Deep space. Command center of the Martian fleet Cobalt.
The fleet slows its advance.
The cosmos around them feels unnaturally still—
as if the universe itself holds its breath,
waiting to see if the next second will erupt in fire.
Why has everything gone quiet?
The thought flashes through Admiral Tyler's mind.
The control room holds its breath too.
Monitors flicker with crimson pulses,
but none sound an alarm.
In this dead silence, the only thing audible
is the hum of electrical current,
as though even energy hesitates to be the first to move.
And then—slowly—like the stirring of a volcano,
President Marcus rises.
He hasn't spoken once.
Only watched.
But now, his figure towers from the chair.
His face is focused.
His eyes drill into Tyler's.
"Admiral. Report your results."
The voice isn't loud—
but it halts everything around it.
Tyler turns. Instantly, his spine straightens.
Shoulders square. Chin lifts.
He's not standing before a politician.
He's standing before a force of history—
a man whose words can remake the world.
"Mr. President," he says clearly.
Firm. No hesitation.
"The attack came suddenly.
The enemy moved with precision.
We lost six sweepers—
about three percent of our drones.
Most damage came from mines—
a dense, well-planned network.
Almost impossible to predict."
Still, he thinks bitterly,
I should have seen it.
This is my zone. My people. My fault.
But now's not the time for guilt.
Now, I'm the shield.
If I crack, the whole wall collapses.
Marcus doesn't interrupt.
His gaze slices through the words,
measuring more than what's spoken.
He listens to the space between syllables.
"Your assessment of the losses, Tyler?"
The question—sharp as a hook of ice.
But the tone… slightly softened.
Not a threat. A test of steel.
Tyler answers without pause.
"Acceptable."
Just that. No defense. No bravado.
"Key positions are intact.
The enemy is regrouping.
We are holding. And we are waiting."
And if they come again, he thinks,
we'll break them. Or burn so bright, they'll write songs about it.
Marcus steps forward.
Not a threat. Just movement.
But that step carries the weight of an entire machine.
"Are we ready for the next strike?"
Quietly spoken—
but the silence that follows is heavy,
like pressure under miles of ocean.
He doesn't want speeches, Tyler understands.
He wants to know that when the end comes—
I won't be the first to flinch.
"Yes, Mr. President."
The words fire like a bullet into granite.
"Not just ready.
We will meet them.
And they will regret it."
"Their blow was sharp—
but not fatal.
We have numbers.
We have firepower.
But most of all—"
A pause.
"We have will."
"We do not fall back.
We press forward."
Marcus gives a slight nod.
His face—neutral.
But in his eyes—cold satisfaction.
Not emotion.
Calculation confirmed.
Everything's unfolding according to plan,
even if the cost is counted in corpses.
"Good," he says.
His voice falls like gravel on steel.
"Let Mercury learn the cost of war."
He doesn't shout.
Doesn't demand.
It isn't a command.
It's a sentence.
And silence returns to the room.
But this time—
it's a different silence.
Not fear's stillness.
But the breath before a charge.
Every operator.
Every soldier.
Every heartbeat now knows:
The next wave will be ours.
And if they fall—
they'll fall with their names intact.
But if they win—
it will be a victory worthy of legend.
Yes, Tyler thinks, staring into the void.
We'll meet them.
And this time… we won't just survive.
We'll become the fire in their dying eyes.