Deep space. The battle line near Mercury.
Through the void, where even light forgets its path, war howls.
Furious. Relentless. Shattering.
At the front—combat platforms piloted by androids slice through the fog of battle.
One of them, caught in the eye of the firestorm, seems to hold the very weight of war upon its hull.
In the command chamber, the captain's voice cuts through the comms like a blade.
"Fire! Shift position—now!"
His fingers dance across the holographic panel,
conducting a symphony of destruction.
"Repeat the volley! Move, now!"
"Two drones down!" his second reports.
But beneath the discipline, a quiver of fear betrays the human shadow still clinging to metal.
The platform shudders.
Its frame groans.
A burst of white sears the viewports—
and through it, hell breaks in.
"Direct hit! Right on our grid!" screams an operator,
his voice shredded raw.
"Camouflage is down! Structural breach—critical!"
This is it, the captain thinks.
Our end. Or the mark we leave in legend.
And still—he doesn't flinch.
He stands like an anchor in a storm of stars.
His eyes—spotlights through fire.
"Abandon platform. Evacuate."
Each word hits like a command from the core of a collapsing star.
He points toward the airlock.
Not a request.
A sentence of survival.
Three androids snap into motion, suits deploying in an instant.
They sprint for the exit, boots pounding fate into the deck.
Engines roar.
The hull creaks—like it's taking one last breath in metal.
Then—another strike.
Hotter than the sun.
Meaner than lightning.
The airlock tears open.
Vacuum surges in, tearing at everything unanchored.
Metal screams.
The platform—groans like a dying beast.
"Move it! Get the hell out!" the captain roars,
his voice nearly blowing out the mic.
"To the escort ship! Don't look back! Don't stop!"
They claw their way through the breach,
magnetic boots scraping against the exposed ribs of the ship—
survivors on the edge of extinction.
One by one—they make it inside.
The hatch slams shut with a final, leaden thud.
A tomb sealed.
A lifeline cut.
Through the escort ship's viewport—
explosion.
The platform tears apart,
devoured by fire like a star swallowing its own child.
Scrap. Ash. Flickers of flame.
That was their home.
Now—it's nothing.
**
"Set course—enemy flank!" barks the escort's captain.
His voice—
a rifle without a safety.
The former platform commander slumps into a seat.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
His face—
a frozen elegy.
My station. My duty. My life. All of it—ash. And I'm still breathing. Why?
But there's no time for mourning.
On the screen—another flare.
Another platform.
Another death.
Destruction walks beside them now,
unhurried.
**
Android flagship.
The bridge glows—
the star map burns like an open wound.
"Cease fire," says Admiral Ragnar.
His voice doesn't echo.
It falls like a guillotine.
No tremor.
No debate.
He speaks like space itself.
The noise of war recedes.
Silence returns.
Heavy.
Dense.
Like the vacuum between a heart and its armor.
The drones vanish—
fading into coded shadows.
Only wreckage remains.
"Report," Ragnar says without turning.
But each word lands like a rivet hammered into steel.
"Five platforms lost.
Hit during the counter-volley from the Martians,"
the navigator replies, voice low—
as if cleaning a wound with breath.
Ragnar studies the hologram.
Debris.
Dust.
Ghostlights of dead engines.
This is the cost. The toll for a single move.
But if it gets us closer—
I'll pay it again.
"Losses acceptable."
No sorrow.
No pause.
Just math, done in the ashes.
"The strike was effective. Targets neutralized."
He turns to the comms officer.
"Remaining platforms from the first wave—
regroup.
Reinforce the second line.
No unnecessary risks."
"Aye, Admiral."
"Prepare a new assault."
Ragnar says it like a launch code for catastrophe.
"Double the payload.
Let the enemy feel what Mercury's rage truly is."
**
In the shadow—platforms wait.
Ghosts.
A swarm of knives.
They move—
silent.
Lightless.
Death written into their code.
On the bridge—silence.
Fragile.
Like glass just before the hammer falls.
Everyone waits.
Everyone knows:
The next command isn't just an order.
It's a threshold.
Between fear and fury.
Between life—
and whatever comes after.
Ragnar doesn't blink.
It's only beginning.