PLANET MERCURY. SPACE TERMINAL
Under a massive transparent dome, the cargo ship Orca-7 looms like a predator at rest—its armored hull gleaming with warlike reflections, a beast waiting for the signal to strike.
Loaders in black exosuits move in eerie synchrony, like ants of some hive-minded colony—each one aware of their place, each misstep a calculated risk. They hoist containers with uncanny precision, never breaking rhythm. The air vibrates with the shouts of dispatchers, the clang of metal, the low drone of cargo bots.
Commands ring out in dozens of languages spoken across the Inner Belt—battle spells of the future, hurled into the air. There's a tension here, electric and invisible, as though the entire station stands on the edge of something not yet named.
And then, cutting through the noise like a blade:
"Attention! Final call for cargo flight Orca-7. Final destination: Earth. All remaining passengers must proceed to boarding."
Out of the steel tides and humming machinery steps a lone figure in a dark cloak, face hidden beneath a hood. But his gait says everything—he doesn't belong to the crowd.
A glint of silver gleams on his chest: the emblem of high clearance. Authority. Danger.
He doesn't rush. He moves like a bullet still nestled in the barrel—inevitable.
It's Ivor. Smuggler. Manipulator. Shadow handler of inquisitors. And now… a diplomat. Headed to Earth. Carrying more than a mission—carrying the tremor of change.
Each footstep tests the ground beneath, as if the world itself might not hold.
He walks past bots, workers, guards—he sees none of it. His battlefield is inward: choices, debts, dangers, ghosts.
He disappears into the shadows of the Orca-7's loading hatch, vanishing like a spirit dissolved in circuitry. The hatch seals with a heavy thud.
The platform breathes again, unaware it has just sent off a man who could tilt the axis of war.
**
IVOR'S CABIN
THE ILLUSION OF SAFETY
His quarters are an oasis carved into the utilitarian hell of the ship.
Holographic walls shimmer with a perfect ocean—blue waves under a lazy sun, gulls wheeling above. Palm trees rustle in a breeze that doesn't exist. Sand crunches underfoot, warm and wet. The air smells of salt, sunlight, peace.
Paradise. Artificial, yes—but even a lie can offer shelter.
Ivor lies on a low couch, one arm flung behind his head, the other twirling a strange amulet between his fingers.
A small, alien thing. Elegant. Unreadable. Its surface bears markings—not of language, but of something beyond—etched by a civilization not born of Earth.
No scan could decipher it. No analyzer cracked it. Not even the best labs in the Belt. This artifact is not from here. And not from now.
He remembers how Captain Manuel gave it to him. No words. Barely met his eyes.
"This thing's... unique. I wonder what it really is?"
So do I, he thinks. Especially now.
The amulet spins again in his fingers. Today it feels... different. Warmer. Almost...
Alive?
You're hallucinating. Or the stone's breathing.
He slips it over his head.
And in that instant—
The world collapses.
VOID.
The cabin vanishes. The holograms burst into sparks. Light dies. The walls dissolve. The floor drops away into nothing.
He begins to fall. But there's no velocity. No rush. Just the sensation—he is falling.
There is nothing.
No sound. No time. No gravity. No self.
Only silence. Dense and black as ink.
He tries to scream, but his voice won't rise. All he hears is a heartbeat. Even that... not his own.
The amulet pulses against his chest. In rhythm with... what?
Where am I? What is this? Am I still alive?
But his body is no longer a body. No limbs. No weight. Only… a presence. A thought, suspended in emptiness.
And then—
A voice.
Low. Smooth. Almost tender. It comes from everywhere at once.
"Congratulations, Ivor. You are now immortal."
The words splinter through his mind like glass. Not heard—absorbed. Not spoken—engraved.
"Who are you?! Where am I?! What does that mean?!"
The questions scrape from a throat that doesn't exist, rough and breathless—and vanish into the deaf.
He lunges forward—if forward exists—reaching for anything. But there is no surface. Only void, thick as tar.
Goddammit, get me out of here! Is this a trap? Is this... death?
Or worse?
And then—
A flicker.
A faint glow, no bigger than a firefly deep in some ancient shaft. It quivers. Draws nearer. Grows.
Becomes a figure.
Then a face.
Ivor freezes.
No…
He's staring into his own eyes.
But it isn't a reflection.
The being before him is perfect. Horribly perfect. A face untouched by time or flaw. No wrinkles. No scars. No hesitation.
Eyes like stars—cold and distant, shining for a thousand years without love or memory. Beyond mercy. Beyond identity.
Outside of time.
Beyond the self.
Watching.
"I am God. My name is Kairus," he says, his voice soft, almost tender. But within it lies the indifference of eternity—the voice of space itself, which doesn't care whether you live or die.
Ivor freezes.
His mind reels. He cannot comprehend what he sees. This being—it is him… and yet not him. It's an idealized shadow, as if someone carved out his soul and replaced it with something timeless. Something eternal.
What's happening to me?!
"What is this game?!" he shouts. His voice shakes like a nerve set on fire.
Instinct pushes him forward. He reaches out—touches the thing's forearm—
And in that moment—
An explosion of pain.
The entire universe floods his nerves. Lightning spears through his bones, his brain, his essence.
Ivor screams. His eyes clamp shut in agony.
This isn't pain—it's disintegration.
He snaps his eyes open. Kairus is still there. Unmoved. Unshaken. No emotion. No surprise.
"Careful," the figure says with a faint smile. "You have terrible habits.
You put on the amulet.
And I entered your world."
His voice is cold. Slippery. A knife sliding across bare skin.
Ivor gasps. His chest feels crushed in a fist. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Only his eyes—wild, defensive—betray him, as if his own body has become a foreign thing.
This can't be real. It's a delusion. An illusion.
But it's too vivid. Too precise.
"I... I don't understand..." His voice is broken. A whisper after a scream.
Kairus steps forward. Light and shadow flicker across his face. In it—majesty, age, fire, and silence.
"We've found your world.
The link is established.
You've completed the integration process.
The amulet opened you.
Now, you are the vessel. The bearer.
The bridge between worlds."
Ivor stumbles back, automatically. But his body no longer obeys. Fear doesn't move him—it freezes him.
"Wait..." he gasps. "Are you saying I'm... immortal now?"
"You're not going to be," Kairus replies calmly. "You already are.
Immortality isn't a myth. It's a gift.
We, the Gods, have brought it to you.
You now live by the commandments of Kairus.
And above all..."
He leans in.
His eyes—like the birth of stars.
His voice—like venom in sweet wine.
"You must pass on the amulet.
Place it on the first person you meet.
Let them receive the Truth."
These words are not a request. Not a command.
They are law.
As if space itself reached inside him and took his will.
No choice. Only path.
I don't want this. But I do.
I'm afraid. But I'm no longer… me.
He stands, as if before a verdict.
Staring into his own new reflection—
Flawless. Terrifying.
And he knows:
There is no going back.
**
AWAKENING
A jolt. Light.
Ivor's eyes snap open. His chest rises sharply, like he's surfacing from the depths of space.
Reality returns.
But it's not the same.
The projections—the palms, the ocean, the sky—are still there. The sound of waves, the breeze.
But now they feel hollow.
A cheap imitation of life.
He looks down.
The amulet hangs from his neck.
Warm.
Pulsing.
You're alive.
You feel me.
And I… feel you.
Slowly, Ivor stands.
His heart beats, dull and distant.
His body feels like a borrowed costume.
He steps out into the corridor.
Metal walls hum with the engines' breath.
But the light—dims.
As if reality itself is fading.
The air feels wrong.
The world—foreign.
He—unfamiliar.
And still, Ivor walks.
Step by step.
As if he knows what must be done.
Though part of him still resists.
Still screams.
Still stays silent.
A technician appears up ahead.
Repair uniform. Tablet in hand.
Lost in routine.
He doesn't even notice Ivor—until he hears the voice:
"Wait."
The voice is calm.
Too calm.
The technician halts.
Looks up—mildly puzzled.
"I have a gift for you," Ivor says.
He removes the amulet.
It trembles in his hand.
Alive.
Hungry.
He steps closer.
"Hey, what are you—" the tech begins.
Too late.
The amulet is around his neck.
In that same instant—
Another amulet appears on Ivor's chest.
Identical.
Branded like a seal.
And then—everything changes.
"I believe in the God Kairus," they say together.
In unison.
One tone.
One will.
Silence.
In their eyes—a shared shadow.
A single will behind two gazes.
The technician is no longer a technician.
Ivor is no longer Ivor.
They are one.
No words.
They turn.
And walk down the corridor.
Moving in sync.
Two bodies.
One being.
Where to? Ivor asks inside himself.
But the question no longer matters.
They are heading for the control bay.