Near-space. Just beyond Mercury's orbit.
At the center of the android flagship's command bridge, Admiral Ragnar stands still—
a solitary figure wrapped in silence.
His eyes, pale and glinting like frozen steel, reflect the flickering tactical hologram.
He doesn't blink.
His gaze drills into the projection of the Martian fleet—
trapped.
No exits left.
Only one path remains—into fire.
"The enemy sweepers are down," reports the operator.
His voice trembles like a wire under tension.
"Mines deployed. Their formation's slowing."
Ragnar's lips curl into a smile—thin, feral.
Like a predator tasting the wound of its prey.
They flinched... too late.
You're in my palm now, Tyler.
He takes a step forward.
On the hologram: fragmented enemy lines,
a frail double barrier of drones—
a temporary shield around the faltering pulse of the Martian core.
"So naïve," he says softly, almost with affection—
as if lulling a child to sleep.
"You protected the heart... and left the throat exposed."
He activates comms.
His voice flows through the battle channels—
cold as breath on a winter blade:
"First line of platforms—commence assault.
Remember: every volley must strike true.
Then relocate. Instantly.
We are shadows.
We are the fang in the dark."
No questions follow.
The attack platforms hum in readiness.
The silence is absolute—funeral-deep.
"Target acquired," he says.
"Fire."
Thirty-three platforms unleash their fury.
Space splits open.
As if the veins of the universe have been cut.
Bolts of plasma streak forward—
shards of prophecy hurled into the dark.
Martian drones, lined up as a shield,
disintegrate like paper in a storm.
Light.
Sound.
First blood.
"Reform!" Ragnar shouts.
"Now!"
The platforms vanish—like a pack of wolves melting into trees.
Before the enemy can lock on, they're already gone.
On the tactical screen:
a pulse, a rupture in the Martian line.
He doesn't need to be told.
He feels it.
There it is—
the gap between their fear and their pride.
I will enter it like a blade into flesh.
**
Martian command station "Cobalt".
The air hums with pressure.
The holograms bleed red—
alerts bursting like open sores on a living body.
Officers shout, voices colliding in a chaos of panic.
"We're losing drones!"
"The front's collapsing!"
Tyler grits his teeth, fists clenched.
His eyes stay locked to the screen,
not with rage—
but with focus.
Searching for the moment to strike back.
He's here. Ragnar.
He smells our weakness.
But this isn't defeat.
This is the tear.
And the tear—
is where the fury begins.
"Find their coordinates. Return fire. Now!"
An officer hunches over the panel.
Fingers trembling.
"No direct lock, sir. They're cloaked.
But judging by the vectors… there are thirty-three of them."
"Then strike by sector!" Tyler's voice cuts through—
raw, jagged with fury.
"I don't care how! Hit them!"
Twelve percent odds?
Hell, that's more than we had to survive in the first place.
"Range set. We're ready to fire."
"Full volley. Every ship. Now!"
Tyler's command sounds less like a tactic—
and more like a sentence handed down by the universe itself.
Hundreds of Martian drones release beams into the void.
No targets.
No certainties.
Just faith in the math.
**
On the android platforms—
alarms flare.
"They've found us!" someone shouts.
"Sector 17—under fire!"
One platform bursts into a blinding flare.
A second spirals out of control.
A third—explodes against the stars.
Ragnar watches. Unflinching.
Minor losses.
The price of precision.
But now they've exhaled.
And we're only beginning to breathe in.
"Hit the second front.
Wedge through.
Split them in two."
**
On the Martian flagship—
a moment suspended in time.
Tyler sees the screens light up again—
flashes of damage, desperate telemetry.
"They're adapting," someone whispers.
He stands.
Walks toward the forward viewport.
Beyond the glass: war.
Alive.
Predatory.
Damned.
Yulia—
If you're out there—
I'll find you.
And I'll bring you back if I have to tear the stars apart.
The voice in his mind falters—
as another Martian cruiser takes a direct hit.
Fire engulfs the sector.
"Central breach.
They're coming for Cobalt."
We need momentum.
We need reinforcements.
Tyler spins around.
"Reform ranks. All reserves—forward assault. Now.
If we fall—
we fall facing them.
Face to face."
**
Their lights collide.
Their ships punch through vacuum like fury through flesh.
Their decisions—
become impact.
Mercury watches in silence.
It bears witness.
It passes judgment.
But the outcome no longer rests on metal or strategy.
It rests on something else.
On who is willing to die—
and still remembers why they came.