On the dark side of Mercury, beyond the glimmering transparent dome, a slow procession of transport ships cuts across the sky. Each vessel, like a silver streak, pierces the docking gates and settles onto tightly secured landing platforms. The air hums with tension—everything feels suspended, as if the entire complex is holding its breath. Only the low rumble of engines and the faint metallic clinking echo through the silence.
Among the crowd of incoming craft, one sector stands apart—VIP.
A different world, nested in the heart of shadow.
At the edge of the platform, like a statue carved from pure will, stands a man in a flawless suit. His face is a mask of composure, but his gaze is razor-sharp, focused. He watches the vessel that has just arrived from Earth.
This is Vikar.—Chairman of the Mercury Corporation.
His name is spoken with reverence—and fear. His achievements dance on the edge of the impossible. Behind them: whispers, rumors, the long shadow of the Inquisitors.
Today, Vikar is welcoming the only man he trusts without hesitation.
An old ally. A companion forged in secrecy and time.
From the distance, a figure emerges.
Tall, dressed in a flight suit, he walks quickly—like someone who'd rather not linger in this place longer than necessary. This is Ivor. His smile is confident, but his eyes betray the exhaustion of a soldier long accustomed to living on the edge.
"Glad to see you, my friend! How was the journey?" Vikar's voice is warm—almost too warm. His arms spread wide in welcome, his gesture generous. But his eyes never stop calculating. Cold. Measuring.
"Boring, as always," Ivor replies. His voice is steady, with a hint of dry sarcasm. He glances back at the ship, then adds—almost casually,
"Brought the final components. No... unnecessary noise."
A silence hangs between them.
Heavy. Like ash after a fire.
From deep within the hangar, a line of loaders emerges. Their yellow lights flare, reflecting off the metal floor. The machines move in unison, locking onto the containers. Overhead, combat drones hover—silent, precise—like hawks circling over prey.
The containers vanish into the hangar's dark maw.
Vikar narrows his eyes.
His gaze is an X-ray—reading not just the movements, but the meanings behind them.
Something's missing.
Something he expected... and hasn't yet seen.
"Job's done. Shall we continue this somewhere more comfortable?"
His voice drops a register—there's a whisper of satisfaction in it.
And a subtle reminder that 'comfort' is always relative.
"Gladly," Ivor replies, letting his smile ease.
His hand relaxes—moving just slightly away from his hip, where a compact energy emitter rests. Reliable. Like an old friend. His smirk is faint but alert.
A luxury transport glides down to the platform, its surface catching slivers of light from a sun just peeking past the planetary curve.
The vessel lands softly—like a predator draped in silk.
They board.
The craft lifts, floating above the megacity, carrying them away from the shadows and freight, toward the rising day.
On the panoramic screens, the solar done unfolds—majestic, glowing.
The Sun flares on the horizon, spilling molten light across the shielding panels. Its rays, scorching and relentless, are tamed by the dome into a golden glow.
An illusion of safety—powered by energy.
Sustained by will.
"Look at what we've built," Vikar says, gesturing downwards.
His voice carries pride—but beneath it, something heavier.
As if each 'achievement' weighs like a debt unpaid.
"As far as the eye can see—our factories. Mercury controls more than most governments even comprehend."
Ivor says nothing.
His gaze sinks deeper—beyond the dome, beyond the skyline.
He knows what brews beneath this glass skin.
The endless synthesis of Ergon.
Power born in these depths fuels entire worlds.
Or burns them to ash.
A shadow flickers across his face.
Too powerful.
Too fast.
Too easy to lose control.
"We're producing more Ergon than civilization can consume," Vikar says, his voice shifting—philosophical now, almost prophetic, like a man standing on the threshold of revelation.
"We're moving to the next phase. Synthetic materials. Martian technologies. But powered by our energy. Scaled to our ambition."
He pauses. Then, more quietly:
"We'll reshape the market."
Ivor doesn't reply. But something flashes in his eyes.
Curiosity?
Doubt?
Or a premonition.
Something is changing.
And not everyone will survive the change.
The transport slows, hovering above a colossal structure that looks more like a palace from the future than any factory. The facade gleams—liquid titanium sculpted by light itself. Not a single centimeter wasted. Every edge, every curve, a designer's precision made real.
Through an iris-like hatch, they descend.
The effect is ritualistic—like entering a cathedral built in worship of technology.
Landing.
The main hall greets them with a silence that thickens like engine grease.
They walk a corridor that ends in a pair of gleaming titanium doors—polished like weapons. The place feels like a techno-palace: icy opulence, perfect symmetry, architecture screaming authority.
In the center of the conference room, samples are laid out on the table—sleek cubes, polished to flawlessness, like artifacts carved from the future.
They pull the eye like alien relics.
Ivor picks one up, turns it in his fingers—testing not just the weight, but the meaning behind it. His face is calm, but his gaze cuts deep. As if he knows: each cube has the power to tip the balance.
"We're stealing the future from them," he says softly.
There's no pity in his voice—only something darker. A flicker of foreboding.
Like he sees where this is headed.
Vikar watches him. His expression tightens, suspicion flickering in his eyes. He hears the doubt.
And he doesn't like it.
"They gave it up themselves," he snaps, the anger carefully measured—but audible in every syllable.
"The Martians thought they could dictate terms. Let them be angry. Anger isn't strength. We have the strength."
Ivor places the cube back in silence.
His eyes sweep the room—walls, vents, the recessed lighting.
Searching for something unseen.
Cameras? Ears? Witnesses?
Everything here feels like set design. But for what play?
"You think they won't go to war?" Ivor asks.
Flat. Sharp. Cold.
He stops.
His face hardens, as if carved in stone. The smile vanishes.
And in his eyes—something vast, frozen. A void you don't want to fall into.
Vikar answers in the same calm tone, but now almost a whisper:
"I think the war's already begun. We're just... still in the shadows."
He lets the words settle. Then, as if casually, adds:
"By the way... We've got a leak. Someone's feeding Mars intel. I'm trying to find out who."
Silence.
The room itself seems to contract—tighter.
Heavier.
Ivor doesn't answer immediately. He stares into space, his expression going blank—like ice before it cracks.
He's not hearing words.
He's hearing a challenge.
But Vikar doesn't meet his gaze.
He looks away.
That, too, is a message.
"Then we'd better tread carefully," Ivor says at last.
His voice is low, but there's discipline in it. Steel.
Not a habit.
A protocol.
"Exactly," Vikar nods, voice firm now, tone sharp with command.
"But you've always been careful, haven't you... old friend?"
Silence returns—thicker now. Humming like a storm on the verge.
The two men stand apart, their thoughts moving in parallel.
They look in different directions.
But they're thinking the same thing:
Something's gone wrong in this game.
And outside these titanium walls,
deep beneath the surface of Mercury,
the engines of a coming war begin to stir.
Invisible lines are being severed.
A dark shadow begins to rise.
And everyone knows:
Time is almost up.