Mercury. A colossal cargo hangar.
Thousands of androids gather in the vast, echoing chamber, where the walls vanish into darkness above. Their bodies—of various heights and builds—are all strikingly human in form, radiating grace, power, and symmetry. The hum of voices rolls like static against the metallic walls. Harsh industrial lights slice through the space in long beams, like blades across a stage, casting the scene in the solemn glow of a pre-apocalyptic theater.
At the podium, elevated like a commander's throne, stands Vicar—Chairman of the Mercury Corporation. His silver-threaded suit gleams like armor, forged not of steel but of capital and will.
He raises his right hand.
Thousands of reflections. The entire crowd mirrors him in perfect unison. Every gaze locked—one network, one system.
A charged silence descends, the kind that tightens just before the first drum of war.
"Thank you, free androids," Vicar begins, his voice ringing like a tempered bell, amplified by internal resonators, cutting into the very bones of the room.
"I know you are here because you're ready to fight. But we must be honest. We have a weakness. We cannot win in open combat. We have no cruisers. We build excellent plasma cannons... but nowhere to mount them."
A pause.
He holds the silence like a needle to the skin—until it almost bleeds.
Cameras zoom in, tracking the slightest flicker in his expression—composed, focused, unreadable. Yet in his eyes, a shadow stirs. The shadow of strategy.
"What can each of us give to win this war? I'm ready to hear any proposal."
Stillness.
Then—a voice.
A woman's voice.
Confident. Cutting.
"Allow me to speak."
One beat of silence—and Vicar gestures to the podium without hesitation. No surprise. No resistance.
"Of course. Step forward."
From deep within the crowd, a figure parts the masses like a blade through water. A woman in a skintight golden suit. Her gait isn't just confident—it commands. Like lightning bound in human shape.
All eyes snap to her. The gravity of her presence draws attention the way the moon pulls tides.
She doesn't walk. She captivates.
"Captain Veronika," she says. Her voice is crisp. Diamond-edged.
"I owned a production station for ergon. Everything was running perfectly... until the Inquisitors came. My business partner—Ivor—seized it under the pretense of debts. Then he sold it to the corporation."
A flash of rage ripples through the crowd.
Murmurs. Tension swells, like a stormfront sweeping low.
But Vicar lifts a hand.
Silence falls like a guillotine.
He watches her. Long and steady. His eyes—an algorithm in motion. But beneath the numbers, perhaps—respect?
"There are many like me here," she continues.
"I ask that my station be returned. We'll repurpose it into a battle platform. Mount weapons. I'll defend our sector myself."
Her words are not a request.
They are a command.
A declaration.
In her voice is the right to be angry. And the right to go to war.
And then—the hangar explodes.
"She's right!"
"Give us back the stations!"
"I'm ready!"
"With weapons—or with my hands!"
"For us! For freedom!"
A thousand voices rise in a wave. Unstoppable. Elemental.
Vicar stands unmoved at the podium, a monolith in the storm's eye. His face remains composed, but his gaze moves—scanning, listening to the hearts catching fire below him.
He steps forward. Slowly. Speaks.
"Yes. I hear you.
"The Mercury Corporation is the chief sponsor of the Android Rights Defense Fund.
"Everyone who lives in our Belt abides by our charter.
"We've helped many build their future.
"And now, as Chairman and principal stakeholder, I declare—"
Pause. The electric hum before lightning strikes.
"All stations will be returned."
The roar that follows isn't joy—it's warlust. A rising tide of devotion, purpose, fury.
"You will go to battle. This will be your fight.
"Many of you will not return.
"Are you ready?"
Silence.
Then—an answer.
Not in words. In gesture.
Every hand rises. As one.
Like an oath. A pledge. The spark of a new era.
If you are android—you are no longer metal.
You are will. You are weapon.
You are war.
The crowd quiets. The air thickens with gravity.
Every android feels it: this moment isn't just a speech. It's the choosing of a future.
Then—he approaches.
A broad, commanding figure in military uniform—General Jamal.
His stride is deliberate, measured—each step calculated down to the microsecond.
In his posture: the weight of past battles. In his voice: the gravity of command.
Vicar yields the podium without a word.
But his gaze remains cold, focused—like a chessmaster releasing a piece...
...without letting go of the board.
"Free androids," Jamal's voice rolls out—deep, resonant, like the low thrum of a fusion core.
"Using the stations as battle platforms... it's a bold idea.
But naïve."
He pauses.
Not for effect.
But to let fear slip through the cracks in their armor.
His eyes sweep across the crowd like scanners, hunting for weakness, hesitation, or doubt.
"Enemy cruisers are shielded by swarms of drones. Their defenses have no blind spots.
By the time we break through, they'll have turned us to ash.
One volley—and the station is gone.
Anyone who's seen their drones focus fire on a single point knows...
that's not combat. That's execution."
Silence.
The air thickens, heavy—like oxygen before decompression.
Every android stands frozen at the edge of realization:
Courage means nothing without a plan.
Then—like a blade through fabric—a voice cuts in.
"Let me speak."
From the crowd emerges a stocky man with a predator's gaze and the kind of swagger that doesn't ask permission.
He moves not like he's joining a discussion—
but stepping into an arena.
Every motion is a threat.
Every smirk—a dare.
He climbs the podium slowly, deliberately, like it belongs to him—and always did.
"Captain Ragnar," he announces, his name hitting the air like a hammer striking steel.
Gasps ripple. Murmurs rise.
The name needs no introduction: Inquisitor. Enforcer. Executioner.
A legend wrapped in the pelt of death.
He raises his hands.
Not in plea—but command.
Like a warlord silencing his own army.
"I know what I was.
And what I still am," he says, voice dry, detached.
"But now is not the time for vengeance.
Now is the time for survival.
I am an android—just like you.
And if we lose... there's no reset. No second life.
They'll erase us."
He steps closer.
Now he doesn't speak—he presses down.
With the weight of his past.
His dead.
His silence.
"I have a plan.
Inquisitor ships are masters of stealth.
We can use their tech.
Turn bulky stations into shadows.
Slip close.
Strike once.
Hard.
Even cruiser drones can't survive a perfect shot.
It's risky. But it's real.
Maybe our only chance."
The crowd stirs.
A whisper spreads. Not fear—
but the sound of new calculus.
Could this be more than war?
Could it be the hunt?
Vicar steps toward Ragnar.
He lays a hand on his shoulder.
Not as a brother-in-arms—
but like a master testing a chain.
The gesture lands like a trap snapping shut.
"Give us the schematics.
Everything we need to adapt the tech," he says, voice low but sharp, like a blade pressed to the throat.
"You know what'll happen if you start haggling."
Ragnar turns, slow.
His grin is that of a wolf tired of hiding.
"For free?" he throws back.
"You don't strike me as a charity man, Vicar."
Vicar doesn't respond immediately.
His eyes go darker than the vacuum beyond the hull.
"Ivor and I dragged you from the shadows.
We gave you everything... except a conscience.
Don't test me.
Hand over the plans—and you won't regret it."
Ragnar. A pause.
Inside him—uncertainty. Or memory.
Did they save me? Or buy me?
It doesn't matter now.
Now, he decides what he gets.
A nod. Sharp. Like a trigger pulled.
"Deal."
Vicar turns back to the crowd.
Now his voice becomes a trumpet—
loud, ringing, relentless.
"Free androids!
To work!
The enemy is near—
but we are ready!"
The crowd detonates.
The air itself trembles, as if the station begins to accelerate.
But this isn't just adrenaline.
It's resolve.
Not faith.
But fury—finally sharpened into purpose.
The spark of decision.
The storm is coming.
The androids are no longer watchers.
They are hammers now.
And the forge is about to scream.