Pulsing indicator lights dance across the command center walls, like living flames on the brink of detonation. The metallic panels tremble under pressure—as if the Platform itself has begun to breathe, heavy and in pain. The space around Camilla contracts, becomes narrow, suffocating. As if the entire station is about to burst from within.
The air—no, this isn't air. It's the electric foreboding of collapse, mingled with sweat and steel. Everything is going according to plan... and everything inside her is screaming:
"No. Something's wrong. Something…"
"Data upload complete," reports the operator with lifeless precision. Like a machine.
"Power supply has reached the designed threshold. Operating within normal parameters."
Camilla stands at the console—straight as a needle, like a helm bracing against a storm.
Her eyes—sharp as blades.
Her skin—armored.
But inside—fire. An undying blaze, growing hotter every second.
On the screens—light. Motion. Stability.
And it terrifies her more than failure.
"Too smooth. Too quiet. Where's the error?... There has to be one. Because it *exists*."
"Eighty percent..." the operator murmurs now, as if afraid of his own voice.
"Ninety... ninety-five..."
Crack.
A muffled sound from within the walls. As if a titan's fist is clenching somewhere deep below.
On the monitor—blinding radiance. The central disk of the Platform blazes with a celestial blue, dazzling, inhuman—like an iceberg hurled into hell.
"One hundred percent power!" the operator shouts. "The station is fully active!"
And then—everything collapses.
As if the station blinked.
And died.
The light vanishes. The Platform becomes a smear of shadow on the screens.
The blue flame—a memory flash, leaving behind a dead pupil.
"What is that?!" Camilla lunges at the console. Her voice is a gunshot. A firing squad command.
"Report—now!"
The operator is frozen. Stupefied.
"According to readings... the ergon batteries... they're draining. Rapidly. Catastrophically..."
He doesn't finish.
A flash.
A flicker. A bundle of light. A pulse from nothing.
No sensor picks it up. Only the eyes do.
And instinct. That ancient beast that still lives in us.
"That's not tech... that's something else... something... alive?"
"What was that..." Camilla whispers. As if afraid of the answer.
"Unidentified energy," someone breathes.
Siren.
The room floods with crimson light.
From the speakers—a distorted AI voice, like an electronic mind drowning in agony:
"Warning. Power system failure. Overheat. Insulation breach. Immediately don pressure suits."
Panic breaks like a snapped lock.
Everyone scrambles for gear. Suits activate blindly.
Camilla's already in armor. Her face behind the visor—harder than steel.
"Shut down the Platform! Full cutoff! Drop all power!" she shouts.
"Trying!" the operator hammers at the keys, then freezes.
"No link! Central node is... dead! Commands won't go through!"
"Then manual override! Main energy core!" And Camilla bolts down the corridor like a missile.
Footsteps. Impacts. Roar.
The metal answers her like a wounded beast.
She feels it shuddering. The Platform isn't just resisting—
—it's going mad.
She reaches the panel and rips the cover off.
Inside—heat. Smoke. Crackling.
Living sparks crawl along the contacts like poisonous insects.
Her hands shake. But they work.
The gloves melt. But she doesn't stop.
"Damn it!" she yells into the comm. "Connectors are fused! The contact is burnt out!"
She pulls. Hard.
Again. Again. And then—
FLASH.
NUCLEAR.
BLINDING.
Plasma bursts—straight into her chest. Camilla stumbles back.
Her visor fogs from within.
The stench of burning floods her nose.
Her heart—skips.
The world—melts.
A voice breaks into her ear:
"Camilla, do you hear us?!"
But it's already far away. Somewhere... beyond the helmet.
She collapses onto the metal.
Like a doll.
With her wire cut.
Her body twitches—then goes still.
Silence.
Hum.
Tremor.
The Platform is still alive.
And it no longer obeys anyone.