High above the tranquil world of Prescott Three, a small blue, green marble space seemed to ripple as five dark ships emerged from fold space, their sleek hulls glinting faintly against the starlit void. These ships, built for speed and precision, moved with silent purpose, thrusters igniting as they set course for the planet below.
On Prescott Three, it was a calm, uneventful night. The world, known for its advanced education, military academies, and long-standing peace under the Duchy, was blissfully unaware of the impending storm. Citizens carried on their routines under a clear sky, utterly oblivious to the danger that now hurtled toward them.
Inside the lead vessel, the captain stood rigid, eyes locked on the view before her—Prescott Three, growing larger as they neared. The tactical map displayed five key locations: the Ducal Palace, the planet's two prestigious universities, the cadet barracks, and the central military base. These were their targets. The mission was simple: strike fast, cripple Prescott’s leadership, and weaken its defenses before anyone could respond.
Her voice, calm but steely, echoed through the command deck. "We’ve reached Prescott Three. All systems are operational. Target Phase One: the Ducal Palace, the universities, cadet barracks, and the primary military base. No alarms. No survivors."
Around her, the crew moved with the precision of seasoned professionals. This was not their first strike, and tonight would be no different—swift, surgical, and devastating.
As the ships pierced Prescott Three’s atmosphere, their cloaking systems activated, rendering them invisible to the planet's early-warning systems. The world below remained blissfully unaware as the ships slid silently over the night sky like shadows. Dark pods pregnant with death awaited to spew forth into the void and fall on the unsuspecting world.
On the tactical screen, the captain could see the sprawling Ducal Palace, a symbol of power and governance, alongside the academic institutions that fostered the planet’s brightest minds and the cadet barracks that trained the next generation of military officers. And, just outside the capital, the planet's largest military base—armored, fortified, but utterly unprepared for what was coming.
"Pods ready for deployment," a tactical officer reported.
The captain glanced at the countdown timer on her console. They had minutes until Phase Two.
"Begin the drop," she ordered, her voice cool and unwavering.
From the belly of each ship, a barrage of drop pods descended toward the surface like silent meteors falling from the heavens. Inside each pod were teams of elite operatives trained for one thing: swift and deadly execution. Their mission was clear—hit key targets, sow chaos, and vanish before reinforcements could mobilize.
The Ducal Palace, nestled in the heart of the capital, was first on the list. Its defenses, formidable but ceremonial in recent years, would soon crumble under the strike team’s assault. Simultaneously, other teams aimed for the universities, where the intellectual elite of Prescott Three worked late into the night, unaware that their research would soon be ashes.
The cadet barracks, where young officers-in-training slept soundly, were targeted next. These were future soldiers, tacticians, and leaders. Their elimination would cripple the planet’s military development for years.
Lastly, the military base—a sprawling complex of armories, training facilities, and command centers. The base was heavily fortified, but its defenses were pointed outward, anticipating threats from other worlds. The strike teams, however, were already inside the perimeter, set to detonate charges in key locations and neutralize the planet’s response capabilities before anyone knew what had hit them.
As the drop pods neared their destinations, the captain allowed herself a thin smile. Prescott Three was a world at peace, but peace was a luxury, and it would be shattered tonight. In a matter of hours, its leadership would be in disarray, its defenses crippled, and its future uncertain. And when it was over, no one would know who had struck first.
***
Stewart was already out in the field, and the Chimera responded smoothly as she put it through the motions of a routine training exercise. It had been a long week, and this was supposed to be the last day of drills before they returned to the base. Two other platoons were with her, twelve students and their instructors. The rugged hills surrounding them were silent except for the occasional hum of the mechas’ engines.
"Keep it tight, Stewart," came the calm voice of Captain Westin over the comms. "Chimera's got a lot of modular systems—don't overthink it."
"Got it, sir," Stewart replied, her hands steady on the controls. She could feel the power in the Chimera, a machine designed for precision and adaptability. Her confidence in the new mecha was growing with each passing minute. It was still experimental, but she knew the potential it held.
Suddenly, a burst of static cut through the calm, followed by a panicked voice.
"—the Ducal Palace… hit hard—multiple impacts… they're taking out the universities…"
Stewart frowned, her gaze snapping to the horizon as the message repeated. She glanced at Westin, but his face was as tense as hers.
“What the hell’s going on?” one of the cadets in her platoon asked, his voice wavering.
Before Westin could answer, more frantic comms began flooding their channel.
“They’ve hit the barracks! We’re losing cadets—Sector 3’s gone!”
“We’re surrounded! Evac routes blocked, repeat, all routes—"
Another voice cut in—one of the instructors back at base. "All units, be advised, this is not a drill! I repeat, this is not a—"
The voice vanished in a wash of static.
Stewart’s grip on the controls tightened. Her heart pounded as the implications set in. This wasn't some isolated attack. They were under full-scale assault.
"Captain?" she asked her voice tight.
Westin’s response was grim. “They're targeting us. Training units. Universities. They’re cutting the head off before we can respond."
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The platoons had gone silent, every cadet and instructor listening to the horrors unfolding over the comms. Each transmission ended with chilling finality as, one by one, and their fellow trainees were snuffed out.
"—plasma weaponry—can't hold—"
"We’re not getting out of this!"
"…oh god…"
A sick feeling pooled in Stewart’s gut. They were in the field, safe for the moment, but the base... the cadets back there…
A warning light flashed on her display. She glanced at Westin's Chimera just ahead of her.
"We need to get back to base," Westin said, his voice sharper now, as if forcing calm. "If this is coordinated, they’ll come for us too. Move!"
They didn’t get far.
A searing flash lit up the horizon. It came from the direction of the base, a bright, hellish glow that swallowed the landscape in an instant. It was followed by a low, rumbling shockwave that shook the ground beneath them.
The comms went dead—every channel—silenced.
Stewart felt her blood run cold as the massive ball of plasma blossomed into the sky. The training base… everything that had been there was gone—vaporized.
“No…” one of the cadets whispered over the private channel.
Stewart couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight. Her mind raced, but her thoughts were jumbled, refusing to settle on the reality that the base had been obliterated in a single strike. The cadets she had trained with, the instructors, the command—all gone.
Westin’s voice crackled through the silence. “Stewart, we need to focus. We’re not safe here.”
She snapped out of her daze, her hands tightening around the controls again. “Yes, sir.”
“We move to fallback point Gamma. Full speed. We can’t stay out in the open.”
Without another word, the mechas lurched into motion. They weren’t out of this yet, but everything had changed. What had started as a routine exercise was now a fight for survival.
***
Kovacs’ flat faced a quiet side road, the street where nothing much ever happened—at least not in the early morning hours. He groaned, bleary-eyed and exhausted, knowing he was already late for class. His mind was still tangled with thoughts of the cryptic message the system had sent him the night before War has been declared. He had dismissed it at first, chalking it up to some strange malfunction or miscommunication from the virtual interface. Now, though, as the message lingered, it gnawed at the back of his mind.
A distant, rising sound caught his attention as he stood, rubbing his face and trying to shake off the grogginess. At first, it was faint—barely noticeable—but it grew louder, a wailing siren that pierced the morning stillness. It wasn’t the usual emergency alarm from campus. No, this was different. It was more urgent. It was almost… like a warning.
Kovacs froze, hand halfway to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. Something wasn’t right.
He turned toward the window, stepping closer. Outside, along the street, people were beginning to appear, looking confused. Some were rushing toward vehicles, others stood frozen in their doorways, listening to the siren's ever-louder wail.
Then, before he could even process what was happening, an actinic flash lit up the entire street.
The light was blinding, searing white hot like a bolt of lightning had struck just beyond his window. Kovacs staggered backward, instinctively throwing an arm over his eyes, feeling the intense heat for just an instant before it dissipated. His vision swam with afterimages, a dark silhouette where the light had been, and his ears rang with the sudden silence that followed.
He stumbled, barely able to see, blinking rapidly as his heart hammered in his chest. His mind struggled to catch up, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. What the hell had just happened?
The siren was still wailing, though now it seemed muffled, distant. The air felt wrong—heavy, oppressive.
Kovacs' eyes slowly adjusted, and through the haze of afterimages, he looked out the window again. In the distance, over the rooftops, a massive, billowing cloud of smoke and debris was rising into the sky—dark and menacing. His breath caught in his throat as the realization hit him.
Something—something big—had just happened.
Instinctively, his hand reached for the wrist device that had sent him the cryptic warning. His fingers trembled as he touched the interface, and the system’s familiar voice crackled to life in his ear.
“Neural system active. Monitoring external environment. Severe disruption detected. Threat level: Critical.”
Kovacs stood frozen, staring out at the growing cloud on the horizon. His mind raced, connecting the dots.
War has been declared.
The system had known. But why? How?
Before he could think further, a wave of panic swept over him. He was in danger. Everyone was. He needed to move.
Kovacs was still standing there, stunned, when his door suddenly burst open.
“Down! Get down!” A voice barked.
Before Kovacs could react, a figure shoved him hard, sending him sprawling onto the floor. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but his brain hadn’t caught up to the chaos around him. His vision was still dotted with white from the flash, and all he could hear was a sharp ringing in his ears.
“Are you hurt?” the voice demanded, closer now, more urgent. A pair of hands roughly grabbed him by the collar, yanking him to his feet.
Kovacs blinked, his senses slowly clearing enough to make out a man in tactical gear standing over him. The patch on his arm read CID. The man’s face was grim, eyes darting around like a soldier scanning for unseen threats. Kovacs recognized him vaguely, someone he had seen over the past week, though the person had always stayed at a distance, until now.
“We need to go. Right now,” the agent said, not waiting for a response. He hauled Kovacs toward the door, practically dragging him out of the flat.
“Wait—what’s happening?” Kovacs stammered, his feet barely keeping up. “What—what was that?”
“Attack. Planet-wide. But right now, you’re the priority. We have to get you to safety,” the agent snapped. His voice was all business, the clipped tone of someone used to following orders and giving them without explanation.
Kovacs barely had time to grab his shoes before they were out the door, stumbling into the hallway. The sirens were louder now, echoing off the walls, and outside, the sky had taken on an eerie orange hue. The street was filled with chaos—people running, cars screeching to a halt, and in the distance, the plume of smoke still rising like a dark omen.
“Why me?” Kovacs managed to ask as they barreled through the crowd, dodging panicked pedestrians and weaving between abandoned vehicles.
The agent didn’t look at him, focusing on the path ahead. “Because you’re the last one.”
“Last what?”
“Mecha designer.” The agent turned to look at him now, his expression unreadable. “The Professors, students, anyone with knowledge. And now, with this attack…” His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.
Kovacs felt a cold chill wash over him. The system’s warning, the disappearances, the way the professors had been quietly taking credit for the students’ work—he had known something was wrong, but not this wrong.
“You mean the others—”
“They’re gone.” The agent’s voice was flat, devoid of hope. “This attack wasn’t random. They’re targeting the universities, the military base, and any place with strategic value. That includes you.”
Kovacs' heart pounded harder, a knot tightening in his chest. His mind reeled, trying to process the enormity of it. He had always been on the outskirts, unnoticed, unimportant. But now, they wanted him dead. For his knowledge. For his designs.
The agent shoved him into the back of an armored vehicle waiting around the corner. “Get in.”
Kovacs barely had time to breathe before the door slammed shut, the agent taking the passenger seat up front. The vehicle roared to life, the driver—a grizzled soldier—already speeding through the chaotic streets as explosions echoed in the distance.
“Where are we going?” Kovacs asked, his voice shaking.
“Out of the city. To a safe house,” the agent replied, turning back to look at him. “You might be the only thing left between us and total destruction. We need you alive, Kovacs.”
Kovacs swallowed hard, his mind racing. He was no soldier, no hero. But now, the weight of survival—maybe the planet's survival—rested on his shoulders.
The vehicle jerked violently as it swerved to avoid a wrecked car, and Kovacs looked out the window, heart sinking. The horizon was filled with smoke and fire, the sky darkened by distant plumes.
He had no choice. Whatever had started, whatever *war* had been declared, it was coming for him. And he had to be ready.
As the vehicle sped toward the city's outskirts, the system on his wristband flickered to life once more, the cold, familiar voice cutting through the noise.
"Alert. Hostile forces identified. Threat level: catastrophic."
Kovacs gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of inevitability settle in.
He wasn’t ready for war—but war had come for him.