"Moving toward the targets," the commander's voice murmurs in the helmet — distant, muffled, as if rising from underwater. Calm. Routine. Almost lazy. As if this isn't an infiltration into the heart of an enemy stronghold, but just another vent inspection.
He speaks like it's nothing. But inside, he's a wound wired tight. Every word is a way to keep himself on the edge. Too easy to slip. Too easy to become the target.
Ahead of them — an empty corridor. Dim emergency lights flicker in the dust settling on polymer floor strips. The walls crackle faintly as energy shifts through conduits — the platform is breathing. Like a creature. Like something alive pretending to be dead, sensing intruders through closed eyes.
"Single contact approaching," a second voice — the scout. "Access point to the comms node. Link established. Beginning interface."
The commander drops to the console. His movements are sharp, efficient, like a weapon cocked and primed. Gloved fingers dance over holograms. Blue code-lines flicker into motion — like serpents slithering into the nervous system of a beast.
Time. It's against them. It's always against them.
Then — a voice.
Sharp.
Alien.
Blood-freezing.
"Stop right there! Don't move!"
Silence breaks.
Like a bullet through the heart of stillness.
The team freezes. No panic — but the air inside the helmets thickens. As if the walls have turned to water, and every breath is a struggle not to drown.
A guard. Three meters away. Combat suit. Visor — a black mirror. Paralytic weapon raised. One shot — and the entire platform lights up in alarms.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
His voice shakes. Not aggressive. Not yet. He's unsure.
And doubt — that's a window. A small one. But it's all they have.
"Repair crew," the commander says, flat, almost annoyed — like someone woken too early. "Urgent diagnostics on the node. All clearances in place. You're welcome to check."
The guard's visor doesn't move. His grip stays firm. But between his fingers — uncertainty.
"What've you got?" a voice crackles through his comms. Tired. Fuzzy.
"Request verification for a maintenance crew in sector A8. Three of them. Emergency assignment," the guard replies, weapon still aimed.
Pause.
A long one.
The kind that tastes like broken ice before a fall.
Clicks. Static. Delays — like a cliff groaning before it collapses.
"Confirmed. Maintenance crew registered. Assignment in A11. Clearance valid."
The guard's visor tilts slightly.
He hesitates.
The system says one thing.
His gut says another.
The commander lets a faint smile slip. Not arrogance — necessity. His hands stay visible. Open. No threat.
"There you go," he says, voice low. Almost friendly. Almost sympathetic.
"There you go?!" the guard snaps. Panic flaring beneath the armor. "The work order's in A11. You're in A8. Wrong floor! Why?"
The moment tightens — static-charged. Neon-bright. One wrong twitch, and it goes off. One of the operatives shifts — casually, as if scratching his neck, but the hand drifts toward a holster.
The commander raises his palm.
Stop.
He steps forward. Slow. Like crossing a minefield.
"Listen... let me check the map," he nods at the guard's tablet. "Might've got the sector wrong. It happens. I'll show you."
"There shouldn't be mistakes," the guard grumbles. "Order clearly states: A11. You're one floor below."
A red dot blinks on the screen.
Like a drop of blood on white paper.
The commander leans closer. A beat. Then — a performative "Shit."
"Yeah. Right here. My fault. Coordinates are good, sector's off. Apologies."
His eyes show weariness. His body — tense as a wire. In his head, only one thought: survive.
The guard hesitates.
"You need to head that way. Yellow markings. No freelancing. This isn't some back corridor."
"Understood. Thanks, brother," the commander gives a small nod, voice steady. Inside — his heart's pounding like a hammer on steel.
The team turns. Calm. Precise. Step by step, they vanish around the corner.
Behind a bulkhead, the commander whispers:
"Team Two, report."
"Loud and clear," comes the reply — clipped, efficient.
"We were nearly exposed. Cover story held. File's live. If you make contact — you're maintenance crew. Stick to the script. No improvising."
"Understood. Proceeding."
Minutes pass. The platform waits — like a samurai before the draw.
"We're in position," the second voice comes through. Breathing heavy. Heart pounding. They moved fast. Too fast.
"Confirmed," the commander responds. "Plant the charges. Exact points. No deviation."
Clicks. Electronic pings.
Then silence again.
"Charges placed. Synchronization complete. Countdown inactive. Awaiting command."
"Copy. All units — exfil. Back to the shuttles. No noise. No traces. We were never here."
And they go.
Down the same corridors. Silent.
Dissolving like smoke into the air.
Behind them — the platform remains.
Deaf. For now.
Blind. For now.
But beneath its armor, a new rhythm has started ticking.
The thermite charges — blades pressed to the throat.
The platform doesn't know it yet.
But its heart is already condemned.
Silence.
Until the signal.
Until the flash.
Until the end.