Fleet Command Station "Cobalt." Sector D. Android Containment Zone.
Steel doors part with a low mechanical groan.
Beyond them—darkness. Cold. And a charge in the air, like the atmosphere before a storm.
Emergency lights flicker dimly, gliding across smooth metal panels.
The walls shimmer with magnetic grids—etched like shackles into space itself.
And along those walls, like war trophies, hang the captured androids.
Chained.
Mute.
Each one—like a doll.
Restraints grip their joints like iron claws. No motion. Only the eyes—those that still function—stare into the dark with silent contempt.
They wait.
Not for forgiveness.
For vengeance.
Three figures step into the cell block.
The first—President Marcus. Tall. Predatory-thin. His icy gaze betrays no fear, no doubt. Only clinical curiosity.
The second—Admiral Tyler. Broad-shouldered. Smirking, as if he's already won every war and melted down the enemy's medals for fun.
The third—Ani. Clad in black. Silent. A shadow in recon armor. Her eyes scan. Her movements whisper. She sees. She records. She waits.
"That one," she says suddenly. Her voice calm, but edged with razor contempt.
A finger points.
"Admiral Ragnar."
Tyler squints—recognition.
"Well, look who we have here," he drawls with theatrical delight. "Our noble hero. Yesterday you tried to wipe my fleet off the map. And today…"
He gestures grandly, like a performer delivering his final act.
"…hanging on a wall like a discarded drone. Poetic, don't you think?"
Ragnar says nothing. His eyes are deep wells.
You'll speak, he thinks. But you'll also listen.
Tyler steps closer, his voice dipping into something almost intimate.
"Your fleet is ash. Your rank—revoked. You're nothing. Not an admiral. Not a soldier. Just… an exhibit."
He smiles. Smug. Disgusting.
"You could've served. Been useful. But you chose freedom. A phantom. Dust. And all you got… were chains."
Ragnar doesn't blink. His silence hits harder than words.
You can strip my form, but not my essence. Not my will. Not my memory.
Tyler scoffs. He waits for a reaction. Gets none. Irritation simmers beneath his smirk.
"Silent, are we? No matter. We'll open you up one way or another. Not with your mouth—your neural net."
He nods to Ani. She raises a hand without hesitation.
"He's coming with us."
For a moment, her gaze lingers on Veronika, hanging just beyond the light.
A flash of memory—
A corridor.
A fight.
Pain.
The fall.
"And her. No discussion."
A technician steps forward with a control panel. The restraints hiss open. Metal groans as the grips release.
Ragnar and Veronika collapse—not broken, just released.
Their bodies are battered.
But their faces—alive.
They are carried into the corridor.
Like offerings to an unseen ritual.
**
Laboratory. Biozone A-7.
Metal and glass.
Blinding light.
Air—sterile, yet heavy with dread.
Ragnar and Veronika lie inside containment pods.
Conscious.
Aware.
They see everything.
Feel everything.
Around them—scientists.
Mask-faced. Clad in matching silver suits.
Faceless. Wordless.
Not quite people.
More like algorithms.
Marcus watches from behind glass, his face a cold, unreadable mask.
"I'm interested in the amulets," he says without turning. "We've been warned. It's a virus. A code infection. A god called Kairus."
"No," Veronika answers, her voice muffled but firm. "It's the amulet of Hanaris. The only one who gave us a moral compass."
Marcus smiles. Slowly. Disturbingly.
Like a serpent sensing the weakness in its prey.
"Call it what you like," he replies. "Just keep your distance. That thing's dangerous. Extremely."
"Noted," one of the scientists replies, tapping a command. "What shall we do with the prisoners?"
"They're your test subjects. Crack their memory. Extract everything—especially data on the amulets. Their function. Their intent…"
He pauses.
The next words fall like a death sentence.
"…then cleanse them. Of the virus. Of thought. Of self. Full sterilization."
The scientists nod.
The procedure begins.
**
Inside the pods.
Scanners flare to life.
Waves of light sink into synthetic tissue.
Electric pulses probe every byte of memory.
Minutes pass.
Or maybe hours.
Or maybe forever.
Veronika clenches her will like a blade.
You won't take me. Not the amulet. Not the body. Not my memories. I remember the sun. I remember the battle. I remember my name.
Ragnar stares through the glass. His mind begins to blur.
They think they can erase me?
No. I am the final will of the fleet.
I am what can't be coded.
I believe in Hanaris. And I—
am still alive.
The scanners halt.
One of the scientists lifts a cartridge.
The lead researcher, lenses glinting, inserts it into the console.
"Mr. President. We have everything."
"Speak," Marcus snaps, his impatience slicing the air.
"The Mercurian fleet has been destroyed. No resources left for resistance. Ships disabled. Defenses… have collapsed."
Marcus smiles—for the first time, sincerely.
"Excellent," he exhales. "Time for the final blow."
He turns to Tyler.
"Protocol B-11. Begin ground assault on Mercury. It's time they learned who rules this system."
"Yes, Mr. President!" Tyler answers with a grin.
Ani steps forward. Her voice is cold, tinged with disgust.
"And the prisoners?"
Marcus doesn't even look.
"Wipe their minds. Erase their identities. Make them obedient. No will. No dreams. Just function."
"Understood." Ani nods. No emotion.
She is the sentence.
The pods seal shut.
Scanners whirl back to life.
But inside—
Inside Veronika and Ragnar, something stirs.
Not a virus. Not memory.
Something greater.
Something unalterable.
A flame hidden in their amulets.
The fire of resistance.