Mercury. Headquarters of the Mercuria Corporation.
The building rises above the horizon like a titan from the future—a gleaming monolith of steel and light, a symbol of ambition long since unbound from anything human. Compared to it, the rest of the skyline looks like a fossilized museum from the age of mankind.
Leaving behind the sterile rituals of protocol and digital bureaucracy, two androids step out of the conference chamber: Vicar, chairman of the Corporation, and his longtime ally—Ivor.
The corridor greets them with sterile silence. Their footsteps echo like whispers from the living, breathing infrastructure itself.
In the antechamber, the secretary waits—flawless, like an algorithm given flesh. Her smile is advertisement-perfect. Without a word, she turns and leads them toward the great doors. One gesture—and they part soundlessly, as if the structure obeys her hand.
Inside—another dimension.
A vast room with a mirror-polished floor that reflects not just the ceiling and walls but something deeper—thoughts, if you stand still long enough. Everything here shimmers like a dream, or a simulation nearing collapse.
At the far end—Zeus.
Not marble, but obsidian glass, gleaming like condensed power. In one hand—a lightning bolt. Here, the god is no myth, but a brand. His face is a logo. His presence, a warning.
At the center: an oval table, ringed with hovering chairs. They float just inches above the floor, swaying faintly, like they're waiting—for players, or prey.
Vicar stops. Looks from the table to Ivor.
"This is your reception chamber now, Ivor."
Ivor raises an eyebrow but doesn't get a chance to ask.
"You'll meet everyone here—friends, enemies, lunatics. This space is a shielded cocoon. Only your profile and mine are recognized. No weapon, no threat can breach it. Don't even try—it'll vaporize everything down to atoms."
A pause. Vicar watches closely, reading every twitch of Ivor's face.
"What do you think?"
Ivor scans the room slowly. His eyes narrow.
"That's fortress-grade protection. What, you building me a throne room?"
"Not a throne," Vicar smiles. "A shield. If you're going to play at this level, you need a place where no one can reach you. But remember—only you can hand over the key."
Ivor glances at the chairs, then back to Vicar.
"That's a lot of gifts in one day. Should I be worried?"
"You should be ready," Vicar replies warmly. "This isn't a gift. It's a platform. One you've earned. Raid after raid. Risk after risk. For a cause no one but us believed in. I haven't forgotten."
He gestures toward the chairs.
"Sit. This is yours now."
Ivor steps forward. The chair receives him like a living thing, adjusting to his weight with millimeter precision.
Everything here seems to breathe. Not electricity—power. Cold. Resolute. Real.
He runs his fingers across the tabletop. The surface is flawless. Cold as command.
"Wait," he says. Quietly. A question hiding behind the word. He doesn't look at Vicar.
"You've talked about risk, purpose, the future. But not what was in those containers. The last shipment's been delivered. It's time to speak plainly."
His eyes rise—cutting through the room.
"Talk. Or you're not leaving this room."
Silence tightens.
Vicar smirks—dry, brief.
"You've gotten sharp. Good. A leader should be dangerous."
He takes a step back, turning to face the black-glass Zeus, as if drawing resolve from the statue's silence.
Then, with ceremony:
"You've been delivering weapons. For a war that's about to ignite. A war for the freedom of those they still call machines. The living will never let us be their equals. And when they come—we must be ready."
He turns. Meets Ivor's eyes. His voice calm—but laced with poison.
"Now you know. Now let me go. You have meetings scheduled. The secretary's handled everything. You have a new role. I have old debts."
He nods, turns, and walks away. His footsteps echo through the empty hall.
The doors seal behind him—without a sound.
Ivor is alone.
And in the mirrored floor, the reflection isn't just an android. It's something else. Something he hasn't yet dared to become.
Silence reclaims the space.
He exhales slowly. Leans back, letting the chair cradle him—like a soldier just back from the front. But in that gesture, there's no peace. Only exhaustion.
The room feels too wide.
Too perfect.
Too dead.
He trails a finger along the table's edge...
And then—click. Attention sharpens. His eyes catch a barely visible button, as if the room itself offered it up.
He presses it.
Instantly, a holographic display explodes into light. A hidden drawer slides open from beneath the surface. Inside—a remote.
He takes it. Presses a few keys.
The chamber transforms.
The walls dissolve. In their place—Mercury's scorched desert, rendered in live panoramic feed. The sand glows. The air ripples with heat. Above it all, the sky pulses, heavy with the gravity of a burning star.
Ivor closes his eyes. For a moment, he dissolves into the illusion.
Here, he is sovereign.
Here, he is god.
"Your first visitor has arrived. Captain Veronika," the secretary's voice informs him—cold, dry, emotionless, like the dark side of Mercury.
He doesn't respond. His gaze lingers on the shimmering dunes.
Then, with a reluctant tap, the desert vanishes. The walls return—steel, smooth, absolute.
"Let her in," he says calmly.
The door glides open. A woman enters. Her walk is certainty. Her posture, military. In her eyes—exhaustion propped up by will.
Captain Veronika.
No greetings. No pleasantries. She sits across from him like the room belongs to her, not him.
"Congratulations," she says sharply. "I see you've climbed. Your office now... almost looks like Vicar's. So, what—you're one of them now?"
"Just got back from Earth," Ivor replies with a calm, glass-smooth voice. "And the first person I meet—is you."
He looks straight through her, as if scanning every molecule. No sympathy. No irritation. Just assessment.
"I think you know why."
For a second, fear flickers in her eyes. She lowers her gaze. A shadow of doubt moves across her face.
"Yes, Ivor… I know. I missed the payment. But… it's temporary. I'll pay everything back. Every last credit. I just need more time."
He stays silent, studying her like a failed investment—like a file flagged critical. The silence presses in, sharp and final.
"It was the Inquisitors," she blurts, her voice tight but restrained. "They took my last shipment. The whole ergon load. I couldn't stop them..."
"That's... unfortunate," he says at last. Each word slices like a scalpel. "But we had an agreement. I backed you when everyone else laughed. I signed off on your failure. And now you want me to pay for it twice?"
A pause. He leans in. His gaze sharpens, turns predatory.
"But there's a way out. You give me the station. We sign a new contract. And we part on good terms. How's that sound, Captain?"
Veronika bolts upright. Her body tenses. Fists clench.
"That's theft!" she snaps, teeth clenched. "I poured everything into that station—money, time, soul! It was my chance! And you want to take everything I built?"
Her voice cracks. Underneath the anger is desperation. She knows it's crumbling—the dream she lived for is vanishing before her eyes.
"And I poured in weapons. Tech. Funding," Ivor growls. "Where's my return, Veronika? It was our ship—but you grabbed the helm and left me behind. Without me, you're a glitch in the archives. Without the station—you're just a name on the blacklist."
Suddenly, a surge of energy.
Tiny drones shoot from her belt—dragonfly-sized, deadly. They circle her in tight formation, red sensors blinking like predator eyes.
"You're threatening me?" Ivor shifts forward, voice low and volatile, like a fuse about to burn out. "This is my domain. I'm a corporate shareholder. Your toys don't work here."
In one motion, he snatches the nearest drone and slams it against the wall. Metal shatters with a crunch. Sparks burst. The drone explodes like a child's toy caught in a warlord's wrath.
"Think carefully." His voice drops to a whisper—but every syllable is a sentence. "You sign. Here. Now. You leave alive. Or you stay… forever."
Veronika stands frozen. Her shoulders tremble. Her eyes hold everything at once—anger, despair, betrayal, fear. The drones hover helplessly, like ghosts.
Silence.
And Ivor's presence crushes the air around her—every glance, every word, like tons of pressure cracking her ribs.
Then, a pause. A breath. Her head lowers. Her shoulders sag.
"I... agree. I'll sign."
Her voice barely rises above a whisper—numb and frostbitten. Inside her, a storm howls. But the body obeys. And the mind chooses the only path that doesn't lead to a body bag.
Pride… can wait.
"The documents are already on the table," Ivor says, his voice even, almost gentle. Precise. Void of emotion.
He activates the holographic interface.
Between them, light blooms. Transparent panels float in the air. Legal code scrolls in front of her—precise, rigid, merciless. Transfer of the station. Waiver of all claims. Digital signature.
The deal is fully formed—just one motion left to close the trap.
"Here," says Ivor, pointing to the final line. His tone—cold as marble in a tomb.
Veronika stares at the line like it's a noose.
A long, heavy moment passes. The world seems to hold its breath. She doesn't move, as if death itself is leaning over her, waiting for consent.
Finally, she steps forward. Her hand moves over the panel—and the signature ignites. Bright as blood dropped on crystal.
"Are you satisfied?" she asks. Her voice is the hush of a midnight forest—quiet, but full of steel and pain.
"You have no idea how much," Ivor answers with icy calm.
He dismisses the interface. The documents vanish instantly—as if they never existed.
The system logs the transaction with a silent, soulless chime.
"You're free now," he says, stepping closer. Each footfall lands like a nail into a coffin.
"The station is mine.
"And you… may leave.
"But remember this—next time, I won't be so generous."
Veronika raises her head.
Her eyes are empty—but not defeated. No fear. No hatred. Just a promise, veiled and silent.
This isn't over.
"You know, Ivor…" Her voice is quiet, but the fury burns beneath.
"You think you've won. But one day you'll learn—some deals cost more than you can imagine."
Her words drift like a bullet that missed its mark—but still wants to come back around.
Ivor watches her go without a word. His gaze stays hard, unmoving. But somewhere deep inside, a shadow stirs.
The door slides shut. The room returns to its sacred silence.
Ivor slowly sits down again.
The chair exhales beneath him, adjusting like a loyal hound sensing its master's unrest.
He stares into the void before him.
And in his eyes—a distant shimmer. The edge of a coming blade.
The war hasn't started yet.
But he can already hear it breathe.