The Platform. Outer perimeter. Ivor's loader.
Ivor freezes in the cabin.
A cold chill creeps down his spine—not from fear, but from the awareness of how fragile everything is.
Everything has to go perfectly. No mistakes.
"One mistake—and it's over. Not just for me. For everyone."
The cargo bay is dim. Only pale emergency lights crawl across the walls—like the breath of something unseen, lurking in the dark.
He activates the access panel, disengages the shielding over a specific section of the platform.
Here, on this forgotten patch of metal, surrounded by voiceless space, the fate of the entire plan hangs in the balance.
Tick. Tick.
Every second—like a hammer in his skull.
And then—the signal.
A faint blip on the screen.
The module is approaching.
Right on schedule.
"Thank you, Maria... Pietro..." Ivor feels his chest tighten.
A small, unmarked capsule.
But inside—isn't just a kitten.
It's a cipher. A message. The call sign of Hanaris.
A god, or... something more? No one knows.
He knows only one thing: if he misses—everything will collapse in an instant.
"Breathe. Just breathe. It's not the first time. But, damn it... it's the most important."
He syncs the motion, aligns the manipulator arm.
Smooth. Precise. Not a single wasted move.
The container locks into place.
His heart pounds.
Not in his chest—in his head.
"Move. Hide. Survive."
Turn. New course—toward the hideout. Where no eyes watch.
But—
"Stand down."
The voice strikes like electricity through his ribs.
A foreign command crackles through the intercom.
Ivor jerks around.
Two guards stand in front of him.
Helmets. Mirrored visors.
They're like stone idols. Emotionless, but...
"They're not fools. They sensed something."
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
He inhales sharply.
No pauses. No hesitation.
Speak fast. Precise. Cold-blooded. Like a system.
"Who am I?" he echoes, with a hint of irritation. "Lead engineer. Ivor. Post-transfer inspection. Detected a shielding leak. Personal intervention. Central Command orders. Check the logs."
One guard steps forward.
The other stays still—a silent threat.
The tension is like a duel at dawn.
"Why are you using the loader?"
"Dropped a tool. Came to retrieve it. Didn't expect company—this sector's dead quiet," he allows himself a brief, nervous chuckle. "You know how it goes."
"And you thought it was appropriate to inspect the area alone?"
"It happens." He shrugs, as if it's nothing. "Better to fix a problem than drown in paperwork. You get it."
Silence.
Thick as oil.
"They don't believe me. Or pretend not to. Will it be enough?"
"Open the container."
The phrase hits like a point-blank shot.
"That's it."
His mind floods with scenarios. All of them bad.
But the best move—is always the simplest.
He presses a hidden switch.
The container appears empty.
He calmly lifts the lid.
"Empty. Just a drone shell. In case of breaches. Better safe than sorry, right?"
The guards exchange glances. One smirks.
They're bored. That's his chance.
"You may go."
He walks away.
Unhurried. Not a single extra step.
Each movement—like walking a minefield.
His fingers whiten on the container's handle.
Only when the airlock seals behind him—he exhales.
**
Cabin.
Half-darkness.
He locks the doors.
Strips off the suit.
Steps to the table.
His heart still hums like part of the ship's engine.
The container rests on the table.
Unremarkable on the outside.
But inside—everything this mission was for.
He presses a button.
The lid opens in silence.
And out, with the grace of a predator, leaps a kitten.
Small. White-gray.
Eyes dark as black matter.
"There's no fear in those eyes. Only knowledge."
"He's not just an animal. He's... someone."
"Hello, little one," Ivor whispers, running his hand down the soft back.
The fur is like silk.
"You fooled them well. Even I almost believed you were just a cat."
The kitten circles the table.
Silently. Deliberately.
Each movement precise—like a military march.
Reconnaissance. Analysis. Control.
Ivor watches him—not as a pet.
As a messenger.
As a secret key.
"Let's get to work," his voice sharpens.
"You know what to do. You're not just a carrier. You're a code. A gate."
"Salvation. Or the end."
The kitten looks up at him.
No sound. No gesture. Yet Ivor nods—like he heard everything.
"Silence is consent," he smirks.
He places the kitten back into the container.
"Sorry. Safety over comfort."
He presses a second button.
The container becomes empty again. Or simply... disappears.
Even Ivor doesn't fully understand how it works.
"Now that's a trick…"
He hides the package in a panel niche.
His hands no longer tremble.
"Now the real mission begins."
"And if you're right, little one... we just fooled fate itself."