Earth and Luna — the heart of civilization. The Central Belt.
Here, organic and artificial life intertwine in a fragile, elegant harmony.
Here, intelligence has outpaced its flesh, sculpting planets into radiant hives where billions labor — biological, synthetic, hybrid.
This world thrives.
A roaring economy, bleeding-edge technology, limitless manufacturing.
Everything imagined or engineered is born here — in the factories of the Belt.
Resource streams from Mars and Mercury pour in without end, transmuted into goods, modules, systems, weapons.
Earth trades it. Earth lives off it.
But beneath the brilliance lies a ravenous womb.
The synthesis of ergon — the fuel of the new era — demands power, sacrifice, and madness.
Only Mercuria Corporation dares to produce it, dancing close to the Sun where brilliance borders annihilation.
Ergon is more than energy.
It's the pulse.
The lifeblood of the machine.
Without it — everything halts.
Without it — everything dies.
**
In a spacious, spotless office stands Camilla, Director of Security.
She is still as a bronze statue, watching the reflections shimmer on the polished floor.
The glow of holographic panels dances on the walls, accenting the sculpted precision of her posture — focus, discipline, command.
Beyond the "windows," clouds drift by slowly.
They seem alive.
But it's a lie — a careful projection from hidden screens.
There's no real sky here.
No true horizon.
Only simulation.
But who cares?
People stopped noticing.
They've grown used to the counterfeit — like the taste of synthetic milk from commercials that promise real feelings.
Everything is fabricated.
Everything — impeccably stylized.
A sound. Barely audible.
Thin as a drop falling on glass.
The door parts silently.
Nicholas enters — Chief of Intelligence.
He appears like a ghost, precisely when expected.
His uniform bears a subtle pixelated pattern — almost invisible, tinged faintly red, like someone else's blood that never quite washed out.
He approaches and gives a crisp nod. No words. No wasted motion.
"Director," he says.
"You summoned me?"
His voice is clear. Direct.
His eyes — the stare of a hunter a second before the strike.
Camilla doesn't look at him.
Her fingers curl slowly against the desk, like claws that might cut through metal if provoked.
"Report," she says.
Her voice — tight, restrained, on the edge.
Nicholas takes one step closer.
His shadow sharpens on the floor like a blade.
"Intel from a trusted source.
Agents on Mars are plotting to sabotage the upcoming diplomatic summit.
Details are vague, but one thing's confirmed:
A mercenary's been hired.
He's to receive a certain 'gift.'
We know the location.
We're monitoring.
Once confirmed — we move."
Camilla freezes.
A flicker in her eyes — like a starship engine flaring to life.
She turns, her gaze now a surgical scanner of ice.
"This... rogue action?
Or sanctioned from above?"
A pause.
"Personal initiative. President Marcus himself," Nicholas replies.
"He's acting in the open. He wants conflict. Dramatic. Direct.
To him it's a game. Moves. Control over the androids is the prize.
As for casualties... he doesn't count them."
Something clicks inside Camilla.
She cages the fury behind her breath.
"We won't let him turn that summit into a prelude to war," she says, softly. Almost a whisper.
But the whisper holds a sentence.
A blade in velvet.
"Let them play.
We'll record every move.
And when we have proof — we strike.
Fast.
Clean."
Nicholas nods once.
His face unreadable, like a sealed dossier.
But the corner of his lips twitches — a flicker of thrill. Almost pleasure.
"As you say. No noise. No dust."
Camilla inhales. Deep.
Her face resets — smooth as lake water.
Her eyes drift to the panel.
The clouds vanish, replaced by data streams. Signals. Coordinates.
The pulse of the world.
Control — her armor. Her creed.
"What about the shipments for Mercuria?" she asks in her colder, executive tone.
"On schedule.
Last convoy en route.
Ivor is personally overseeing it," Nicholas answers.
The subtext is clear:
If Ivor's there — nothing will go wrong.
Camilla glances at him — the faintest smile, sharp-edged and thin as wire.
"Good. After the operation... take some time off.
Meet with friends.
Do something... alive."
Nicholas's mouth tenses, just a touch.
"Wouldn't mind that.
Might be nice to forget — even for a day or two — that this whole world hangs by a thread over the abyss."
Camilla turns back to the hologram.
But she's no longer seeing numbers.
Her gaze drifts far — beyond the projections — to a place where no bullets fly yet...
but the safeties are already off.
Click.
The door closes.
Silence.
Camilla remains alone.
Her eyes track the clouds as they fade and reappear.
An illusion.
But behind it — something more.