Command Station of the Martian Squadron "Cobalt."
The holographic battlefield fills the entire control center.
Blue and red tracer lines.
Bursts of fire.
Sparks twisting through spinning vortexes of debris—
a deadly symphony in midair,
each note a death.
Each chord, destruction.
Every pause, the promise of another blow.
At the epicenter of this cosmic music stands President Marcus.
Arms folded behind his back like Napoleon surveying the battlefield.
His voice, quiet—but absolute.
"They've stopped firing again?"
Waiting. Again.
Regrouping? Or bait?
These androids are cold, but not stupid.
Which means… we're too close to their design.
"Yes, Mr. President," replies Admiral Tyler, eyes locked on the tactical hologram.
He doesn't even turn his head—
his gaze pierces the projection like a hawk's talon driving into its prey.
Beside him, his aide works fast—
fingers gliding over sensors,
screens pulsing with raw data:
numbers, vectors, shifting arcs.
"Status of our losses," Tyler snaps.
His voice slices like a laser.
"Five percent of drone capacity, Admiral. Minimal damage," the officer reports, not looking up.
A brief pause.
A shadow crosses Tyler's face—
not relief, but cold satisfaction.
The kind a gambler shows after scraping a small win from a dirty table.
He straightens, rolls his neck like a fighter limbering up for the next round.
"Good," he says, his tone edged with a cynical grin.
"They're regrouping. Trying to wear us down. Waiting… but they're wrong."
You're holding the silence too long, you synthetic bastards.
Think I don't see it?
You're afraid to open your jaws,
because you know we're about to tear your throat out.
He steps forward like a conductor before the final crescendo.
"Shift part of the drones from the flanks to the front. Tight formation. No gaps."
"Copy!" the aide answers instantly, neural commands already shooting through the fleet's control net.
"The moment they fire—counterattack. Hard. Hit the source.
Give them no time, no breath."
Tyler's voice turns low, sharp—like a whip crack in a still room.
The command center freezes in full focus.
No one breathes.
Every officer knows:
the next salvo will decide who has the right to see another sunrise.
"Understood, Admiral."
Tyler pulls himself upright.
Broad shoulders. Eyes locked on the hologram's violent pulse.
A brutal, joyless grin tugs at his mouth.
He whispers into the silence—
"Where are you, you android rats?"
"Hiding in the dark? Shaking already?"
(His grin widens.)
"I'm burning with anticipation to scatter you into dust."
You think we're the same as last time.
We were soft.
We were slow.
But today—
I'm your goddamned nightmare.
Marcus watches from the shadows, saying nothing.
A smug smile curls across his face.
He doesn't interrupt.
Doesn't comment.
He merely nods—slightly.
As if confirming checkmate before the final move is played.
If Tyler's that certain…
Then the enemy must already be fracturing.
Let the fire do the rest.