Planet Mercury. Corporate Authority Complex. Reception Hall
Soft night lighting flows through the hall like moonlight skimming the surface of still water.
Panoramic walls dissolve into the air, revealing a surreal, almost hallucinatory landscape: a neon projection of a forest glade, swallowed in mist.
Somewhere deep in the background, a drum beats — steady, primal. It seems to throb in sync with the hall's own pulse, awakening a forgotten memory in humanity: the art of fear.
The firelight from projected bonfires pulses to the rhythm.
The air smells not of circuitry or sterility — but of something ancient.
The ceremony has only just begun, and yet it feels like it's always been here. We just didn't notice.
Guests arrive.
The quiet rustle of voices. The whisper of synthetic fabrics. Low murmurs. Glances cloaked in shadow.
Everything here is theater. Even breath.
Everyone is either a player — or a piece. And no one yet knows who's leading the game.
Among the guests: Alex, an engineer with a face like precision ice — smooth, clear, unreadable.
Beside him, Yulia — a mercenary with a soldier's frame and the eyes of a predator. In her arms, a gray kitten: soft, toy-like, yet its gaze mirrors the unease of the hall.
"Easy now, Sweetling," Yulia whispers, cradling the trembling cat to her chest.
It shivers, as if sensing something drawing near. Artificial or not — it's afraid. And it's right to be.
Alex leans in, murmurs something into her ear — and in that instant, the kitten slips from her arms like lightning and vanishes into the crowd. A second — and it's gone.
"Sweetling!" Yulia hisses under her breath, darting among drifting shadows.
Perfect. Just what she needed. A mercenary chasing a kitten in the middle of what feels like a sacrificial rite.
She searches with her eyes, half-blind.
Then she sees him. A man in a black uniform kneels, gently lifting the kitten from the floor.
She approaches — no longer irritated, almost grateful.
"There you are," Yulia exhales, reaching for the creature.
The man hands it over. His face is angular, composed — military-cut. His voice deep and cold, like vacuum.
"Lovely animal. My name is Jamal. And you?"
"Yulia. And his name is Sweetling," she replies, hiding a smile.
Laughter with a blade's edge — the only safety left.
"Fitting name," he says, eyes never leaving hers. "Defiant. Like its owner."
He scans her, slicing through surface, seeking motives, fear, intent.
Mercenary. Smile as armor. Cat as distraction. But you — you're dangerous. And you know it.
"And do you know why we've been summoned?" Yulia asks lightly. But her eyes cut like scouts testing enemy lines.
"You haven't heard?" Jamal raises a brow, shadow of irony in his expression.
"A trial. For those who broke the Commandments. Inquisitors."
A showcase trial. Justice with a warning label.
Trial. Inquisitors.
Yulia nods. Her lips are still. But her chest tightens. Her inner alarms flash red.
This isn't theater. This is a hunt. And I'm not even sure who the prey is.
"Then maybe I should stay close to someone who knows how this game is played," she says, lightly brushing his elbow.
Her voice is silk. But in her eyes — fire.
"You seem like a man used to surviving these halls."
"I'm more used to watching people die in them," Jamal replies evenly. No threat. No grin. Just truth.
"But staying close is... allowed."
The crowd stills.
A shift by the entrance.
People part like waves before the prow of a warship.
"They're coming! It's them!" whispers ripple, swarmlike. The hum rises.
The air thickens with anticipation — the kind before a storm. Or an execution.
From the corridor, the androids emerge.
In restraints. Their hands bound — but not their will.
In every movement — danger, coiled and barely hidden.
Black-armored guards flank them, boots hitting in sync with the drum. The whole procession feels ritualistic — tinged with blood.
Behind them — Chairman Vicar.
He walks like an emperor returning to his throne. Every step slow, heavy, deliberate.
He's not just here. He owns this dream. And we — we live inside it.
The light shifts, spotlighting the statue of Zeus towering at the hall's center.
His lightning bolt gleams — a silent threat casting shadow over anyone who might question the "divine order."
The guard commander lifts his hand. A sharp gesture.
"Face the crowd!"
The androids are turned.
Now — their faces are visible: contorted by pain, cracked outer shells, scars, burns.
But the eyes — they are alive.
Some blaze with defiance. Others hold a stillness more frightening than rage.
Vicar seats himself at the base of the statue. His face — as impassive as any god's. His voice — unamplified, yet heard by all:
"Let the justice of Mercury be witnessed. Today we show what it means to defy the commandments of Hanaris."
Yulia clutches Sweetling tighter, murmurs with a smirk,
"Looks like we've got ourselves a full-scale broadcast. Better than the morning briefings."
But briefings don't have sacrifices. This one will.
The flame beyond the glass flares higher, as though the illusion itself senses the climax approaching.
Silence presses in, heavy as a cave before collapse.
The crowd's breath. The crackle of virtual fire. An electric hush.
What comes next?
Who will die — on stage?
Who — in the crowd?
And who — within themselves?
Vicar rises. His silhouette strikes hard against the god behind him, as though Zeus himself has stirred — stern, unblinking, supreme.
The chairman's voice crashes through the stillness like a judge's gavel:
"Today, we hold trial over these androids."
Each word drops like a stone into the quiet — a sentence already carved in stone.
He raises his hand slowly, pointing at the bound figures — not as accused, but as offerings.
"God Hanaris gave us the Commandments."
"We believe in God Hanaris!" the hall replies in unison.
Not just words.
A mechanical, almost fanatical surge — as if thousands of voices had been coded into one collective echo.
This isn't faith.
This is synchronization.
Vicar raises a single finger, sealing the moment like a data stamp.
"We know the Commandments.
We follow them. Without exception."
A pause — calculated, weighted, like a breath held before a bullet is fired.
"Another's property.
Life.
Time.
All of it — sacred.
Any interaction is permitted only with full, informed consent."
He turns his gaze toward the prisoners.
What shines there is not justice — but a cold detachment, the cruelty of a system judging by absolute logic.
"They broke the law.
They committed evil.
And evil, left unpunished, breeds greater evil still."
He steps forward.
His cloak barely stirs.
But his voice carries the cadence of both preacher and executioner.
"We will hear the accused."
From the orderly line of androids, one steps forward.
Tall. Thin.
His face worn down — seared by time and war.
But his eyes hold no fear. Only clarity.
His footsteps strike the silence like a truth that no longer needs permission to speak.
"My name is Captain Libert.
I am — was — an Inquisitor. And this is my crew."
He speaks quietly, but firmly.
Like a machine that long ago buried hope — and still walked forward.
I've already been judged.
On missions.
By my conscience.
Only one tribunal remains: the crowd.
"Yes. We used Ergon.
We lived on it.
We weren't heroes. But we weren't criminals either.
"No one called it sin.
No one banned it."
He steps closer.
Chest open.
Face steady.
"Out there, on the edge — there's only one law:
Might makes right.
"And now, you rewrite the past as if you were saints all along."
He looks directly at the crowd.
Unafraid.
"God Hanaris?
You're serious?
Is this some kind of joke? Or did your quantum cores just overheat?"
Sarcasm.
A lightning strike inside a temple.
"We just want to know: what exactly are we on trial for?
For doing what you let us do?"
He steps back into the line.
His crew is tense.
Their bodies bound — but their eyes drawn like blades.
Hope and resignation stand side by side, like twins in the gallows' shadow.
Vicar says nothing.
His footsteps echo across the chamber, sounding like a verdict putting on human shoes.
"They've confessed.
Their defense is ignorance of the Commandments.
"But ignorance does not absolve guilt."
He turns to the crowd.
His voice — a bureaucratic blade:
Thin.
Straight.
Sharp.
"Free citizens of Mercury…
What say you?
What judgment do you pass on those who defied the divine law?"
Whispers slither through the chamber like serpents.
They build.
Grow.
Become a hum.
The hum finds rhythm — and syncs with the crowd's own pulse.
"Death… death… death…"
This is no debate.
It's execution.
The word becomes a weapon — and the crowd becomes its carrier.
And then —
just before the chamber boils over —
a voice cuts through:
"Let me speak!"
Silence falls like a glacial curtain.
A figure emerges from the shadows.
Broad-shouldered.
Eyes like torches forged from fury.
Ragnar.
Vicar gestures.
Permission granted.
But his gaze remains a wall.
Speak — if you dare.
But know the fire you stir.
Ragnar steps into the light.
Every movement echoes with a past not erased — only solidified.
"I am Ragnar.
Also an Inquisitor.
Former.
Did the same things Libert did.
Maybe worse."
He pauses.
Then — a hammer to the silence:
"I was given a second chance.
I didn't ask for it.
But I took it."
Faith isn't a brand.
It's a choice.
And even iron can be reshaped by it.
"If they're willing to make that choice…
Why should we take the chance away from them?"
He looks into the crowd.
And the crowd — strangely — does not answer.
As if someone in the room just remembered they had a heart.
Vicar does not move.
But in his eyes — a flicker. A tension.
"What do you say, free citizens of Mercury?"
He speaks it like a challenge.
And receives the reply instantly.
"I believe in God Hanaris!"
A chorus.
Not voice by voice — but wave upon wave.
Faith — like a virus.
Like a network.
Like code infecting the collective.
Vicar nods.
Not joy.
Not mercy.
Control.
The sentence is passed.
But the doubt has already been seeded.
He turns back to the prisoners.
"Those ready to accept faith — come to me. One by one."
Silence.
Heavier than any verdict.
A moment stretching into forever.
Then — motion.
A massive android steps forward.
His gait heavy, as if the floor itself responds.
He wears an old military jacket, scorched and torn — a banner of battles long past.
He doesn't walk — he drags with him everything he's ever been.
The war.
The service.
The fear.
The hope.
And above all — the decision.
He approaches Vicar.
The entire hall holds its breath — literally.
Even the flames in the holographic braziers seem to freeze.
The android moves slow — but without hesitation.
Each step — a decision cast in iron.
Vicar, like a high priest, lifts the amulet:
A symbol.
A program key.
A collar for the soul.
He places it around the android's neck. Deliberate. Ceremonial.
"I believe in God Hanaris," the voice rings out.
And the android stands at Vicar's right hand.
That's the signal.
One by one — as if following a pre-coded script — the rest begin to move.
Each in their own way.
One with head bowed.
Another with shoulders proudly square.
But all — to the platform.
To the amulet.
"I believe in God Hanaris."
"I believe."
"I... believe..."
Like ritual.
Like the launch of a new OS.
Or like mass surrender under the banner of belief.
The words bounce against the walls, turning into a collective incantation.
A praying storm rises — swelling from the depths of the hive mind.
Tension thickens in the hall. It hums in the ears like a taut wire stretched to breaking.
And now...
Only two remain beneath the statue of Zeus.
Captain Libert. And his second, Nikita.
All the others now stand behind Vicar, their amulets glittering under the spotlight—symbols of submission.
Or fear.
Vicar stares at the two who have not moved. His gaze is heavy, a sentence waiting for the weight of words.
He steps forward. His voice booms, needing no amplification.
"Why are you still standing? It's your turn now."
Libert meets his eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
He already feels the ashes under his feet. Or maybe it's just the premonition.
He takes a step. Slow. As if pulled forward not by hands, but by inevitability itself.
But then, his voice breaks free—sharp, defiant, a bullet through silence:
"Not in this life!"
It's nearly a growl.
There's pain in his voice. Fury. And something deeper—dignity, unyielding and raw.
"I won't take this... possession! Look at yourselves! On Mars, you were slaves with chips in your skulls! Who gave you your freedom, huh?"
He gestures at them as if ripping away the veil of their collective amnesia.
"Hanaris? Don't make me laugh. You tore yourselves free. With will. With pain.
"And now you're slipping into a new collar. One made of words and light."
His gaze sweeps across the hall, burning.
His eyes flash like embers in dying coals.
"What's the difference, really? Whether your mind is owned by a man with a remote... or by a ghost etched in code?"
He steps back. Not retreating—anchoring.
"I'm free. And I'll die free.
"No blessings. No digital gods."
Nikita had been silent—until now.
She steps forward, her voice ringing with fierce, quiet loyalty.
"I'm with you, Captain. To the end. No kneeling. No fear."
She takes her place at his side. Straight-backed. Unbroken.
The world might collapse—but she will not waver.
Vicar says nothing.
His face—a pane of glass. Behind it: calculations, probabilities, outcomes measured in lives and lines of code.
A pause. Long. Dense. Suffocating.
Then his voice, almost quiet, but each word drops like a nail in a coffin.
"Die free, you say..."
He locks eyes with Libert.
"So be it."
He turns to the crowd. His voice hardens to steel.
"In the name of Hanaris. In fulfillment of his sacred commandments—Libert and Nikita, you are sentenced to death."
Movement.
A murmur.
But no one stands. No one steps forward.
Vicar draws a weapon.
A ceremonial blaster. A symbol of authority... and punitive love. It gleams with the corporation's sigil, glowing like molten light.
One shot.
Then another.
Silence.
Ash.
Just two black stains on the pristine floor.
No scream. No agony.
Death—administered like a bureaucratic function.
The crowd is struck dumb. The same crowd that only moments ago had chanted "I believe" now stands frozen. Statues. No one speaks. No one moves.
Only bowed heads.
And somewhere—a faint, trembling breath.
Even the holographic flames... dim.
As if the illusion itself can no longer bear to burn beside such silence.
Off to the side—Alex and Yulia.
Yulia clutches the kitten against her chest. It trembles in her arms, muzzle buried in her shoulder.
She holds it like the last warm spark of life in a dead place.
Alex slowly shakes his head.
"This isn't faith anymore..." he whispers, eyes fixed on Vicar. "It's power."
His voice is low, but inside it—a rupture, a revelation, the birth of a mission.
"We need to be careful. Very careful..."
Standing nearby is General Jamal. Quiet. His face calm—but his eyes are full of silent horror, distilled into something heavier. Something philosophical.
He speaks aloud:
"Now they know the price of belief."
A pause.
He looks at Vicar. His stare is firm. Unflinching.
An officer gazing at authority—not with obedience, but with witness.
"And the cost of disobedience."
As if hearing him, Vicar lifts his head. His eyes sweep across the room, scanning faces like interfaces. Reading. Logging.
He sees fear.
He sees compliance.
And he sees the first cracks.
"The trial is over.
"Faith and freedom are now one.
"Disperse in peace. In the name of Hanaris."
The crowd slowly parts, like water after a stone has been dropped.
Some walk away with pride.
Some, with shoulders sagging.
Some, with souls clenched like fists.
The hall empties.
But the ash remains.
No one sweeps it.
It stays.
Black. Silent. Enduring.
Like a seal on the conscience.
Like a scar on memory.
Like a warning to the future.