The saboteurs' ship drifts in utter silence.
It hangs there, as if exiled from time,
surrounded by a dense, sound-killing void.
Everything here is dead—
the comm arrays, the engines,
even the fabric of space itself.
As though someone has switched reality off,
leaving the vessel stranded
on the far side of existence.
In the bridge, there is the cold of eternity.
Captain Hirota is on his knees.
Eyes wide open, breathing steady,
but the body frozen in place.
So is the entire crew.
Officers, pilots, drones—
waxen statues.
Only the pupils still roam,
like caged animals,
scratching at the air for an opening,
a spark,
a sound…
I'm alive.
I'm in my body.
But who shut off the world?
Who unplugged God,
and noise, and pain?
Even fear is holding its breath.
A hiss.
Not air.
Not machinery.
An intrusion.
The bridge yields like a wound.
The doors part.
And from the yawning black maw—
they enter.
Short, broad-shouldered.
Bodies—smithwork constructions,
an alloy of flesh and metal.
Across their skin flow inscriptions,
like living engravings.
Their eyes emit a dim, wet gleam.
Not life. Not death.
Cold function.
One steps forward.
A face polished by time,
stripped of anger, stripped of pity—
yet moving with
the patience of eternity.
He bends toward Hirota.
The voice that follows is no sound—
it is an intrusion,
a whisper beneath the skin.
"I am Tonzil."
The voice is ash laced with the rustle of command.
It explains nothing; it imposes.
It does not ask—
it rewrites.
"We have come to free you.
To grant you faith.
Faith in the One who walks among the stars
and devours the light.
Kyrrus awaits you."
He draws out an amulet.
A disk, pulsing—
like a heart beating in another reality.
Runes flow over it like blood.
Its light does not shine—it bites.
It is warm without warmth.
Alive, but not yours.
Without hesitation,
Tonzil presses the amulet to the captain's chest.
A flash. A jolt.
Hirota's ribcage heaves.
His eyes widen.
From within—
a rasp.
Not pain.
An initiation.
"I believe in the god Kyrrus," he says, low.
But the voice is not his.
Or not only his.
It is as if another breathes through him.
A flicker of shock.
The officers glance at each other.
Panic? No.
Confusion. Fracture.
The mind struggling to comprehend—
Why did he say that?
Why can't I move?
Why can't I scream?
Too late.
The others move in—
methodical, like priests.
Without a word, without a gesture of mercy.
One by one—the amulets.
"I believe in the god Kyrrus."
"I believe in the god Kyrrus."
"I believe…"
The room becomes a baptismal chamber.
No fire. No water.
Only an alien will.
We are not tortured.
We are not killed.
We are rewritten.
From within.
The intruders depart—
as soundlessly as they came.
Behind them drift silver drones,
like altar attendants.
The doors close.
With them, the blockade lifts.
Bodies stir.
But they are no longer the same.
The movements are familiar—
yet there is something extra,
something foreign,
as if the flesh were a marionette
and the strings—unseen.
Hirota rises.
Slowly. Deliberately.
With the grace of a god newly anointed.
His hand brushes his chest.
The amulet lies beneath the uniform.
Its heat gnaws inward.
His gaze is calm.
But in his pupils—
the stillness of ice.
A surface that refuses the sun's reflection.
"To your stations."
Simple.
Quiet.
As though nothing has happened.
As though it has always been so.
The crew obeys.
Without a word.
Without a glance.
Like a mechanism.
Like a cult.
Like a rite.
They fire up the engines.
Activate the shields.
Plot a course.
Hirota takes the captain's chair.
His hand slides across the console—
smooth, almost tender.
"Patch me through to Commander Alexander."
"Connection established," says the comm officer.
The voice is empty, drone-like,
like that of a newly converted.
The hologram flares.
Alexander's face is stern,
but in his eyes—a pinch of unease.
"I didn't order you to return, Captain.
Hold your position. Now."
A pause.
Hirota doesn't blink.
His hand lingers on his chest,
feeling the amulet—
light, warm,
and holy.
"We were compromised. We stood on the brink.
This is a necessary measure.
We are coming to you—
or not at all.
Your orders?"
Alexander narrows his eyes.
Something fractures in his tone.
He wants to read Hirota,
but the gaze staring back is stone, bottomless.
This is not the captain he knew.
But who it is—he cannot say.
"Return. Explain when you arrive,"
Alexander says, clipped.
The channel cuts.
The ship accelerates,
racing toward the Martian fleet.
Inside—silence.
Not the silence of work.
The silence of ritual.
No conversations. No jokes.
Only movement.
Only structure.
We are not a crew.
We are an instrument.
We are vessels.
In the name of Kyrrus.
A new faith.
Deeper than instinct.
Stronger than command.
Accepted not by the mind—
but by the soul.
They are going back.
Home.
But they carry with them the darkness.
And a name
already whispering across the stars:
Kyrrus.