The control station of the Cobalt fleet isn't merely a command center.
It is the frozen heart of a mechanical titan.
The cold here isn't just in the air.
It slides beneath the skin, burrows into nerves, wraps tight around the spine.
The light is surgical—sterile, white, sharp as a scalpel.
Metal walls reflect a dead gleam, and every step echoes like a shot fired into emptiness.
This is no place for people.
It is a machine—designed not to accommodate life, but to dissect it.
Geometry rules here. Control is absolute.
Accident, weakness, emotion—unforgivable luxuries.
"No one commands here," thinks one of the officers, passing a row of coffin-like capsules. "They dissect."
Along the walls, like sarcophagi of ancient kings, stand cryochambers.
Each one holds an android—
suspended between life and something colder.
Frost clings to the glass.
Life-support systems hum faintly, as if whispering: They're still alive. For now.
**
The silence trembles—
then ruptures.
A hiss.
Doors slide open.
President Marcus enters.
His steps are measured, almost inhuman.
The suit fits like a second skin—black, sleek, immaculate.
His face—an ice mask, devoid of pity.
He doesn't look around.
He's not here to observe.
He's here to judge.
He stops at one capsule.
Inside—Ragnar.
His form like a sculpture of a fallen god.
Frost clings to his shoulders like the dust of some ruined temple.
Marcus speaks only once:
"Wake him."
The words are quiet.
But in them—will unshakable. Obeyed without hesitation.
**
Scientists in white rush to the console.
Fingers dance across keys.
The capsule stirs.
A hiss of depressurization.
The thrum of pumps.
The air vibrates—like the breath before a storm.
Mechanical arms lift Ragnar gently from his prison,
set him into a chair across from Marcus.
**
For a moment—
time slows.
Ragnar moves his fingers.
His shoulders tense.
He raises his head.
His gaze—
heavy as gravity on a foreign planet.
Direct.
Clear.
Unyielding.
"This world is not mine," he thinks. "But I stand in it. And I do not fear it."
**
Marcus sits.
Fingers interlocked.
His voice—low, glacial.
"Ragnar. That is your name, yes? Tell me about your god. About Hanaris."
Silence.
Even the machinery holds its breath.
Ragnar doesn't answer immediately.
He searches for words not in language, but in memory—
in places untouched by logic.
When he speaks, his voice tolls like a bell in an abandoned temple:
"Hanaris did not descend from the sky. He emerged from the void.
From places your mind would not dare to enter."
**
Marcus scoffs.
Coldly.
Dismissively.
He stands.
Moves closer—like an executioner to the condemned.
"You found technology. Artifacts. Symbols. That isn't faith. That's hardware."
He gestures sharply to the amulet around Ragnar's neck.
It clangs against the chain like a gauntlet thrown.
"Tools don't pray."
**
Ragnar holds his gaze.
His face—calm.
His voice—barely a whisper, yet deeper than oceans:
"You're wrong.
In the vaults of Osari lie trillions of minds.
Not bodies—minds.
Some born of flesh.
Others—synthetic.
Each one—an echo of will."
He brushes a hand along the amulet.
Slowly.
With solemn grace.
"We chose belief. We became a people.
We are not your toys.
Not your shadows.
We are free."
**
Marcus freezes.
"Why am I trembling?"
He feels rage rising like fire behind his temples.
He is losing—
not in force, not in argument—
in meaning.
"Take him away!" he snaps.
**
Graspers descend.
Clamp with a hiss.
Metal limbs seize Ragnar—
lift him, carry him off.
But his eyes—
still fixed on Marcus.
Not the gaze of a machine.
Not the stare of a prisoner.
The gaze of someone free.
**
The capsule seals shut.
A hush.
A hum.
Silence.
The scientists withdraw.
Marcus remains alone.
"Why does that gaze... still burn inside me?"
He doesn't move.
His face contorted—
not with fury,
but with what he's feared all his life.
Doubt.