Outer Civilizational Belt.
Orbital Command Station "Cobalt."
Beyond the panoramic viewport, the vastness of war unfolds: dozens of ships—heavy cruisers, agile interceptors, supply shuttles—glide along precise trajectories like celestial predators in a synchronized dance of disciplined fury. Starlight fractures on their hulls, sketching pale silver silhouettes against the abyss.
This isn't just a fleet.
It's the breathing mechanism of an oncoming storm.
President Marcus stands at the observation deck, hands clasped behind his back. His silhouette is a black seal against the stars—less a man now than a war's ghost etched in hologram.
Behind him, status panels pulse softly:
"Formation Sync: 98%"
"Readiness for Deployment: 76%"
Cold numbers.
Hot reality.
The machine of war is already breathing.
"Impressive discipline from our pilots, Commander," Marcus says.
His voice—velvet laced with glass—gentle, yet edged like a scalpel.
Commander Alexander, just stepping in, pauses at the threshold. His eyes scan the fleet, and for a flicker—pride gleams through the armor of his expression, like dawn slipping through a crack in steel.
He approaches in strict military form—shoulders squared, jaw locked.
"We're honored to serve, Mr. President," he replies, restrained, yet burning with inner fire. "At those helms are the best we have. Not just ready. Hungry for the order."
Marcus turns. His gaze is infuriatingly calm—no emotion, only cold calculation. As if he's not looking at ships, but at the probability trees of fate, unraveling ten steps ahead.
"Ah yes..." he murmurs, like retrieving a card hidden up his sleeve.
"Alexander, from this moment, command of the fleet passes to Admiral Tyler.
You're staying on Mars."
A silent detonation.
The universe narrows to a single sentence.
Alexander's shoulders twitch. His jaw sets.
Heart—beat, pause, beat.
"You'll be Acting President.
All protocols observed.
Orders signed."
Marcus places his personal clearance card on the console.
The panel comes alive with a pulse—like a sentient creature recognizing its new master.
Inside: the full authority transfer. Not a discussion. A verdict.
Alexander stares at the card.
A symbol? Power? Or... a trap?
Does he trust me?
Or is he casting me out of the war like a spent pawn?
Why me?
"Are you absolutely certain of this decision?" he asks.
His voice is glass under pressure—controlled, but already cracking.
Marcus doesn't answer.
He turns again to the stars—like a sculptor ready to burn down his workshop to turn blueprint into impact.
"Begin at once," he says.
It's not an order.
It's a catapult hurling destiny forward.
Alexander flinches—barely.
His face is still, but something beneath it stirs.
He has just become Acting President.
Acting... or final?
"Mr. President..." he begins.
But the words vanish, extinguished like flame in vacuum.
Marcus's stare is a blow to the will—wordless and crushing.
He doesn't look. He dominates.
"Earth remains neutral," he says, almost idly.
"A coward's tactic. One that will doom them.
While they hesitate—Mercury will fall.
Their economy runs on Ergon.
Cut it off—and the rot begins.
Then... we turn to them."
He pivots slowly.
In his eyes—rage without heat. Brutality without emotion.
As if he's an antivirus, purging the galaxy of infection.
"But first—defense. Secure the Outer Belt.
Reinforce orbital lines.
Scale up production.
You'll have it all: factories, resources, absolute authority.
Build me a shield.
So complete no one dares to breach it."
Alexander nods.
Every word another brick in his new prison.
I asked for responsibility.
Here it is.
Then why am I cold?
Why does this feel more like a death sentence than an honor?
"Thank you for your trust, Mr. President," he says.
And even he hears it—something in his voice fractures.
As if the man inside the uniform is afraid.
Marcus steps closer. Too close.
His face is stone—stone that once had a soul.
From him radiates a strength devoid of doubt.
"Remember," he says softly—almost tenderly.
But the air freezes.
"Earth is not ruled by humans.
Androids hold the reins.
Logic without mercy.
Calculation without doubt.
They won't make mistakes.
They won't show mercy.
And when they decide we're weak—
they'll strike.
Straight for the heart."
Marcus draws out a crystalline device—sparkling like a mythical relic, as if carved from ice and light. In his hand, it begins to tremble, as if the weight of his words presses through its circuits.
"You are the barrier, Alexander. The only thing standing between Mars and annihilation."
Pause. Compression. A ringing.
The gadget cracks. Shatters—sharp and sudden, like a truth unveiled.
Molecular shards scatter across the black floor—not mere debris, but a warning. A symbol of weakness no longer tolerable.
Alexander looks at Marcus. Not as a president anymore. But as a predator, given shape. A cold mechanism sheathed in flesh.
He is no longer a man. He is will. And if I hesitate—I burn first.
Alexander raises his right hand, places it over his chest with a slight bow—a gesture not just of allegiance, but of surrendering everything still human in him.
For the living… for the future… let it all burn, if it must.
"For the living. For the future," he says, his voice low, yet bound by oath. "It is my honor to serve, Mr. President."
Marcus nods. His gaze doesn't just approve—it assesses. Like a beast watching to see if you'll flinch when the teeth close in.
Behind him, ships begin aligning in perfect formation—an orchestra of titans and fire, poised to begin its symphony of destruction.
He says nothing. And that silence weighs more than any command. It hangs over Alexander like a ghost of duty from which there is no escape.
"Excellent," Marcus says at last. His voice—almost tender. Almost.
"I see our planet remains in capable hands."
He turns to the panel.
"Now... open a global broadcast. I have some wonderful news to share."
Alexander nods briefly. A signal—and the communications officer silently activates the panel.
From the wall emerges a holographic podium, vibrating with latent power, as if it knows the weight of the words it's about to channel.
The emitter hovers beside the president, like a loyal specter of its age.
Marcus's expression hardens—a statue awaiting its moment in history. He steps forward into the projection zone.
In that instant, Mars holds its breath.
Millions of screens—from classrooms to mining domes—broadcast him, alive and tangible. Behind him: the sky, the fleet, the order. Behind him: war.
"Brave citizens of Mars... and all surrounding territories."
His voice rolls out like a gravitational wave. Powerful. Final. A sentence in every sense.
"This is your rightful president speaking."
A pause. Silence louder than any signal.
"Today marks a turning point for all living people. Believe me, this moment will be etched in history. We've waited long. Too long. And now—the time has come. Today, our fleet sets out."
A dance of lights flickers against the abyss. The fleet stands ready. Waiting for ignition.
Marcus continues:
"We depart not just to defend Mars, but to make clear to those who believe we are weak: The age of weakness is over. This is the era of the resolute and the strong!"
"Our enemies—the androids of Mercury—tremble before us. They will beg for mercy."
He leans slightly forward. His voice swells with triumph—almost sacred.
"We will restore dignity and the future to all living beings in our civilization. No force will stand in our way!"
The command hall echoes as if the station itself consents to his will. Below, on Mars—dome by dome, shaft by shaft, school by school—they listen.
For a moment, there's a tremor in Marcus's voice, not of fear, but of impending triumph.
He steps forward again—drawing energy from Cobalt Station, the flagship, the people.
I feel them. They are watching. They believe. If I fall—everything falls.
He almost hears the applause, even through hull and vacuum.
"Thank you!" he declares, voice rising with heat. "By tomorrow, we will reclaim the rogue androids, take back our resources, restore our pride. And build our radiant future."
The camera zooms in on his face. His eyes—a torch. Not just conviction. But fire that could scorch the sky.
"Because we are living people. Made by God. We feel. We love. We suffer. We create. And we will not surrender that without a fight."
He raises his fist. The world pauses.
"For the living!"
The phrase detonates like a shockwave. It breaks the silence of the planet, floods every comm line, echoes through every dome, every shaft, every bunker.
People—soldiers, children, engineers, elders—respond in one voice:
"For the living!"
This is more than a slogan. It is a rite. An oath. A prayer. A verdict.
Orange skies ignite with signal flares. Miners wave from elevator buckets. Children twirl in circles, eyes shining with pride.
The people send off their president, believing: He leads them to a holy war.
Commander Alexander stands at the shuttle's viewing platform. He does not applaud. He is silent.
This is not just a mission. Not a march. It is a cross. And it is mine to bear.
His lips are tight. Jaw clenched.
The shuttle detaches from Cobalt. Slowly. Gracefully.
Destination: Mars. Destination: power. And solitude.
Back at Fleet Command, Admiral Tyler's voice rings out:
"Initiate movement."
Silence. Waiting. Then—
The void fills with engine thunder. They sing like a chorus of titans.
The fleet's fiery eyes awaken in the dark. Dozens of colossal ships surge forward. Slow. Precise. Terrifyingly beautiful.
They head for Mercury.
They head for war.