When humanity broke free into space — to Mars, its moons, the Asteroid Belt — a new gold rush began.
Investors hurled fortunes into the void. They built factories, launched fleets, tore holes in silence chasing after resources.
Mars, once dead and desolate, bloomed. It pulsed with fire in its veins.
Colossal refineries chewed through asteroids, extracting rare elements. Complex syntheses laid the foundations of a new economy.
And from this frenzy, a new territory was born — the Outer Belt of Civilization.
But prosperity demanded its price.
The Martian economy is ravenous.
It devours resources like a black hole.
Its lifeblood — ergon, a synthetic fuel forged by the Mercuria Corporation in orbit around the Sun.
Ergon isn't just power.
It's blood.
The heartbeat of civilization.
A few grams can power a megacity.
And its scarcity is a blueprint for future wars.
From the outside, Mars is paradise.
Rolling green fields. Mirrored lakes. Mountains that belong on postcards.
But it's all illusion.
A mirage fed to weary colonists to keep them sane.
Behind the president's window, there are no vistas — only dust and death.
This isn't Earth.
This is a game of shadows.
And the winners are those who control the flow of resources.
The rules? Written by corporate greed.
President Marcus stands before the window.
The panorama before him — a fabrication, painted by artificial intelligence.
It feeds him an idealized Mars, blurs out the bleakness.
And still, he breathes it in — like an addict chasing a vanished high.
The warmth that doesn't exist.
The scent of grass that was never there.
His fingers brush the glass.
Cold as vacuum.
That touch is a longing — for Earth. For a life that belongs to a past he no longer owns.
The projection breathes in front of his eyes.
It soothes, lulls, eases the nerves.
But Marcus carries a secret — like everyone on this dusty planet.
He knows: when the illusions break, reality crushes.
Years on Mars are a race — each day a battle not to drown in emptiness.
He stares out at the horizon — drawn, synthetic, yet still beautiful.
And he feels it — something inside him begins to fracture.
The illusion... it wants to lie.
He closes his eyes. Opens them again, hoping for truth.
But all he sees is a void, wrapped in aesthetic deception.
"Agent Ani is here with the report," comes the secretary's voice over the intercom.
Slightly trembling.
The air shifts — tension, like static before a storm.
"Let her in," Marcus replies, unmoving.
His voice is calm — but something stirs beneath. Anticipation.
The girl enters — clad in a skintight suit of burnished silver, as if reflecting the distant fire of the sun itself.
Her steps are precise, like a cybernetic being tuned to every centimeter of space.
Her gaze scans. Behind the composure — will.
"Mr. President,"
Ani's voice is sharp, trained, alive.
The energy of a weapon freshly calibrated.
"The nanite prototype is ready.
They infiltrate infected systems, replicate, rewrite the android's neural net — force it to run the embedded program.
After that — complete self-erasure. No trace.
The trials were successful."
Marcus turns.
A smile spreads across his face — not just satisfaction, but the taste of power.
That blood-singing thrill.
"Excellent," he says, tasting the word like fine wine.
"Reward everyone involved. Let them know — their work won't disappear into the shadows."
"Already done," Ani replies.
A flash of excitement flickers in her eyes.
Combat spark.
She almost relaxes…
Almost.
But then — a shift.
Her expression changes.
As if someone hit a switch.
Every light in her face extinguishes.
"There's something else," she says, voice lower now, focused.
"We've made contact with an Earth-based mercenary. He's willing to take the job.
The diplomatic summit is in a few days.
If we want everything to run smooth — we have to act now."
Marcus is silent.
He looks at her.
His gaze dissects.
Analyzes.
Weighs catastrophe against possibility.
He seems to scan the air around her.
Measuring shadows.
Silence.
His jaw tightens.
The decision already made — before the words.
"Then begin," he says at last.
His voice is firm, with just a trace of unease.
"There can be no doubts."
"Acknowledged, Mr. President," Ani replies.
Her posture tightens — a spring drawn taut.
Marcus turns back to the window.
The landscape hasn't changed.
But now it irritates.
The illusion no longer comforts — it lies.
And he knows:
it must be shattered
to build something real.
"For the living…" he whispers — almost unaware he's spoken.
As if testing the sincerity of his own conviction.
"For the living," Ani echoes.
Clear. Steady. Certain.
But within the words — something personal.
A vow.
Or a warning.
She turns and walks out.
Each step deliberate.
And yet behind every motion — a shadow of dread.
The decision is made.
There's no way back.