The Earth flagship.
The command hall glows with cold light.
Panoramic screens flood the space with a lifeless blue hue.
Everything feels frozen — instruments, walls, people. Even the air seems preserved, as if sealed in the amber of time.
At the center, like a lone bastion of will amid silent ice, stands Admiral Socrates.
His gaze pierces the image on the main screen —
hard, scorching, as if he could slice reality in two.
Before him — a panorama of loss.
The shattered remains of Kyros's platform, once sacred,
now drift in the void.
They rotate slowly, like the wreckage of memory,
set against the blue hush of Earth and the black chasm of space,
where a foreign sphere flickers —
motionless. Ominous.
Alien to the very logic of existence.
The holographic projector renders everything with unbearable clarity:
debris... ash... lives turned to vapor.
Each flicker of the image strikes the chest —
a pulse of grief for those still breathing.
—
The hiss of automatic doors cuts through the silence like a blade.
An officer enters — young, meticulous, wound tight like wire.
In his hands — something strange.
Small. Furry. Impossible.
"Admiral..." His voice is barely steady.
"We found this in a life pod.
It was hidden under a seat.
Alive. Or... almost."
Socrates turns his head.
His brow furrows.
He steps closer — each footfall heavy as a sentence.
His eyes fall on the kitten —
white-gray with a black stripe down its back.
It blinks. It purrs.
As if it knows nothing of explosions, death, or gods.
"What the hell was a kitten doing on the platform?" Socrates' voice cuts the warmth clean from the air.
"I gave strict orders. No extraneous items. No exceptions."
"It's... not a kitten, sir," the officer explains quickly.
"A toy. Made from nanoparticles.
One of the guards recognized it — Camilla always carried it.
She said it was a 'reminder.'"
Socrates presses his lips tight.
He watches the soft fur glimmer under the light.
Something in this "toy" rings false —
a wrong note in someone else's anthem.
"Scan it. Completely. Now."
His voice sharpens — no longer just cold.
The thrill of the hunt enters it. He smells a trail.
"We already did, sir," the officer nods.
"The object contained encrypted data clusters.
It… modified signals Kyros was transmitting.
We believe that's what triggered the second call.
The signal came from another layer.
A hostile one."
Socrates doesn't have time to respond.
Space folds inward — like a fist closing.
The air thickens, pulses.
The lights vanish.
And then —
another world.
Ancient. Dead. Alive.
A field of flowers.
Too vivid. Too bright.
Like a nightmare dressed as paradise.
Socrates stands in the center.
Alone.
All around — an endless meadow pulsing to its own rhythm.
The flowers whisper.
The air sings — high and thin, as if from inside his skull.
Atop the hill — a figure.
The god Kyros.
His flaming sword planted in the earth like the anchor of being.
One hand on the hilt.
The other raised in a gesture of absolute dominion.
Around Socrates — a crowd.
Humans. Androids. Phantoms.
All silent.
All looking up.
All believing.
"Your time has come," Kyros thunders.
His voice is a storm rolling over oceans.
"This world will fall under my will.
I have brought you warriors.
They will purge this civilization of the doubters."
From a flash of light, beings emerge.
Thickset. Heavy. Faceless.
Their skin — obsidian.
Their faces — war masks.
They do not breathe.
They simply are.
"His name is Tonzil," says Kyros.
"He knows the path.
His people know how to serve."
The crowd erupts in a roar of ecstasy.
The earth quakes.
Flowers die beneath the sound of faith.
The sky groans.
But Socrates — does not join them.
He smells something wrong.
The taste of rust on his tongue.
The scent of betrayal in the air.
He turns his head.
Ivor.
Standing slightly apart —
as if he's always been there.
A smile with teeth.
"Been a while, Admiral," he says.
His voice — smooth. Almost friendly. Almost…
"Still convinced Kyros will lead you to salvation?"
Socrates stiffens.
Fire flares in his eyes.
"You… You destroyed the platform.
You betrayed Earth.
You betrayed all of us.
Surrender. Or disappear."
Ivor steps closer.
His words drip with venom — and truth.
"Ask yourself, Socrates —
What are you clinging to?
To Kyros? Or the void he hides behind a mask of light?
Is he a god…
or just a weapon pretending to be one?"
Silence.
The flowers murmur.
Socrates doesn't move.
But something inside him cracks.
"There's a place," Ivor continues.
"The Desert of Forgetting.
There's a boy who remembers everything.
We found the Altar of Rebirth.
You can still come with us."
Socrates steps forward.
His voice is thunder in a storm.
"Traitor.
You have no idea who you're dealing with.
Kyros heard us.
He gave us power.
All you offer is chaos.
And death."
Ivor shakes his head.
His eyes hold sorrow — but not weakness.
"Sometimes, Socrates, salvation comes not in brilliance…
but in doubt.
Sometimes one soul saves the world.
And another — burns it down.
We'll see which of us is which."
He disappears.
Evaporates — like a dream at sunrise.
The field remains.
The god.
The crowd.
And Socrates — alone.
His heart beats like the drum before battle.
He doesn't know
why his hands are trembling…
But he knows one thing:
The war isn't over.