Mars Command Station Cobalt.
The tactical screen is chaos incarnate.
A swarm of red markers rushes in from all sides—
like a pack of starving predators closing in.
The room is silent.
Not quiet—dead.
And that stillness presses harder than any engine's roar.
It's the breathless void before an explosion.
Where the hell did they come from?
Why didn't the system trigger?
What did we miss?..
"Shields are breached!"
The officer's voice isn't a report—it's a death cry.
"Two hundred ships—heading straight for us! Direct trajectory!"
Admiral Tyler leaps to his feet.
His fingers dig into the edge of the console, fists clenched like stone.
His face wears the mask of command—
but beneath it, something tears.
"Deploy the boarding troops! Now! Get them to the station!"
His voice is sharp—commanding—
but despair trembles under every word.
On the screen, a storm bears down.
Enemy ships, mosquito-sized and furious,
each one ready to sting.
"Why are the cruisers repositioning so slowly?!"
He loses it—voice cracking.
"Standard transition time, sir..."
The operator tries to stay calm,
but fear seeps through the pauses.
"We can't accelerate the shift…"
"We're not going to make it!"
Tyler's eyes widen—
panic blooming in them like wildfire.
"One more volley and we're gone!"
Then—a flash.
Blinding.
Like the eye of a god suddenly opening.
A burst tears across the display.
Even the monitors tremble with the resonance.
Against the burning face of the Sun—
the shattered wreckage of Aspida scatters like a dying star.
"What... is that..."
Tyler exhales.
As if he's witnessing something impossible.
President Marcus rises.
His silhouette—unshaken.
A monolith amid the storm.
His voice is calm.
Steady.
Like scripture spoken over fire:
"It's a miracle.
God is with us.
He loves His children.
He is here.
Victory will be ours."
Silence.
Then—joy.
A flare of exaltation erupts in the room.
Officers raise their hands, as if to receive a blessing.
And in that moment—
the alarm explodes like a scream.
"Enemy at the station! Docking... boarding!"
Panic surges like a tidal wave.
The room flares open like a wound—
officers scatter—some to airlocks, some to terminals.
"Seal the compartments! Where's the guard? Where are the troops?!"
Tyler is shouting, voice shredded, lips quivering.
It's not a command anymore—he's drowning.
"Boarding units en route! Preparing for combat now!"
The walls shudder.
Metal groans under the weight of fate.
Screens flicker.
Then—silence.
Real silence.
Hard.
Footsteps.
Light, but purposeful.
Agent Ani steps forward.
Calm.
Certain.
Like a bullet knowing its mark.
Her movements—precise, predatory.
Her eyes burn—not with rage, but with thrill.
The thrill of the hunt.
"Mr. President,"
her voice—silk, laced with a wicked grin,
"my turn. Permission?"
Marcus doesn't blink.
He's steady.
In his gaze—faith, not feeling.
"Proceed."
Click.
Her exosuit hums to life.
Drones unfurl from her back—like dark wings spreading.
The shield field ignites,
her armor shimmering with cold light—
like frost etched into forged steel.
She walks.
Not fast.
But every step is a sentence passed.
The doors shut behind her,
swallowing the room in silence.
Marcus watches her go.
In his eyes—no fear.
No fury.
Only faith.
"Seal the flanks!"
Tyler screams, gripping the console like he's holding reality together by sheer will.
"On it!"
an officer answers—voice cracking—
fingers flying across the keys,
diving into the digital war
where every second is a heartbeat away from death.
Now—it begins in earnest.
A battle not for victory—
but for what remains of faith.
For what still burns inside
when the enemy is already at the door.