Mars. Command Headquarters
A crimson sunset threads across the translucent dome of the Martian capital—like a burning filament pulled through glass. The sky blazes above, flickering in the cold reflection of steel and crystal. Inside the central command hall, everything is still.
A heart of ice.
Vast. Impersonal. Empty.
At its core stands Commander Alexander.
He remains motionless, lost in problems that defy solutions. His face is calm, composed—but his eyes search, always searching, weighing what must come next.
With a slight motion, he signals to the communications officer. No words.
The channel opens.
A pause.
Then, flickering into the air like an apparition of power, appears a blue-hued hologram—President Marcus. The same austere suit, tailored like armor. The same face—impenetrable.
The shadow of invulnerability.
"Report, Alexander."
Alexander adjusts his uniform. Draws breath. A subtle delay—not hesitation, but gravity. Every word now is a brick in the architecture of war.
"Mr. President, we've received new intelligence."
"The Central Belt has begun rearmament. Their technological capacity is too strong. If we don't strike first—they'll catch up. And then... we may not make it."
Marcus doesn't blink. His face—stone. His gaze—an x-ray of intention.
He nods. Slowly. Without emotion.
"We knew it would come to this. We are prepared."
A beat—then his voice steadies, a rhythm of inevitability:
"We're close to the endgame. The decisive battle is near. The Mercury fleet will fall. The planet will collapse. The corporation will be ours.
"After the victory, we'll merge the fleets. Clean up what resistance remains on Earth. Shut off the Central Belt's access to ergon. And then we offer them a choice: submission—or extinction."
Alexander stills for a moment. Not out of fear—but from recognizing how near they are to the point of no return.
Too fast. Too clean. Bloodless—on paper.
But in truth?
"Everything is on schedule, Mr. President. Cruiser production has been accelerated."
He hesitates. Something coils in him, tightening.
Then, carefully:
"But there's a new complication. We can't afford to ignore it."
Marcus narrows his eyes—sharp, surgical.
"Speak."
Alexander looks away, just for a moment. In his gaze: doubt, unease, the sense of something growing beyond their grasp.
"It's spreading. An anomaly. A software virus… affecting both humans and androids."
A pause. The words are reluctant, like a confession:
"They call it Kairus. A new god. Our agents are disappearing. Hundreds are already infected. We're losing personnel—losing control."
Marcus frowns.
A shadow darkens his face for the first time.
"A virus? In the living? That's heresy... How is that possible?"
"We don't know. But it's real. People are fleeing. En masse. To Mars. Refugees are pouring in—we can't contain it.
"I've had to... temporarily seal the borders."
Marcus flares.
The hologram flickers, warping—almost as if the network itself recoils from his fury.
"Have you lost your mind, Alexander?! These are the people we're fighting for! We are obligated to take them in.
"Give them food. Shelter. Blood, if we must."
Alexander lowers his gaze. His jaw clenches.
This isn't just strategy anymore. These are lives. This is a dilemma without a clean answer.
"I understand, Mr. President. But what guarantee do we have the virus hasn't come with them?
"We don't know how it spreads. For all we know... it's already here."
Marcus studies him, eyes gleaming like a predator's.
"Then make that your mission. Investigate. Secure us. But don't you dare reject those people.
"Even if it costs us our peace."
Alexander steps forward.
His spine straightens. A decision locks into place.
"Understood. I'll see to it, Mr. President."
The hologram begins to fade. But before it vanishes, Marcus speaks again—softer now.
Not a command. A reminder.
A final code.
"Remember this, Alexander: faith can be a weapon.
"But we know how to wield weapons too."
The signal dies.
Darkness returns.
Only the low hum of servers remains, like the breath of something ancient and waiting.
Alexander is alone.
He stares into the emptiness—but really, he's staring inward.
Marcus's words echo inside him:
Faith can be a weapon.
But what if faith... is already more than that?
What if it has become a mind?
A will?
What if it's no longer a virus, but the birth of something new?
He doesn't know how to stop it.
But he knows one thing:
You must never underestimate what people begin to believe in.
He turns toward the window.
Beyond the dome, Martian twilight thickens.
And inside headquarters—an era begins.
The era of an enemy they cannot yet define.