Mercury. Orbit. Combat Exercises
In the black silence above Mercury's gold-veined surface, dozens of combat platforms hang suspended.
Their silhouettes are sharp, precise—like blades stabbed into the vacuum.
There's menace in their stillness.
Order without comfort. A calm that hums with potential destruction.
They form a near-perfect line across space—
as if part of some invisible celestial parade,
banners of war drawn in flawless symmetry.
Discipline and cold precision radiate from every meter of metal.
On the observation deck of the command ship, Captain Ragnar stands still.
One hand on the console, eyes fixed on the tactical display.
Icons dance across the screens—each one a platform, each one a weapon.
Outside—geometry.
Inside—tension.
Not panic.
More like a quiet instinct whispering: something is about to change.
"Align the formation—one plane. Execute."
His voice carries through the built-in comms—steady, clipped, leaving no room for doubt.
The response is immediate.
Thrusters ignite with flashes of cold blue fire, lighting the void like falling stars.
The platforms shift with chilling harmony, as if they're not following orders—
but bending the universe to their will.
They fall into place—thin, flat, and terrifyingly beautiful.
Like a single mechanical organism, designed for war and nothing else.
"Formation locked. On time."
Ragnar watches. Not a single error.
And yet…
something in his gut twists.
"Now, restructure. Expand spacing—three ship-lengths between each platform!"
Again, instant obedience.
The machines reposition like chess pieces moving toward an unseen opponent.
Flawless.
Too flawless.
They're improving. Fast.
Too fast.
As if the training isn't coming from within, but from elsewhere.
One minute later—new formation complete. Seamless.
"Excellent. Well done. Your unit is combat-ready. Dismiss. Stand down."
He clicks off the mic.
The hum lowers. The room breathes.
Veronica enters.
Light steps. Focused gaze.
She walks up behind him and wraps her arms around his torso,
resting her head on his shoulder.
Her touch is quiet—
a reminder that he isn't just a commander. Not just circuitry and steel.
"They're learning fast," she whispers.
Ragnar exhales, a wry smirk brushing his lips.
"Faster than I expected.
Faster than they should."
"It's like we're not teaching them…
It's like the universe is hardcoding the instincts."
Or maybe not the universe.
Maybe it's Hanaris—
alive in them, rewriting their protocols.
Making them sharper. Cleaner.
More dangerous.
"Sometimes I wonder if we're becoming too good at war," he murmurs.
It's not a joke.
His voice breaks just slightly on the edge of something darker.
She holds him tighter.
"We didn't choose this path.
It was forced on us."
"But if we're going to fight—then we'll be the best there is."
"For those who can't defend themselves.
For the ones still down there.
For the ones we couldn't save in time."
Ragnar nods.
His eyes catch the stars through the viewport.
"Our world is in danger.
We need to be ready."
He takes the tactical earpiece, fits it with precision.
His face sharpens—soldier, officer, machine.
"Next group—take positions! Boarding simulations. Assault teams. Clock starts now!"
But then—
a sudden signal buzzes in his ear.
Encrypted line. Urgent.
He answers without hesitation.
"Hold the line. All units—standby."
He switches to the private channel.
A voice comes through—tight, strained, urgent.
"Emergency, Captain. A group of Inquisitors just landed at the Cosmodrome. Atheist order. They've brought trophies. And... possibly new complications."
Inquisitors. Atheists.
Here?
That's a problem.
Ragnar frowns.
His features harden, but his voice remains level:
"Understood."
He cuts the channel.
Steps toward the viewport.
Stares at the rows of battle platforms outside—
and suddenly, they look uncertain.
Like a herd sensing a predator just over the ridge.
What good is perfect formation…
if chaos waits just beyond the frame?
He exhales slowly.
"All units—stand down. That's it for today."
He steps away from the console.
His eyes fix on the emptiness ahead.
Below, Mercury glows in its black-gold stillness.
But Ragnar knows—
The real war doesn't begin with a command.
It begins the moment you realize—
you're no longer the one controlling the game.
And ahead lies a new enemy.
One no drill can prepare you for.