We've identified a single pilot onboard the craft.We also traced the livestream—it's scheduled to begin in roughly thirty minutes."
Operator 28 added,
"After rerouting two satellites, we managed to track its flight path from Berlin.The object is now heading east, directly toward Moscow."
I straightened, my pulse quickening.
"Deploy three additional satellites.I want full visual and infrared coverage of that craft."
"Understood," replied the chief operator.New coordinates rippled across the central map,and the massive hologram of the Eurasian continent bloomed in light.
There it was.A white vessel—small, almost fragile—cutting through the clouds like a star fallen to Earth.
And at its core… a signal unlike anything we'd seen before.Energy readings were fluctuating beyond known limits.
"Cross-reference the output levels," I ordered."Compare them to nuclear propulsion, plasma drives—anything."
The technician frowned."None of our models match, Commander.Whatever powers that ship, it's clean—no radiation, no waste heat, no emission trails."
No emission trails.That alone made my blood run cold.
The President would want to know immediately.
Presidential Hall of Atlantis
The vast room was both throne and command center.Tall marble pillars flanked a central walkway,leading to the raised dais where Atlas Eumélos,the enigmatic leader of Atlantis, sat beneath a canopy of golden light.
He was not an ordinary man.His presence carried both calm and gravity,as if every word he spoke could reshape the air around him.
When I entered, he was already reviewing the holographic displayshowing the same unidentified vessel that our satellites had captured.
"Ah, Natali," he greeted softly, without looking up."So it seems the world has awakened from its slumber."
"Mr. President, the object is approaching Russian airspace.Our analysts are convinced it is not a military prototype."
"I know," he said, voice measured."That ship is not of war—it is of hope."
I frowned slightly. "Hope, sir?"
Atlas turned his gaze toward me.His eyes—piercing, calm—held an almost divine serenity.
"Do you know who the pilot is?" he asked.
I hesitated. "Not yet, sir. The identification is still incomplete."
He touched the display. The hologram zoomed in—and there, frozen in a frame, was the face of a man I had never seen before.Messy blond hair, eyes the color of emerald fire,and a determination that seemed to burn through the lens itself.
"His name is Jérémy Chapi," said Atlas quietly."An engineer from France. And if the data is accurate…he has built something impossible."
"The energy source?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied. "A reactor of infinite yield.An invention that could end our dependence on fossil fuels,on war, on greed.And yet—" he smiled faintly, with a shadow of sadness—"—the world will not see it that way."
I understood.For every miracle mankind discovers,someone will always find a way to turn it into a weapon.
"What are your orders, Mr. President?"
"Prepare diplomatic channels.When he crosses into our skies,I want him escorted here—peacefully."
"Should he refuse?"
Atlas's smile deepened, not unkindly."Then we wait. A man who dreams of the stars will always seek the place where he is understood. Atlantis will be that place."
He turned back toward the hologram, watching the Liberty gliding through the night.Its trajectory traced a silver line toward the horizon—toward us.
"Natali," he said softly, "you will be his first contact."
I bowed deeply. "Understood, Mr. President."
As I left the hall, I could feel the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders.A man who could change the fate of the world was coming.And it would be my duty to greet him.