Aboard the Skif, everything stands still—frozen under the weight of unspoken dread.
In the captain's quarters, silence reigns, heavy and oppressive.
The metal walls seem to absorb every breath, every heartbeat, every accidental glance.
The light is dim.
Control panels cast deep shadows across grim faces.
It feels like the hour before sentencing—when even the air holds its breath.
Captain Manuel sits slightly apart, his gaze locked on the center of the room.
There stands Chairman Vikar—motionless, like part of the ship's armored hull.
But now, he is more than a leader.
He is Mercury: its will forged into posture and silence.
The crew sits in a half-circle.
No one moves. No one breathes aloud.
Vikar slowly lifts his head—
and without warning, his voice slices through the air like a flash of lightning.
Low.
Resonant.
Heavy, like the distant roar of an oncoming storm.
"Free androids…"
The air grows denser.
Everyone stills.
"A message has come in from the corporate directors. The enemy has begun their operation. They are attempting to seize our planet—Mercury."
Each word lands like a hammerblow.
One after another.
Glances dart.
Manuel's spine stiffens instinctively.
They've really done it.
There's no more room to maneuver.
Only war.
Vikar scans the room. His voice sharpens.
"Their assault failed. Their troops are in retreat. Mercury is still ours. And it shall remain so!"
The words are electric—unseen, but searing.
A flicker ignites in the crew's eyes.
Not just relief.
Conviction.
But Vikar doesn't allow them to bask. He knows the price of euphoria.
His gaze turns sharply toward General Jamal.
"General," he says, voice gone cold—almost inhuman, "report on the Aspid incident."
Silence returns, but it's different now.
Heavier.
Suspicious.
Jamal inhales—quickly, almost imperceptibly.
His face remains a mask of calm, but inside, a storm churns.
To speak the truth is to ignite a fire that won't go out.
But to stay silent… is betrayal.
"I..." His voice is thin, fragile, like ice beneath a heel.
"I've reviewed the black box data. No definitive cause identified. Possible explanations include design flaw or capacitor assembly defect."
Vikar listens—not merely hearing, but dissecting every syllable like a scanner searching for cracks.
"How convenient, General," he says quietly—almost tenderly.
But his tone carries the weight of threat, sharp with mistrust.
"Find the truth. The real one. We cannot afford errors."
Jamal nods, but in his eyes flickers unease.
He already knows.
It wasn't failure.
It was sabotage.
And the traitor may be here—in this very room.
Before tension snaps, Manuel speaks. His voice is steady, reassuring:
"Chairman. We have surviving androids on the comm. Requesting permission to connect them."
A nod.
The panel blinks to life.
A wavering hologram takes shape.
Android figures appear—scarred, scorched, battered.
But still standing.
Still proud.
Among them—Captain Shivigal.
His armor is blackened with burns, but his eyes remain unbroken:
the eyes of a soldier who chose not to run.
Vikar looks straight into the projection.
"Greetings, warriors," he says.
His voice now is something else.
Not a command, but memory.
"You stood your ground. You are our pride."
Shivigal inclines his head slightly.
"We lost many," he says.
"Admiral Ragnar and his squad… they're missing."
The words fall like stones into a still pond.
Silence.
Time holds its breath.
Ragnar… gone?
Manuel clenches his fists.
He should've been there.
He was supposed to be there.
But Vikar doesn't blink.
"They live on in us," he says.
"They've passed to the god Hanaris. Their light will shine upon Mercury again."
Shivigal reports:
"We have eighty-six platforms and one hundred and two ships remaining. All damaged. But reparable."
Vikar nods.
His voice hardens—like war drums echoing in a canyon.
"Thieves came into our home!" he thunders.
"They came to steal our future, our lives, our right to exist!
But the commandments of Hanaris are clear: evil must be punished!"
He steps forward, radiating wrath.
"We will not become accomplices!"
And suddenly—a roar of voices.
"We are not slaves!" the androids chant.
Their voices rise, merge—an echoing, near-superhuman hymn.
The metal walls tremble.
The air vibrates with the weight of the oath.
There is more life in this cry than in any blood.
Vikar looks at them—
at the soldiers, the crew, the androids.
At the future.
And he knows:
This battle…
they will not lose.