Earth.
The mercenaries' operation is already in motion.
To Vikar, they might as well be traitors.
Alex, the engineer, is piloting the drone—a steel bird with blade-sharp wings slicing through the sky. It races toward the rendezvous point, a dead zone choked in dust and silence. Somewhere in that wasteland, a delivery from Martian agents awaits.
All of Alex's focus is on the screen. His fingers dance across the interface—precise, efficient, controlled.
"The drone's on station," he says without looking up. "Holding position over the coordinates. All clear."
Beside him stands Yulia. Still, composed. Her movements carry a feline fluidity, her gaze sharp, unblinking. The black jacket with its patched insignia gives her the air of an officer—though the shadows betray her: she's no one's subordinate.
She's a lone wolf.
"Can you see the container?"
Her voice is low and measured, like a spec-ops commander issuing a kill order.
"I see it," Alex replies, eyes fixed to the screen. "Dead center of the landing zone."
"Perfect."
She touches his shoulder briefly—a tap, an impulse.
"Bring it in."
Alex enters the command.
The drone dips gracefully, manipulator arm extending, scanners sweeping the perimeter.
Container locked.
Then—an alarm flares on the interface.
"Shit," Alex hisses. "We've been pinged. Signal just spiked. Someone might've seen us."
Yulia's fist clenches. Her eyes narrow, cold calculation sharpening her tone.
"Abort? Or you've got an exit plan?"
"Always do," Alex smirks—but there's tension in the line of his jaw. He toggles a sequence. "Every backdoor's accounted for."
Suddenly—the alarm vanishes.
Signal—gone.
"We're clean. Countermeasures holding. Pulling out."
The drone rockets upward, wings tucked in. It shoots through the ruins like a dart, weaving past scorched rooftops and rusted antennae.
Target: hangar.
Temporary safe zone.
Touchdown.
The container lands on the concrete with a soft click.
And the drone vanishes, slipping into the shadows behind folding walls.
Silence.
From the dark, a low mechanical scrape.
A centipede-like robot crawls into view—armored in reactive plating, glistening like living mercury. Its red sensor-eyes blink in rhythmic pulses, scanning for threats.
Its manipulators snap shut around the container.
Then—vanishes, slipping into a narrow fissure in the comm shaft.
Gone like a whisper.
Later.
A hatch slides open.
The robot emerges, its limbs tapping a steady beat across the concrete floor. It halts in front of Alex and Yulia.
Yulia takes the container without a word. No questions. No wasted movements.
The centipede dissolves into the darkness—machine dust.
"Clean," she says.
"Perfect." Alex exhales, a breath of tension released. Relief in his tone, though his eyes remain alert. "Let's get to the lab. Time to see what Mars just sent us."
**
Later. In the hideout.
Dim room. Low light.
Silence wraps around them like water in a pressurized capsule.
The outside world doesn't exist here.
Alex opens the container.
A touch.
A soft whirr.
The mechanism splits open.
Inside—a memory block, black as folded night.
He activates it. A hologram flares to life: the silhouette of a man, blue and ghost-like, voice filtered and metallic.
"Your task: establish contact with the target.
"The target is a diplomat. They will attend the upcoming gladiator games. Location: the planet's central arena.
"The container includes tickets. Your seats—above, below, left, and right of the target.
"Objective: infect. The ampoule contains the agent. The target is under protection. Proceed with caution."
The hologram fades.
As if the entire message had been a dream.
Yulia lifts the ampoule.
Almost invisible—light as a glass tear. Inside, a shimmering pearl-like fluid pulses, glowing faintly, like liquid starlight.
"Alex... what's in this?"
Her voice is barely a whisper.
But there's hunger in it.
Predator's instinct, switched on.
Alex scans it. Data flickers on the screen.
He frowns. Reads it again. Slower this time.
"This is... strange." His voice lowers. "Medical-grade nanites. Totally clean. No toxins. Not a weapon."
Yulia clenches the ampoule.
"Then what the hell are we supposed to infect him with?"
Silence.
A humming void.
"Maybe it's hidden code," she murmurs. "A sleeper protocol? Something that activates later?"
Her tone darkens.
She senses it now—lies embedded between the lines of the mission.
Alex stands. Walks to the holowindow.
His expression is unreadable.
"Or maybe it's a setup. A provocation."
He speaks harder now.
"Or maybe we're just pawns. Being used."
Then he adds, colder:
"But you know what? I don't care. The job's weird. But it pays well.
We're mercs.
We do the job. That's it."
Yulia still stares at the ampoule.
In her hand—light.
Contained.
But alive.
And she feels it deep in her bones:
This is just the beginning.
Whatever they're carrying—
it could tip the scales.
And no one knows where the first stone will fall.