Planet Mercury.
As promised by Chairman Vicar, the ergon production stations have been returned to their former owners.
But no one is profiting from them anymore—
They're being rapidly refitted into battle platforms.
Plasma cannons are being mounted on their hulls.
Cloaking fields integrated into their systems.
The air smells of molten alloy and something else—
An anxious premonition of war.
After the upgrades, each station undergoes full testing in open space.
Every bolt now feels like a cocked trigger.
Captain Veronica stands on one of the newly weaponized platforms.
Her crew prepares for inspection. Her face is all focus.
No room for error. Not by a gram. Not by a picosecond.
If I fail—they'll never trust me again.
Not with the station. Not with command. Not with the future.
The platform pulses beneath her feet, like something alive preparing for its first battle.
The frame vibrates faintly, as if it too hungers to fire.
The inspection is led by Captain Ragnar.
He watches from the observation deck of one of the inquisitor-class ships orbiting nearby—
A silent predator gliding through Mercury's skyless night.
Suspended just above the planet's surface is a massive test rig—
A giant metallic arch glowing faintly, like an ancient interstellar relic waiting to awaken.
Within its field, signal traps are deployed—this is where the new platforms are tested.
The operator, a seasoned engineer, controls the procedure with surgical precision.
His fingers dance across the console.
Every movement calculated.
Lights blink and flicker, relaying data to dozens of screens: energy output, cloaking deviation, weapons status.
Veronica stands at the command panel.
Tense. Collected. Laser-focused.
Every move of hers is deliberate—like a surgeon's incision.
Or a general seconds before the final assault.
They'll see now. This platform isn't just functional—it protects.
It's my fortress.
And I—am its heart.
Ragnar gives a brief nod—barely perceptible.
"Begin," he says.
His voice is dry as vacuum.
No emotion. No doubt. Just command.
Captain Veronica inhales deeply.
Her fingers meet the sensor screen.
The machinery stirs.
The operator immediately brings the scanners online.
The platform pulses with soft light, as though distorting the very fabric of space.
A holographic star map unfolds—
Coordinates flare to life, a tiny candle in the cosmic dark.
"Activate cloaking field," the operator orders, eyes locked on the data stream.
"Confirmed," Veronica responds.
Her voice rings with iron and heartbeat.
One touch—and the station vanishes.
The screen goes dead black.
Like it never existed.
"Platform is cloaked," the operator reports, fingers sliding across the surface.
"Initiating scanner sequence."
Sensor rings activate one by one, each pulse rippling outward—
Like waves crashing toward a distant, invisible shore.
Tension builds.
Hold steady. Don't surface.
Become a ghost.
Become nothing.
Only then can we survive.
Finally, at the final sweep, something sparks.
The platform reappears.
Like an apparition stepping out of void.
"Target reacquired. Standard detection range.
Cloaking integrity confirmed," the operator says flatly, marking the log.
"Phase complete."
A breath—first release.
But it's only halfway.
The true test still lies ahead.
"Proceeding to weapons trial," he adds without pause, his voice seamless.
Veronica switches the system to firing mode.
The interface reshapes instantly—
A holographic target appears, sharp and centered, waiting to be destroyed.
"Target coordinates received," the operator says, tracing an invisible ballistic arc through the air.
"Locked in," Veronica replies.
But now her voice isn't just steady—
It's a challenge.
"Target acquired."
"Fire."
Flash.
A plasma beam tears through the dark.
Its force screams like a newborn star.
Like a molten nail driven into the silence of space.
The target shatters.
Stone becomes dust.
Only dust.
There. That's my station.
My hand.
My voice.
My defense.
"Targeting calibrated," the operator confirms.
"Power output nominal.
Test successful."
"Congratulations, Captain Veronica.
Your station is cleared for deployment."
A faint smile crosses her lips.
Fatigue etches her face—
But beneath it burns pride.
A fire steady and clean.
She powers down the system.
The command interface dims.
Fades.
Now it's real.
Now we're not just stations.
We're soldiers.
We are Mercury's shield.
"Next platform trial," the operator announces, already turning to a fresh data stream—
But a voice cuts in. Calm. Intent. Predatory.
"Hold."
All heads turn to Ragnar.
He stands like a sculpture cut from steel.
Unmoving.
Sharp-eyed.
Perched on the observation deck like a watchtower staring down a storm.
Something's off.
That machine below—
It doesn't feel like a warrior.
More like the ghost of a weapon.
The sound is there.
But the presence—
Isn't.
"Explain this to me," he says, voice calm but sharp as a scalpel.
"How can this platform be approved?"
Silence spreads through the chamber like an oil slick on still water.
Veronica freezes. Her gaze locks onto Ragnar—he's noticed something the rest have missed.
The operator winces, caught off guard. His fingers hover motionless above the panel. He throws a quick glance toward the inquisitor ship—toward Ragnar, who seems to be staring not at the data, but through it.
"You see it," the inspector's voice suddenly cuts sharper.
"The scanners picked up the platform well before it entered the engagement range."
"The readings are within standard parameters," the operator replies, trying to stay neutral.
"Engineered to spec."
"Standard?" Ragnar takes a single step forward. A flicker in his eyes—
"You call it standard that the enemy can see our platform before it fires? You call that a weapon? That's a decoy. A hollow target."
"With platforms like this, they'll burn us before the battle even begins."
The operator rises, shoulders tense, voice steady but lined with fatigue:
"We're aware of the issue. Engineering is working on upgrades, but so far—nothing. That's why we're testing it in this state. Got a better idea?"
Ragnar exhales. His gaze sinks into the screen's depths. Then he lifts one hand—like a conductor preparing to summon a new movement:
"I do. Clear my ship to enter the testing rig. I'll dock with the platform directly. Let's see what happens then."
The operator blinks, visibly surprised.
"You want to insert your ship into the live testing rig?"
"Exactly."
"…Permission granted."
Ragnar's ship begins to move.
Slow. Deliberate.
It drifts through vacuum like a lone wolf entering an unfamiliar pack.
The platform shifts to the edge—cautiously, as if it senses the hunter's approach. It maneuvers with eerie precision.
Docking is flawless.
As if these two machines were always meant to be one.
"Ready to begin," Ragnar says, voice now laced with focus—
And something more: anticipation.
"Activating cloak."
His ship engages its shielding field.
The platform responds in perfect synchrony.
Two domes intertwine, then vanish—
Space itself seems to unravel in their absence.
The operator starts the cycle.
Scanners hum to life.
Indicators pulse. Everything moves by the book.
But—
The results are staggering.
"Status?" Ragnar watches the holographic display like it's a prophetic mirror.
"…Unexpected," the operator murmurs, voice unsteady.
"Detection range reduced by forty-three percent. This is… a breakthrough."
He stares at the numbers as if afraid they'll vanish if he blinks.
"Synchronization of cloaking fields… who would've guessed."
A flash in Ragnar's eyes:
Not just satisfaction—
The triumph of a soldier who's discovered a new blade.
"I'll forward the specs to Engineering," he says.
"This changes everything. Everything."
He disembarks and boards Veronica's platform.
The control room glows faintly—consoles lit like candles on a sacred altar.
The atmosphere feels… reverent.
Veronica stands as before: tall, steady.
But in her eyes—something has shifted.
He sees it. He saw what I saw.
We don't have to be relics.
We can become the weapon. For real.
"Congratulations, Captain," Ragnar offers his hand. His voice, unexpectedly warm—like an android recognizing an equal.
"And to you, Captain," she replies, smile restrained but sincere.
"You saw it clearly. The docking. The field alignment... It wasn't chance. It was an opening."
Ragnar narrows his eyes.
"Mind if we work together from now on? My armor. Your firepower. Maybe… just maybe, we can become unstoppable."
Veronica steps forward.
Without a word, she removes the amulet from her neck—
And places it around Ragnar's.
A gesture not just symbolic.
A vow. A bond.
"I believe in the god Hanaris," he says quietly—almost as a prayer.
He truly believes… the thought ignites in Veronica's mind.
"So do I," she whispers.
Her voice fragile—
But within it, a pulse has awakened.
A strength reborn.
As if, in that moment, she hasn't just found an ally—
But a new kind of hope.