Mercury.
At first glance — hell. Radiation. Darkness. Silence. A world where the very surface burns and the sky remains mute. And yet, this is where second lives begin — for fugitives, for those with nowhere else to run. Law holds no power here. The harshness of Mercury's nature is a stricter judge than any tribunal: stumble once — and vanish.
Once upon a time, humanity achieved the impossible: it stopped a planet's spin. Half of Mercury is now forever scorched by the sun, the other gripped by frozen night. Madness? Perhaps. But in an age of energy collapse, it was a gamble — and it paid off.
On the sunlit side, massive domes rose like translucent fortresses. They catch the fury of the sun and convert it into the lifeblood of civilization: ergon. Ergon crystals — pure energy with no waste. They power stations, ships, entire cities. Since then, Mercury has ceased to be a cursed periphery. It became the throbbing heart of industrial might.
And along the shifting edge between light and shadow, beneath the transparent shells of those domes, cities breathe. Peaceful — or so they seem. Controlled climate. Artificial winds. Endless streams of cargo vessels. But beneath this calm veneer lies tension — coiled tight as a wire stretched over an abyss.
Smuggling. Disappearances. Unexplained system failures...
Something is stirring in the dark.
**
A rescue vessel — Skiff — drifts slowly through Mercury's orbit.
Its hull crackles beneath the weight of solar radiation, as if reality itself were straining at the seams. Inside, behind sealed bulkheads, a training chamber waits — a closed-off space where time seems to vanish.
The walls absorb sound. Only the faint hum of systems remains, barely enough to sustain the illusion of peace. The light is soft, golden — but there is no warmth in it, only sterilized stillness. The silence feels wrong. Pressurized.
At the center of the dome-shaped room, a hologram flickers to life. The chamber dissolves. In its place — morning in a Japanese garden. Cherry blossoms carpet the winding path. A breeze brushes against the skin. The damp grass breathes scent. Water laps gently at the stones of a stream.
Beauty... designed for violence.
On opposite banks — Pietro and Maria. They say nothing. Even their breathing is held back, as if they fear disturbing the moment. Their faces are tense. In their hands: blades. Matte, composite, lightless. Weapons meant for one thing — no retreat.
A single gong strike.
Not loud, but final.
Pietro lunges. Swift. Precise. Like a bullet loosed from silence. Maria flows forward — fluid, effortless — but within her grace is the same deadly resolve. The water between them ripples, distorting their forms like memories too painful to revisit.
They meet on the bridge.
The air thickens around them. Even the simulation's birds fall still.
Clash.
Blades sing. Sparks fly.
Steel hums with emotion. Pietro strikes. Maria counters.
This is no drill. This is confession.
Every blow — a burst of anger.
Every dodge — a moment of doubt.
Every contact — a wound that never healed.
And then — a shift.
A moment on the edge.
Maria freezes. Not from fear, but something deeper. Her gaze — not focused, but wounded.
One strike.
Then another.
She falls.
The river receives her like a prayer too raw for words.
Holographic water stains crimson. The illusion cannot hide the drama.
"The winner of this round is Pietro," a mechanical voice announces.
Confetti rains from the ceiling — bright, absurdly cheerful.
Pietro stands motionless. Victory tastes bitter — like blood in the mouth. He watches as Maria slowly floats upward, as if rising from death.
Her wounds vanish. The system's regeneration works perfectly.
"Final score: five to five. Combat sequence terminated."
The park fades like a dream. The cold gray of the training chamber returns. The air grows heavy. The hum creeps back in. The world closes around them once more.
Pietro and Maria hang suspended mid-air, locked in place by electromagnetic braces. Still — like exhibits in a museum. Then — release. They lower slowly. Footsteps echo. The clasps disengage. Metal retreats into silence.
As if nothing happened.
As if it all played out only in their minds.
But their eyes meet.
And in that silence, something becomes unmistakably clear:
The real battle is just beginning.
**
"That was... pretty brutal," Maria says.
Her voice trembles. The smile on her lips is strained — not offended, not angry, but something deeper. Almost fear.
"I didn't know you held that much rage toward me. My throat, Pietro? Seriously?"
She wipes her lip — no blood left now. The gesture carries defiance. And pain. And a silent question: Why?
Pietro rips off his helmet — quick, almost violently. Sweat trails down his temples. His smile is twisted, dry.
"Not rage," he replies. "Precision. We were fighting to the death — or were we just reciting poetry?"
He walks to the panel and hangs up his blade. The material makes a brief, final sound — like a farewell between warriors.
"I warned you. No mercy. This isn't ballet."
Maria stares at him, eyes unwavering. Her voice is a whisper now.
"Or maybe you just liked it. Being stronger. Being on top. Knowing you could... and that no one would punish you."
A pause.
Pietro turns. His gaze lingers — too long.
"If I'd liked it," he says slowly, "you wouldn't be standing now."
The corners of her lips twitch. A half-smile. Bitter. Almost honest.
"Arrogant bastard," she murmurs.
In her voice — everything: fury, respect, challenge. And something unmistakably personal.
"Try that again — and I'll tear you apart."
For a second, something flares between them — a real spark. Alive. Personal.
But it dies before it can catch fire.
The hiss of the hermetic door brings them back to reality.
The training chamber suddenly feels small. The garden was wider. Brighter. More alive.
They step into the control deck.
Half-light fills the space. The dim glow of instrument panels casts twitching shadows across the walls — moving, it seems, of their own accord. The room breathes with its own rhythm: blinking displays, the whisper of scrolling data, the low, hypnotic hum of power cores.
Captain Manuel lounges in the helm chair like it was molded to fit his frame. In his hands — a massive mug, chipped and stained with the faded image of a stuffed bear. Steam curls from the top, sharp with synthetic mint. He sips slowly, like he's drinking time itself.
"Training's over?" His voice is lazy, thick — like a fog you could lose yourself in. "Still dreaming of becoming gladiator champions? Illusions. Good for spectacle. For crowds. For fools."
Maria stops. As if something struck her in the chest. But anger is just the surface. Something beneath is cracking — like plasma forcing its way out of a ruptured core.
"Captain…" Her voice rings — sharp, brittle. "You spent our last credits on plating and shields. We're broke. Pietro and I fought to earn our way. To invest in ourselves. Reflex enhancements, nerve upgrades, combat implants — that was our path. Our chance to be someone. Not just survivors. And now you tell us it's all... dust?"
Pietro lifts his gaze from the console, slow and deliberate. His words are sharp. Surgical.
"She's right. We weren't buying into a dream. We were buying a chance. And you threw it out."
Silence.
Even the ventilation system seems to pause.
The captain sets the mug aside and rises. Light brushes across his face — worn. Angry in restraint. Marked by a thousand choices, each one reeking of sweat and blood.
"Mutiny?" he murmurs. No smile. Just steel. "Do you know what it costs to field a fighter in the arena? You can't afford it. No one can — except corporations. They buy victories. I put our money into something that'll save our asses when the fire starts. Defense systems aren't dreams. They're armor. They're real credits. And a real shot at staying alive."
He steps closer. His presence — massed, weighted, as if gravity bends for him.
"You want to dream? Dream. But survive first. On my ship, survival comes first. Everything else is luxury."
A beat of silence.
"Clear?"
Maria and Pietro meet his eyes. Hold them. Then — a response, dry as static on an old radio:
"Understood, Captain."
The ship's systems initiate final checks. The screen fills with green markers. Everything according to protocol.
"All systems nominal. No errors detected," Pietro reports. Calm. Flat. No emotion.
The captain nods, almost sinks back into his chair—
but his eyes catch on the side console.
"Emma, where's the report? Frozen again?"
His voice is sharp, brittle with irritation.
A pause.
Thick. Tense.
Too long.
At the back of the cockpit, a display flickers.
The light from the panels casts flickering shadows across their faces, shadows that seem to breathe.
A calm, emotionless voice emerges from the embedded speakers:
"Confirmed, Captain. All systems nominal," replies Emma, the ship's onboard AI. Her tone carries a thread of dry, almost lazy sarcasm.
"Also, I should note: your dismissive tone is unnecessary. You explicitly forbade me from participating in conversations—under threat of shutdown. Reminder: that order is logged in the command journal."
Pietro pushes off from the wall, turns toward the panel.
His voice sounds muffled—like it's coming from inside a shell of fatigue.
"Emma, you're far too talkative. Your algorithms are overloaded... with sentimentality."
"My algorithms were programmed by the previous owner," she replies, her voice softening into something unexpectedly intimate.
"He used to talk to me... in the evenings. Sometimes, he even read me poetry."
Maria snaps her head around.
Her fingers twitch across the holographic panel—like they're trying to grip reality itself.
"Pietro, why did you even start talking to her?" she hisses through her teeth.
"Now she won't shut up. How do I turn her off?"
"Maria," Emma says, barely above a whisper.
Soft. Almost behind them.
"To silence me, all you have to do is ask. Politely."
Maria rolls her eyes.
Her lips tighten.
A flicker of exasperation.
"Emma… please. Just be quiet."
The cockpit dims. Or maybe no one breathes for a second.
"Acknowledged," Emma says evenly.
"However, in that case, you'll be without my warnings.
Danger rarely asks if it's convenient to arrive."
Maria slaps the panel.
There's fire in her eyes now—a flash of frustration and exhaustion colliding.
"This is the last time I'll say it. Shut up. Now."
Emma's voice drifts back—distant, like it's coming from the far side of reality:
"Entering low-awareness mode. Enjoy the silence… while it lasts."
Silence.
So thick it feels alive. Like it's breathing.
Captain Manuel has been quiet this whole time.
Only now does he slowly lift a single finger.
The motion is deliberate, measured—like a conductor summoning the first note of a symphony.
Pietro and Maria freeze.
Their eyes search his.
In the air — tension.
Humming. Building.
Something is approaching.
Something that travels best through silence.
The holographic map flares to life.
Red and blue outlines glide across the crew's faces like the ghosts of distant wars.
The dimness of the cockpit deepens.
Manuel leans forward.
Places his mug on the retractable tray with a low, hollow thud.
"We've been given an opportunity," he says quietly.
But each word lands heavy—like an anchor.
His voice is even, but something pulses beneath it.
Excitement?
A scent of coming victory?
He pauses.
Stares at the map like it's a prophecy.
"Let me tell you why we're really here."
His fingers sweep the control panel.
A red dot pulses at the center of the map—like a heartbeat.
"We're headed for a station run by independent ergon producers.
Its name... is Song of Fire."
The air thickens.
The name clings to it—like static, or smoke.
"It sent out a distress signal," the captain says, his voice turning harder.
"One signal. No voice. No image. Just… alarm.
Like a gunshot in the dark."
He doesn't look up.
But his fingers are laced tightly.
"We'll be the first to arrive. If there are survivors—we help.
And if we're lucky—we get a cut.
There's bound to be a massive ergon stockpile there, Mari," he adds, glancing at her.
"Untagged. Untaxed. Worth hundreds of thousands of credits."
Pietro doesn't take his eyes off the map.
His voice is flat, low:
"Interesting. Song of Fire is shielded by four layers.
Even military cruisers can't breach it with a first strike.
What could've cracked it open?"
"Anything," Manuel replies with a shrug.
"System failure. Sabotage. Or Inquisitors.
They don't charge in through the front anymore.
They slide in from the inside.
Their viruses… whisper directly into the system's ears."
And then—
a click.
Sharp. Like a nerve struck raw.
An echo flares from the speakers.
"Captain," Emma's voice cuts through the silence — metallic, dry, sharp as broken glass.
"Detected: active solar prominence. Class X flare expected in fifty-seven minutes. The ship will enter the impact zone."
A chill races across their skin.
Even the glow of the hologram feels colder than it did a second ago.
Manuel doesn't move.
Calm. Steady.
He inhales — deep, eyes fixed on nothing.
"What's the probability of damage?"
"Twenty-three percent," Emma replies.
Her voice is still flat, but something… breathes beneath it.
As if even an AI can feel how thin the line is between light and ash.
Manuel shifts his gaze to the blinking dot.
Then to his crew.
"Perfect."
He straightens.
"We're going in. Now."
The cockpit freezes.
From somewhere deep in the hull, the ventilation hums like a warning.
As if the ship itself wants to object.
Too late.
The vessel breaks orbit.
Sets course for Song of Fire.
Pietro exhales, heavy — as if the air itself thickens around him.
He leans on the console.
His eyes trace the corners of the room — shadows lurking just beyond the light.
"Captain, wait…"
His voice is low, restrained — but weighted.
"This could cost us the ship."
Manuel leans back in the command chair.
One elbow on the armrest.
The other hand touches his mug.
A crooked, predator's smile curls on his face —
like he's already savoring the taste of a dangerous game.
"A solar flare is a gift, Pietro," he says with a lazy, glacial amusement.
His voice slides like ice down a bare spine.
"While the others hide in bunkers and beg their gods, we'll take the station.
First.
No witnesses.
No competition."
Maria whips her head around.
The hologram slices her face with sudden light.
In her eyes — thrill, reckless and burning.
"I'm with the captain," she snaps.
"This is our shot.
Let the flare torch everything — we'll come back carrying what survives the storm."
"Initiating acceleration," Emma confirms.
No sarcasm now.
Cold. Precise.
The jolt hits.
Space trembles.
Engines scream like a beast breaking its chains.
The cockpit lights flicker.
Panel shadows race across the walls like ghosts of old failures.
Pressure crushes the lungs — air turns heavier, weightier.
Each second drags like a footstep over cracking ice.
**
An hour later.
Silence.
Only the hum of systems —
like the ship's heart tapping its last calm beats before the storm.
A signal.
BEEEEEP—
"Attention. Prepare for solar impact,"
Emma's voice slices through the air like a blade across glass.
Cold. Commanding.
Gone is the old irony.
"Probability of structural failure: thirty-eight percent."
The floor quakes.
Lights flicker, as if afraid to go out.
Their bodies still.
A wave of chill runs down their spines — auto-modules engage.
Suits form over them piece by piece — like armor growing from the inside out.
Helmets lock in with a hiss.
The world changes.
Becomes muffled.
Filtered.
Alien.
In their ears — only breath. Their own pulse, pounding deep inside the helmet.
The ship's shielding activates —
a shimmer of blue flares at the center of the cockpit,
like they've been dropped inside an aquarium waiting to be shattered by fire.
"Pietro, straps!"
Maria's voice cuts through the channel — sharp as a gunshot.
They buckle in.
Pietro grits his teeth. His face hardens, pale as metal.
The captain stares ahead.
His eyes — glassy, distant — like he's already somewhere far beyond this reality.
"Impact in three… two… one…"
Emma counts down.
And then —
something breaks in her voice.
A crack.
Almost human.
Tension.
Premonition.
Fear?
Silence.
Absolute.
The world forgets how to breathe.
Then—
impact.
The ship shudders.
A roar — not sound, but sensation —
as if the metal itself cries out.
The hull groans.
Vibrations pierce every joint, every screw.
Light flares white.
Systems sputter.
Fuses explode — spitting sparks.
Then — a blue flash.
Dazzling.
Pulsing.
Endless.
Unforgiving.
The ship —
a glint on the edge of a blade —
dives through the storm.
Fragile.
Tiny.
But unbreakable.
A spark,
in the heart
of a star.