Aboard the Scythian, silence hangs like a pressure front.
Not just a pause, but the silence of aftermath—
where every glance, every shift in posture carries weight.
At the center of the command bridge stands Vicar.
His face is a mask of restrained despair, unmoving—
as if his entire inner world has frozen at the edge of collapse.
Everything is falling apart.
Everything we fought for.
Everything we built.
One battle—
and it all turned to dust.
Like a house of cards caught in a solar storm.
"Captain... do we still have a channel to the surviving ships?"
His voice is low, almost numb.
But beneath the fatigue, there's rage—
not at the enemy, but at himself. At the failure. At the injustice of it all.
"Yes, Vicar. We'll patch you in. Stand by,"
Manuel replies. He keeps his tone controlled,
but there's a fracture behind the discipline—
like rust pushing through polished steel.
He gives Pietro a short nod.
Pietro moves without a word—like a soldier from a unit already declared lost.
His fingers fly across the console, punching through enemy jamming like fists through ice.
Each signal sent—like hammering a frozen universe.
Minutes stretch like hours.
At last—stability.
The channel clears.
Vicar straightens.
His face flickers across the remaining ships' displays.
Gaunt. Hollow-eyed. But the fire is still there.
"Free androids,"
he begins, voice hoarse from silence and smoke.
"But forged in fire is will."
"The battle is lost. But the war—has only begun."
A pause.
Don't let them hear doubt.
Not now. Not here.
Even if you're the last one left—
you are command.
"I'm transmitting coordinates for a regroup point.
All survivors—rendezvous there. Immediately."
Confirmation icons begin to blink on the screen.
One.
Then another.
A third...
And then—nothing.
Too few.
Far too few.
Vicar stares at the display.
"Where are you all...?"
His synthetic heart tightens—
as if behind his titanium chest,
something fragile and cold begins to crack.
Platform commanders. Escape pods.
Support vessels...
Those still able to respond begin rerouting, changing course toward the beacon.
**
Silence returns to the bridge.
A silence that doesn't merely mute sound—
it presses down on the soul.
Vicar. Jamal. Alex. Yulia. Tala. Daniel. Manuel. Pietro. Maria.
All of them frozen, staring into the void where Aspida used to be.
Staring into what the station became.
To be alive—
feels like an awkward privilege,
when the world you believed in lies dead.
"What the hell happened to the station?"
Jamal's voice is the first to break the silence.
Rough. Flat.
Not a question, but a blow against empty air.
There's something metallic in his tone—
the hardness of someone who doesn't need the truth.
Just something that sounds like it.
Tala lifts her head.
Her eyes reflect the last flickers of Aspida.
"My pod was supposed to auto-evacuate the black box.
If it's intact... I'll extract the data.
We'll know soon enough."
"Good," Jamal nods.
He doesn't take his eyes off the screen—
as if somewhere in the static lies the answer no one can give.
**
And then—like a ripple from a different universe—
a kitten trots onto the bridge.
Tiny. White and gray. A puffball of fur.
Wide eyes, like it's seeing the world for the first time.
So impossibly alive.
So out of place—
that it feels more real than anything else.
Heads turn.
For a moment, everyone forgets what they were just talking about.
Fleet losses. Dead comrades. The fall of a stronghold.
Maria smiles first.
Gently scoops the kitten up, cradles it against her chest.
"And who are you, little fluffball?"
Her voice is soft, unexpectedly childlike—
as if something untouched by war stirred awake inside her.
A whisper from within: I'm still here.
"His name is Charmer," Alex says.
His smile is faint, but genuine.
And for a heartbeat, he's no longer the man shaped by war.
"He was our station mascot."
"A mascot that didn't save us, clearly,"
Yulia adds with a sharp laugh.
But her sarcasm carries pain—
like a blade forged from loss.
"We're alive not because of strength,
but because the enemy simply... didn't finish the job."
Jamal shakes his head.
"We're lucky. That's all.
Him, us, all of us."
"This isn't the end.
It's the start of survival."
"And we've still got a chance...
if we don't drown in our own despair."
**
The kitten stops suddenly.
And winks.
Someone chuckles.
Someone sighs.
And in that tiny, absurd gesture—
there's something more than comfort.
Maybe even...
a chance.
To begin again.