Sekitanki woke to the smell of mildew and fear.
The cell was concrete—bare walls sweating moisture, a single barred window filtering gray light that suggested either dawn or perpetual overcast. His hands were still bound, rope cutting into wrists already scarred from many months of survival across impossible eras.
He wasn't alone.
Two other prisoners occupied the space: an elderly civilian slumped against the far wall, and a young soldier who sat perfectly still, staring at nothing with eyes that had stopped seeing days ago.
The civilian looked up when Sekitanki stirred. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. When he spoke, his voice carried the careful neutrality of someone who'd learned that words could kill:
"You're awake. Good. I was beginning to think they'd beaten you too hard."
Sekitanki's tongue felt thick, his modern Japanese emerging slow: "Where am I?" "Military detention. Awaiting interrogation." The old gramps gestured at his injuries. "I was arrested for defeatist talk. Suggested that Japan should consider peace negotiations. In 1945, that's treason."
The young soldier didn't react. Didn't blink. Just continued staring at the wall with the hollow expression of someone whose mind had retreated somewhere safer.
"He went AWOL," the civilian continued quietly. "His entire unit was annihilated in the Pacific. He's the only survivor. Hasn't spoken in three days. I don't think he remembers how."
Sekitanki studied the soldier—maybe nineteen, maybe younger, wearing a uniform that bore no rank insignia because they'd been damaged upon arrest. His hands trembled constantly, a fine shake that suggested neural damage or psychological trauma so severe it manifested physically.
This is what war does. Not the clean deaths from bombs. But the breaking of minds that survive when bodies don't.
He thought of Yuki from Kamakura—the legendary warrior who'd fought with perfect technique and absolute confidence. She would have looked at this soldier with confusion, unable to comprehend defeat that destroyed spirit before flesh.
But Sekitanki understood perfectly. He'd felt it in the Carboniferous—the moment when survival instinct warred with the desire to simply stop, to let the next predator win, to accept that continuation required more strength than remained.
He'd pushed through. This soldier hadn't. That was the only difference. "What about you?" the civilian asked. "Why are you here?" "They think I'm an American spy."
"Are you?" "No. I'm..." How do I explain time travel to someone from 1945? "I'm lost. Displaced. I don't belong here." "None of us belong in cells," the old gramps said with bitter humor. "But here we are anyway."
The door opened with a metal shriek that made all three prisoners flinch.
A Japanese officer entered—thirties, wearing an immaculate uniform that contrasted sharply with the cell's squalor. His face was intelligent, analytical, the kind that suggested education beyond standard military training.
"Sekitanki Hankō suru hito," he read from a folder. "At least, that's what we think your name is. Your pronunciation is so strange we can barely understand you." He pulled up a chair—the casual confidence of someone who held absolute power over others' lives.
"I am Captain Ishida. I will be conducting your interrogation." His Japanese was educated, closer to modern dialect than most soldiers Sekitanki had encountered. Actual communication might be possible.
"I'm not a spy."
"Then explain your clothes." Ishida gestured at Sekitanki's twilight kimono—blood-stained, bearing Kamakura-era craftsmanship mixed with Carboniferous organic materials. "This fabric. These weaving patterns. They don't match anything in our textile records. The dyes are wrong. The construction technique is simultaneously ancient and advanced."
Perceptive. Dangerous. "I'm a researcher. My papers were destroyed in the bombing—" "Which bombing? We've had dozens." Ishida's eyes were sharp. "And researchers don't move like you do. I watched you run toward that military truck. Your reflexes are inhuman. Trained beyond anything our military produces. Like you've been fighting for your life every day for years."
Because I have been. Just not in this war.
Sekitanki constructed a cover story: classified government project, experimental research, can't reveal details without authorization. It was thin but internally consistent.
Ishida listened without expression. Then: "Tell me about the metal sphere. The one you tried to steal." The time machine. They have it. "I can't discuss classified projects."
"So you confirm it IS classified." Ishida smiled slightly. "Interesting. Because that device—that impossible sphere of metal and circuitry that somehow survived a direct bomb hit with minimal damage—has our scientists baffled. The technology is decades beyond anything we possess. Perhaps centuries."
He leaned forward. "It's not Japanese. Not American. Not from any nation we can identify. So where did it come from? Who built it? And why were you, a supposed researcher, so desperate to reach it that you charged armed soldiers?"
Sekitanki met his eyes and saw the trap closing. Ishida was too intelligent, too perceptive. Any story would crumble under sustained scrutiny. Before he could formulate a response, the air raid siren wailed.
The sound was already familiar—mechanical shrieking that bypassed thought and triggered pure animal panic. Ishida's expression shifted from analytical to urgent.
"Incoming raid. Everyone to—" The explosion cut him off. Not near the cell block. Worse—directly above. The prison's command section taking a direct hit from an American bomb.
The world became violence.
Concrete fractured. Steel beams twisted. The ceiling collapsed in cascading failure, tons of debris falling through floors designed for structure, not bombardment.
Sekitanki's Carboniferous reflexes engaged before conscious thought. He rolled sideways as a beam crashed where he'd been sitting. His bound hands found a sharp edge of broken concrete. Three seconds of frantic sawing cut through rope.
Free. The young soldier sat frozen, mind too broken to process new danger. Sekitanki grabbed him, hauled him toward the cell door—now hanging from twisted hinges.
The elderly civilian was trapped under rubble, legs pinned. "Go! Save yourselves!" "Not happening." Sekitanki assessed the debris pattern. Physics problem: calculate force vectors, identify structural weak points, apply leverage at optimal angles.
He found a broken beam. Used it as a lever. Months of survival had transformed his body from soft scientist to something harder—muscle earned through killing giant insects, fighting samurai, refusing to die when death was statistically inevitable.
The beam lifted. The civilian scrambled free. Then Sekitanki saw Ishida.
The captain was pinned under a collapsed wall section, slowly suffocating as concrete pressed down on his stomach. His face was turning blue. Blood trickled from his mouth. Leave him. He was planning your execution. He's the enemy.
But many months of displacement had taught Sekitanki something his empty genius years never learned: humanity mattered. Connection mattered. Letting someone die when you could save them—that created holes that genius couldn't fill.
He moved to Ishida. Planted his feet. Gripped the concrete slab. "This is insane," the civilian protested. "That weighs—" "I know what it weighs." Sekitanki's voice was flat. "Help me or get out of the way."
The civilian joined him. Together they lifted—pure desperate strength combined with physics knowledge about leverage and force distribution. The slab rose. Ishida gasped, sucking air into crushed lungs. Sekitanki pulled him free, immediately assessed injuries.
Crushed ribs. Punctured lung. Internal bleeding. Without modern medical care, maybe an hour to live. But his airway was clear. Breathing was possible.
Sekitanki performed CPR—technique from 2024 that wouldn't be standardized for decades. Stomach compressions at precise rhythm. Rescue breathing calculated for optimal oxygen transfer.
Ishida's eyes fluttered. Consciousness returned with evident confusion. "You... why...?" "Because letting you die would make me the monster you suspected."
More explosions. Closer. The prison was collapsing in stages, each bombardment bringing them closer to burial. "We need to move. Now." Sekitanki supported Ishida. The civilian helped the young soldier. They emerged from the cell block into chaos.
The prison was unrecognizable—walls blown out, fires everywhere, survivors scrambling through rubble. Guards who'd been their captors were now just terrified humans trying not to die.
No one stopped them. No one cared. Authority had dissolved under bombardment. They made it outside as the final section collapsed. Tokyo burned around them—firestorms creating their own weather, winds strong enough to lift debris, temperatures that made breathing painful.
Ishida coughed blood. "I... should arrest you. Duty demands..." "Duty can wait until we're not actively dying." They found shelter in a bombed-out warehouse. The raid continued for another twenty minutes—B-29s overhead, untouchable, raining destruction with industrial efficiency.
When silence finally returned, Ishida studied Sekitanki with new eyes.
"You saved my life." "Yes." "You could have escaped. Should have. I was planning your execution." "I know." "Why?" The question held genuine confusion. "In war, you don't save enemies. You exploit their weakness's."
Sekitanki thought of the Carboniferous—three weeks of killing to survive, becoming something that murdered without hesitation because hesitation meant death. Thought of Kamakura—learning that honor and humanity could coexist with violence.
"Because I've spent many months learning that survival without humanity is just slow suicide wearing a different mask." Ishida absorbed this. His expression shifted—professional assessment overlaying personal debt.
In Japanese culture, Sekitanki knew, saving someone's life created obligation. Giri—the debt that transcended law, exceeded duty, bound souls across circumstances.
Finally, Ishida spoke: "I cannot release you. Evidence still suggests infiltration. Your story remains inconsistent. But..." He paused, weighing words. "I can transfer you. Special Engineering Corps, Unit 23."
"What is that?"
"Officially: weapons development unit. Soldiers with technical skills, working on experimental projects. Unofficially..." Ishida's expression was grim. "Cannon fodder with education. Suicide missions. Twenty percent survival rate. Criminals offered redemption. Soldiers too broken for regular duty. Human's who've lost everything but get one final chance to die meaningfully."
"You're offering me suicide duty."
"I'm offering you supervised freedom. Unit 23 operates near the research facility holding your metal sphere. You'll have access—limited, monitored, but access. Work on projects. Prove your skills. Demonstrate you're not enemy."
"And if I refuse?" "Then I honor my debt by giving you quick execution instead of slow torture. That's the best I can offer while maintaining duty."
Sekitanki calculated odds. Transferring to Unit 23 meant combat, meant probable death, meant being thrown into a war he didn't belong to. But it also meant access to his time machine. His only way home.
"What happened to the metal sphere? After you seized it?"
"Transported to Research Facility Seven. Three kilometers from Unit 23's base. Our scientists are examining it. They can't determine its purpose, but they recognize genius in its construction." Ishida's eyes narrowed. "You built it, didn't you? Or know who did. That's why you ran toward it. That's your real secret."
Too perceptive by half. "If I transfer to Unit 23, will I have supervised access to the facility?" "Eventually. After proving yourself. After surviving long enough to be trusted." A bitter smile. "Most don't survive the first mission. So trust becomes theoretical."
Twenty percent survival rate. Five-to-one odds against lasting a single operation. But Sekitanki had survived prehistoric scorpions, medieval tournaments while dying, few months of impossible displacement.
Five-to-one odds? I've faced worse. "I accept." Relief flickered across Ishida's face. The debt had been acknowledged, pathway created for repayment that didn't violate duty.
"Report to Unit 23 barracks tomorrow dawn. They'll issue equipment. Brief you on first mission." He stood carefully, ribs protesting. "Try not to die immediately. I'd prefer the person who saved my life survive long enough for me to understand him."
That evening, Sekitanki was processed into Unit 23.
They gave him a dead soldier's uniform—cleaned but still bearing bullet holes that suggested the previous owner's fate. Tags with a stranger's name. Rifle that needed cleaning. Rations that tasted like compressed disappointment.
The barracks held maybe thirty soldiers. Most looked hollowed-out—faces that had seen too much, eyes that tracked threats by reflex, the thousand-yard stare of people who'd stopped believing survival was probable.
A sergeant approached—forties, China campaign veteran, sake on his breath this early. "You're the new one. Ishida's special project. Don't expect favoritism. You'll die like everyone else."
"Understood, Sergeant Hayashi." "Your bunk is there. We deploy dawn tomorrow. Supply convoy escort. Estimated casualties: fifty percent." He said it like a weather report. "Questions?"
"No, Sergeant." Hayashi walked away, muttering about replacements and pointless missions. Sekitanki found his assigned bunk. Around him, soldiers prepared equipment with mechanical efficiency. No conversation. No camaraderie. Just the grim preparation of people who'd stopped forming attachments because attachments died.
He was organizing his gear when he felt eyes on him.
A soldier sat across the barracks, maybe nineteen, carefully cleaning his rifle. His movements were precise, controlled, suggesting training beyond standard military.
But it was his eyes that made Sekitanki freeze.
They held the same quality as his own. The look of someone carrying weight from outside this era. The subtle wrongness of a person who didn't quite belong in their own timeline.
Their gazes met across the space. Recognition flickered. Immediate. Mutual. He's like me. He's displaced. He knows what I am because he's the same. Somebody who's delt with pain.
The other soldier's eyes widened fractionally. Then he looked away deliberately, breaking contact, pretending the moment hadn't happened. But both knew. Both understood.
Sekitanki wanted to approach immediately. Demand answers. Find out who this person was, when they were from, how they'd arrived. He could tell they were like him.
But instinct—months of survival across hostile eras—warned caution. If others noticed them connecting, noticed the recognition, it would raise questions neither could answer safely.
Later. After the mission. After proving we can both survive.
He returned to organizing gear, but his mind raced. I'm not alone. There's someone else. Someone who understands. For the first time since arriving in 1945, Sekitanki felt something other than desperate isolation.
Hope. The next morning, Unit 23 deployed at dawn. Thirty soldiers loaded onto military trucks. Destination: forward supply lines. Mission: escort ammunition and medical supplies through contested territory.
Simple. Routine. The kind of operation that killed half the participants through bad luck and enemy action.
As the trucks rolled through devastated Tokyo toward active combat zones, Sekitanki sat beside the mysterious soldier. Neither spoke. But their shoulders touched—brief contact that communicated everything words couldn't.
You're real. You exist. I'm not the only impossible thing here. The soldier's lips moved, forming words only Sekitanki could see: "Later. Stay alive." Modern Japanese. Perfect accent. Phrasing that belonged decades in the future.
Sekitanki nodded once. The trucks continued toward war, carrying soldiers who'd accepted probable death, led by commanders who'd stopped learning their names.
And somewhere in Tokyo, in a research facility three kilometers from wherever they'd survive or die, Sekitanki's time machine waited. His only way home. His only hope of returning to 2024, to his family, to the life he'd thrown away three years ago. I will reach it. I will survive whatever comes. Because I finally have a reason beyond just refusing to die. There's someone else like me. And together, maybe we can find a way home.
The convoy rolled into contested territory as the sun rose over burning Japan. And two time travelers who shouldn't exist prepared to fight in a war neither belonged to, bound by recognition and desperate hope and the understanding that impossible survival became easier when you weren't alone.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "Blood and Steel"]