"Cain, this is our first date in a thousand years; could you act a little more... welcoming?" Kasmina frowned, gently stirring her cappuccino with a spoon.
The golden utensil softly chimed against the rim, the sound catching his attention like a half-remembered lullaby.
Her companion blinked, as if just coming to his senses. When had they brought the salads?
His eyes slid around the restaurant — every wall curved, synthetic oak printed to resemble grain. Even the table settings looked pre-Fall, though nothing survived that long without fakes.
The place sat high above the city's bones, wrapped in gold fixtures and artificial warmth, a place untouched by snow or war. Outside, the blizzard rose against a skyline still branded with scars — black scaffolds, half-glassed towers, drones slicing through sleet like whispers. Cain could almost pretend it was peace. Almost.
"Sorry," his voice trailed, staring down at the dish before him. It was evident a human had prepared it rather than a machine; the vegetables had been sliced somewhat carelessly. But perhaps nothing else could be expected, given the prices at a place like this...
His focus snapped into place in mild confusion and he looked up, meeting with the unreadable blue of her eyes, bright and hard as ice beneath candlelight.
"You've been off lately," she said softly, watching him. "Is something—are you okay?"
"Yeah." He sighed. "Just... not in the mood."
"What happened?"
"Oh... Just problems at work," he offered a weak smile.
Kasmina nervously twirled a golden curl around her finger. Cain tore his eyes away from her anxious gesture, glancing instead out the window toward the forest of skyscrapers blotting out the sky. Illuminated windows and bright advertisements blurred beyond the veil of falling snow. Kasmina followed his gaze—just as a strong gust of wind caught the snowflakes, creating the illusion that the snow was drifting upward.
"Beautiful..." she murmured absently, capturing a cherry tomato from her salad bowl without thinking. "Can't you just—just for one evening, forget about your work for Empire?" She leaned in, hands clasped with a playful edge. "Please?"
"Yeah. Of course." He gave a short smile. "Sorry, love."
He wanted to believe that was enough. That he could belong here. But peace was a costume, and it never fit right.
Her phone buzzed, the vibration resonating across the tabletop. Kasmina's gaze lingered at the screen, her expression becoming thoughtful. Her eyes flickered nervously from side to side before she rose abruptly from the table. Cain started slightly, puzzled, but Kasmina quickly reassured him.
Her phone buzzed again, but she didn't look at the screen right away. Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her wineglass—too tight, like she might shatter it. Cain noticed, but said nothing.
When she did check the screen, her breath caught—just a fraction too long.
"Sorry, I—I need a minute." She stood too quickly, clutching her phone. "Restroom. I'll be right back."
"Oh... Yes, of course..." Cain said under his breath, distractedly. He told himself she'd be back in sixty seconds, but something under his ribs already disagreed.
As Kasmina rose, his gaze lingered on her retreating form, briefly captivated by her long hair shimmering beneath the dull lights over rows of tables. Set against her red dress with its deep neckline, it appeared mesmerizing. He wondered, briefly, what she'd look like if this were the last time he saw her.
After she disappeared around the corner toward the restrooms, Cain mechanically pulled out his phone, stole a look at the screen, and placed it on the table. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, quietly humming a tune. His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden vibration of his phone, lighting up a moment later with an incoming call.
"Cain? Why aren't you picking up? I've been trying to reach you for half an hour!" a tirade erupted from the phone, causing Cain to blink in surprise. He was certain no one had called him.
"Sorry, didn't hear it," he lied. "What happened? Something urgent?"
"Where the hell are you? I've got bodies stacking up and comms dropping like flies. Don't hang me out to dry here."
"Calm down, calm down. Got it," Cain's eyes tracked toward the restroom door. "Alan, where are you now?"
Silence answered him.
"Alan, where are you?"
"Connection lost," the phone replied monotonously.
Cain stared down in bewilderment at the screen. No signal.
Cain sprang sharply to his feet, quickly opening the call log as he moved, intending to warn Kasmina he needed to leave.
The chair hadn't even creaked beneath him when something exploded, sharp and close.
An old man by the window was still chewing his steak, trying to pretend the world hadn't just cracked open around him.
Cain's mind scrambled for meaning: fireworks? But no — double-glazed windows wouldn't echo like that. Then something clicked in his mind, and he quickly turned - the windows would have muffled fireworks into a soft pop, not to mention masking any bright flash.
The blast had come from the corridor.
Someone screamed. About a dozen armed men poured into view, dressed in mismatched military uniforms, clearly neither police nor regular army—apart from the canary-yellow bands on their arms.
Without wasting time, the attackers dispersed throughout the restaurant, inspecting every corner. Two vanished into the room marked "Staff Only," returning moments later, shoving out two waiters and a chef. Eventually, the commotion subsided.
"Nobody move!" shouted one of the assailants, his voice cracking into falsetto. He wore a wild-looking red beret and a blue scarf covering his face. Satisfied that no one intended to move, he bowed obsequiously as another man entered—the Monseigneur...
"Shut your mouth," growled the newcomer, causing the beret-wearing man to shrink visibly.
Cain glanced anxiously toward the corridor leading to the restrooms.
The man who had silenced his subordinate strode forward pompously. His eyes were filled with such arrogance that it became clear: they were here merely for show. Negotiations were entirely out of the question.
"I am General Charles De la Fère, commanding Global Liberation Army," he announced grandly. "We are here for the freedom of Earth and our beloved France! You might not be soldiers, but you're still Krosa! Invaders and oppressors! Empire trash dressed like people! Sit quietly, and you'll remain unharmed. If not..."
Cain said nothing. The irony of being called Krosa by someone who'd never left Earth wasn't lost on him.
The General grimaced theatrically before turning toward the subordinate in the beret.
"Kowalski, restrain them."
"Oui, Monseigneur," the man replied eagerly, pulling a bundle of plastic handcuffs from his pocket. Approaching Cain, he pressed the barrel of his gun roughly against Cain's head.
"Hands behind your back, bastard."
Cain gritted his teeth but complied, placing his hands behind his back. The lock clicked harshly, his wrists ached, and someone roughly struck the back of his knee, forcing him to the floor.
A gust of icy wind surged back into the room, flinging snow in like broken glass. Cain shot a contemptuous glance at the "general," trying to recall where he'd seen him. He winced—the cuffs were overly tight, biting painfully into his wrists.
The general seemed to notice.
"What's wrong, something bothering you?" La Fère stepped closer, flicking a lighter. He lit a cigarette and leaned toward Cain, blowing a stream of smoke into his face.
Cain coughed. The "general" chuckled mockingly.
"Weaklings. You don't even realize your peaceful life is ensured by years of bloodshed and mountains of corpses. I bet you've never even seen an execution, have you?"
"General!" one of his subordinates interrupted, not letting him finish.
La Fère straightened abruptly. "What is it?"
"Someone wants to speak to you." The subordinate held out a pink flip-phone.
"So soon?" La Fère replied doubtfully. "They've been listening," he muttered. "Of course they have."
He accepted the phone, but didn't hold it close to his ear. No keen hearing was required to understand the shouting.
"What the hell do you bastards want?!" exploded a voice through the phone—raw, furious. Cain didn't even need to hear the rest. That was Alan.
Alan worked for the police, but was Cain's colleague only formally. Earth natives weren't permitted into the institution, yet they didn't turn away those clearly possessing talent. While common Earth scum patrolled the streets at night, terrorizing their own kin for the faintest chance to impress their conquerors, gifted individuals like Cain served as "consultants"—answerable to no one.
"If you keep boiling over, I'll never manage to speak," the Frenchman thoughtfully scratched the noticeable bump on his nose.
Cain inwardly smirked—La Fère was as much a Frenchman as Cain was a Krosa.
"All right..." came a loud exhale over the line, as though the speaker had been holding his breath. "What do you want?"
"What do we want? Hmm..." the leader theatrically pondered. "We want Earth's freedom, but you're hardly about to discuss that, are you?"
Cursing echoed through the phone.
"Then let's discuss something else. I demand the immediate release of everyone arrested in the past seventy-two hours—those detained today at Freedom Square, completely illegally! If this demand isn't met..."
He shook his head thoughtfully. "We don't have much ammunition, but enough for the hostages. If our demands aren't met, we'll start killing one hostage every five minutes. Adieu!"
He snapped the phone shut, hesitated briefly as if uncertain, then tossed it back to his accomplice.
Cain exhaled almost imperceptibly and shifted his wrists slightly, trying to ease the numbness already spreading through his hands. He attempted to relax his muscles as he'd been taught, but with limited success.
Expecting someone to rush to fulfill the terrorists' demands seemed pointless. Alan had mentioned this wasn't the first hostage crisis of the day, and certainly not the last—especially on a "momentous, great day" like today.
Clearly, all of this was just a diversion.
Their true intentions remained uncertain, but one thing was obvious: coordinated action from numerous criminal groups simultaneously was hardly coincidental. Someone was pulling strings—someone who benefited from anarchy and chaos, here and now.
The question of "who?" remained unanswered. There was only an answer to the question "why?"—and that answer was obvious to anyone who remembered the world eight years ago.
War had arrived eight years ago—not the first, but certainly the last. It had put an end to decades of proxy wars, political intrigue, and endless quarrels. The Krosa descended from the sky—and Earth was utterly unprepared.
The survivors either submitted to their conquerors or vanished from the face of the Earth.
Earth became just another planet within the Great Empire. Its people lost their rights and freedoms, reduced to third-class citizens. Ironically, the Krosa were descendants of Earthlings who had left their homeworld millennia ago—only to triumphantly return now.
All of it was presented under the pretense of "liberation"—claiming Earth had entered a new era, free from old principles, old chains, old illusions. Hostility between Earthlings and the Empire persisted, but full-scale war had faded into the past, replaced by backstage intrigue, occasional rebellions, and desperate acts like this one—officially branded as "terrorism."
Cain narrowed his eyes, glancing up at the wall clock. There you go—he'd let his mind drift again. Four minutes had already passed, yet nothing had changed.
The terrorists' demands remained unanswered, which hardly surprised him; Alan wouldn't bend to terrorist threats.
Cain closely watched the clock's hands. Occasionally, he observed the militants nervously pacing back and forth across the floor. The Empire could respond in many ways, but its priority had always been the lives of its own subjects. Simply blowing everyone away with a precisely aimed missile was out of the question.
A sniper? Cain glanced briefly toward the window, where a blizzard raged outside. Weather conditions were too poor.
That left storming the building.
Bad. The statistics for storming operations were grim. No matter how highly the Krosa valued the lives of their citizens, they didn't hesitate to create martyrs when necessary.
Tactics and strategy. Politics and diplomacy. He had the training, the instincts. He could see the entire board. But dying during a trivial assault, knowing exactly how it would unfold, didn't appeal to him at all.
Even La Fère, apparently having reached a similar conclusion, paced anxiously back and forth in front of the panoramic window. Finally, he'd had enough. Lighting another cigarette, he gestured sharply to his subordinates.
Somewhere behind him, glass shattered, letting an icy draft surge into the room. Goosebumps instantly prickled Cain's skin.
One of the terrorists grabbed a waiter roughly by the collar, dragging the terrified man toward the broken window frame. Approaching silently, La Fère drew a pistol from his holster, pressing it firmly against the waiter's temple.
A second passed. Two... He seemed to hesitate, staring up into the night sky as if expecting something. A response. A sign. Something to make him stop.
Then he sighed—and pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out sharply. The waiter's head jerked violently to the side, and his body collapsed limply, plunging downward toward the flashing police lights filling the street.
"Idiots..." Cain muttered quietly.
La Fère flinched sharply, turning his attention to Cain.
"What did you just say?"
Cain raised his voice defiantly.
"I said you're idiots. They've ignored you, and you still don't get it. Do you honestly believe killing hostages will change anything? Surrender now, and perhaps you'll receive mercy!"
"You little—" La Fère grabbed Cain by the collar, violently pulling him to his feet.
"You're just proving to the whole world what you are—monsters," Cain said, staring hard into La Fère's eyes. No doubt there. He pushed ahead, bluffing now:
"You're not here for freedom. You're here to smear the resistance. How much did they promise you, General? How many bodies to buy their approval?"
La Fère snarled, grabbing Cain roughly and dragging him to the window. Cain laughed bitterly, noticing how the terrorists exchanged nervous glances, trying to process his accusation.
A gust of wind burst through the window, drowning out all other sounds, even muffling the distant police sirens far below. The general stepped back sharply, raising his pistol to eye level, his mouth opening to shout something—
And no one heard him.
The air suddenly filled with a deafening, ear-splitting, near-ultrasonic scream. Everyone in the room dropped to the floor in agony, desperately trying to cover their ears.
His knees gave out.
Cold floor. A groan, or maybe a scream.
One ear crushed to the tiles.
The other—wet. Leaking warmth.
Then silence. Just silence, as noise finally ceased.
In the next instant, the door crashed open, admitting three identically dressed soldiers. They looked nothing like ordinary police special forces.
Cain raised his head, blinking in disorientation. The scene seemed delayed, jerky, punctuated by bursts of gunfire that cut painfully through his vision.
"People of Earth!" thundered a voice above Cain's head.
Raising his eyes in bewilderment, he stared numbly at a humanoid combat machine, its matte armor shimmering purple. Purple, matte, enormous. Not so much walking as unfolding — an insect crossed with a cathedral. His vision fluttered through haze and disbelief.
With one functioning ear, it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where the voice originated. It felt as though it came from everywhere: from speakers inside the building, from street-wide public-address systems, from every phone and radio.
The walker, also known as a Planetary Assault Machine—a Vector—loomed like a colossal insect in the broken window frame. Its sensors stopped, fixating directly on Cain kneeling before it, studying him carefully.
"You have no need to fear for the lives of hostages cowardly captured by the Global Liberation Army! This was a meaningless gesture. General De la Fère has already received his punishment! We, the Forces of Earth's Defense, will never stand aside and allow such cruelty to remain unpunished! Wherever the weak are oppressed, we shall always stand—not with empty promises and propaganda, but with action and resolve!"
"Ballistic threat," a voice clicked in the Vector pilot's headset—just before tracer rounds sliced through the purple armor, leaving a sinister, straight trail through the blizzard. The machine jolted, its head module spinning sharply, searching for the shooter. The walker swiftly pushed away with all its limbs, dodging the incoming fire.
"Titania, wait!" barked a soldier, waving a hand somewhere behind Cain. "Move! Now!—Alvarez, Rojas, after her—go!"
He jumped first. Two others sprinted past Cain immediately after, ducking their heads as they leapt one after another toward the shattered opening.
A gust of icy wind surged back into the room, spraying Cain's face with snowy grit.
Cain barely had time to turn his head—black silhouettes were already disappearing into the snowy haze. High above, parachutes snapped open—muffled pops sounding as though someone's heart had burst midair.
The floor beneath him trembled with the distant echo of cannon fire, though Cain hardly noticed.
It felt as if everything were happening not to him, but to someone else, somewhere impossibly distant. Somewhere, above the snow and the screams, a parachute drifted like a torn flag. Cain watched it vanish. Then finally looked away. Still no sign of Kasmina. Either she'd slipped out unseen... or she was still behind that door.