Panama Coast – Active Combat
Mid-January, 2001
The coastline burned.
Shinn's F-15SE Silent Eagle cut across the surf at treetop height, engines whispering between detonations as the last chord of Danger Zone thundered from his external speakers. Below him, a dense knot of Tank-class BETA surged forward—too many, too close.
He didn't hesitate.
The Silent Eagle flared, pivoted, and plunged straight through the center mass.
The AMWS-21 stitched precise fire along armor seams; the Type-74 PB Blade followed—one clean arc, then another. A Tank-class split open and collapsed into the surf, its bulk dragging two others down with it.
"Unknown Black TSF—keep moving!" a U.S. forward commander shouted. "We're aligning fire to your vector!"
Shinn angled left.
Right on cue, Abrams rounds thundered into the gap he'd just carved. Bradleys loosed missiles that finished what his blade had started. The BETA line buckled.
Then the sky changed.
"Air Control to all units—Raptor flight inbound!"
Four silhouettes tore through the cloud cover in perfect formation.
F-22A Raptor TSFs.
They dropped like knives, engines screaming as they fanned out to bracket the breach Shinn had opened.
"Raptor Lead to Black TSF—on your six. We'll widen the lane."
Shinn didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He rolled hard, drawing a cluster of Grappler-class toward him. The Grapplers lunged—
—and vanished as the Raptors lit them up from above, synchronized bursts collapsing their torsos before they could even adjust.
"Clean hits!"
"Area denial achieved!"
"Push forward!"
The joint assault surged.
Shinn surged with it.
He vaulted over a dying Destroyer-class, its organic artillery collapsing inward, then pivoted mid-air and fired—two precision shots that punched through a final node threatening the beachhead. The Raptor flight swept past, mopping up stragglers with ruthless efficiency.
For the first time since contact—
The BETA were retreating.
"Enemy density dropping across all sectors!" Panama Command reported, disbelief creeping into their voices. "Repeat—coastline is being cleared!"
The music still echoed, defiant and loud, rolling across smoke and fire as Shinn drove the Silent Eagle forward one last time, ensuring the corridor stayed open.
Above him, the Raptors held the sky.
Behind him, U.S. armor advanced at full throttle.
Together, they pushed the swarm back into the sea.
And as the last BETA silhouettes sank beneath the waves, one truth became unavoidable across every command channel:
This wasn't just a successful defense.
It was a turning point.
The black F-15SE slowed, hovering at the edge of the reclaimed shoreline—unnamed, unmarked, victorious—while the U.S. Army secured the beach.
Somewhere far away, analysts would replay this footage frame by frame.
But here, on the Panama coast, only one thing mattered:
For the first time that day, the humans were advancing.
Panama Canal Defense Zone – Aftermath
Mid-January, 2001
The guns finally fell silent.
Smoke drifted across the reclaimed shoreline, illuminated by floodlights as engineers and recovery teams moved in behind advancing armor. Wrecked BETA bodies smoldered half-buried in sand, the ocean slowly reclaiming what remained of the swarm.
For the first time in hours, Panama Base could breathe.
Panama Base – Command Center
The debrief began immediately.
"Replay the unknown TSF's combat path again," a senior U.S. Army officer ordered.
The tactical display bloomed to life—clean arcs of movement cutting through a mass of red markers that vanished one after another.
Silence filled the room.
"That flight profile…"
"No hesitation. No correction lag."
"He's anticipating BETA movement before contact."
A junior officer cleared his throat. "Sir, we still have no IFF. No unit tag. No nation flag. Whoever that pilot is, he's not registered in any allied roster."
The senior officer folded his arms.
"Frame identification?"
"Confirmed F-15SE Silent Eagle TSF. But not one of ours. No production serial that matches U.S. inventory."
Another voice spoke up—older, quieter.
"Black program," he said. "Independent Task Group."
A few heads turned sharply.
"So it's real," someone muttered.
The officer nodded grimly. "And they just saved the Canal."
A pause.
"Track him," the commander said. "If he's still in the area, I want to talk to that pilot."
Above the Coast – Silent Eagle Cockpit
Shinn hovered at low altitude, systems idling as recovery teams advanced below. The Danger Zone track had long since cut out, leaving only the hum of engines and distant radio chatter.
Multiple hails flashed across his HUD.
UNIDENTIFIED TSF – IDENTIFY YOURSELF
REQUESTING POST-ENGAGEMENT DEBRIEF
PANAMA COMMAND – PLEASE RESPOND
Shinn ignored them all.
Ian Lee's voice chimed in, calm but firm.
"They're trying to pin you down."
Shinn's eyes flicked over the sensor readouts. Friendly signatures multiplying. Radar tightening.
"…I see it."
"That's enough for today," Ian continued. "Mission objective complete. Retreat immediately."
Shinn hesitated—just a fraction of a second—looking down at the beach.
The line was holding.
The BETA were gone.
People were alive.
"…Copy," he said.
The Silent Eagle's engines spooled up.
No acknowledgement.
No farewell.
Shinn pulled vertical, cutting power signatures as the semi-stealth systems engaged. The black TSF vanished into the cloud cover just as tracking solutions began to converge.
Panama Base – Command Center
"Contact fading—no, gone!"
The radar screen cleared, leaving only friendly units behind.
The commander stared at the empty space where the black silhouette had been.
"…Damn."
One officer exhaled slowly. "So that's it? He just leaves?"
The commander nodded once.
"Whoever he is," he said, "he didn't come here for recognition."
He looked back at the casualty and engagement reports—numbers far lower than anyone had dared hope.
"But make no mistake," he added. "We just witnessed an ace."
High above, beyond radar range, Shinn Watford let the Silent Eagle level out.
No cheers.
No medals.
No name in the report.
Just another battlefield survived.
And as Ian Lee watched the telemetry stabilize, one thought crossed his mind:
They've noticed you now.
Atlantic Ocean Airspace
En Route – Classified Flight
The roar of engines was constant.
Inside the cavernous cargo bay of a customized C-5 Galaxy, restraint clamps locked the F-15SE Silent Eagle TSF firmly to the deck. Power-down lights glowed faintly along its black frame, stealth panels reflecting only dim reds and ambers.
It looked like a predator at rest.
Shinn sat at a folding briefing table bolted to the deck, still in his flight suit, helmet resting beside him. A faint ache lingered in his muscles—not fatigue, but residue. His body was already correcting itself.
Across from him, a man in a simple lab coat adjusted a tablet.
White hair. Calm eyes.
The Professor.
"Well done, Shinn," the Professor said warmly. "Fourth mission. Fourth success."
Shinn inclined his head slightly. "I followed the restrictions."
The Professor smiled. "That you did. And the data we collected is… extraordinary."
The main screen flickered.
Then split in two.
On the other half appeared Ian Lee, seated somewhere equally unmarked, arms folded.
"You've officially outperformed every active Black Program pilot to date," Ian said bluntly. "Combat efficiency. Survival margin. Adaptability."
Shinn frowned slightly.
"…Then why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming."
Ian actually chuckled.
"There is," he admitted. "And before you ask—no, you're not being kicked out."
Shinn's jaw tightened despite himself. "That's usually how these talks go."
Ian's expression softened, just a little.
"This isn't about your performance," he said. "It's about timing."
The Professor tapped his tablet, and new data filled the screen—global BETA movement charts.
Red zones that once surged… were slowing.
"BETA activity has decreased across multiple fronts," the Professor explained. "No signs of immediate large-scale invasions. It's… unprecedented."
Shinn stared at the screen. "A lull."
"Yes," the Professor replied. "A dangerous one—but a lull nonetheless."
Ian leaned forward slightly.
"And that means you standing out like a black comet over Panama isn't ideal right now."
Shinn looked up sharply. "So what do you want me to do?"
Ian answered without hesitation.
"Blend in."
Silence settled in the cargo bay.
"You'll officially join a major faction," Ian continued. "UN Forces. U.S. Army. European Union. Imperial Japanese Army. Your choice—on paper."
Shinn exhaled slowly.
"…A cover."
"Exactly," Ian said. "You remain Black Program. That doesn't change. When the time comes, we call."
The Professor nodded.
"We've already discussed it," he said gently. "Given your background, your prior training, and political feasibility… the UN Forces are the best placement."
Shinn's eyes widened slightly.
"UN?"
"You'll operate openly," the Professor continued. "Train. Deploy. Build a record. Build relationships."
He paused.
"And you'll hold the rank of Lieutenant Commander."
Shinn blinked.
"That's—"
"High," Ian finished. "Yes. It's intentional."
Shinn leaned back slightly, processing.
"So… I pretend to be normal."
Ian smiled faintly.
"You learn to live like you are," he corrected. "At least part of the time."
Shinn was quiet for a long moment.
"…And when the Black Program calls?"
Ian's gaze hardened—but his voice stayed steady.
"Then you answer."
The Professor folded his hands.
"Shinn," he said, "this isn't exile. It's protection. For you—and for the project."
Ian added quietly, "And for your sanity."
Shinn looked away, eyes drifting to the Silent Eagle secured behind them.
"…I don't really know how to have friends," he admitted.
Ian's expression softened again.
"You will," he said. "You're not meant to fight alone forever."
A beat.
"Besides," Ian added, "real friends might be the one thing the BETA can't prepare for."
The C-5 droned steadily onward through the dark Atlantic sky.
Below them, the world believed the Panama battle had been won by conventional forces.
Above it all—
A young man was being quietly placed back into the system that once rejected him.
This time, on his own terms.
Yokohama Base – Japan
Early 2001
The sea mist rolled in from Tokyo Bay as transport vehicles passed through the massive blast gates of Yokohama Base.
Misaki Takamura watched the skyline through the armored window—steel towers, layered defenses, TSF gantries rising like metallic giants over the city. This wasn't a training camp.
This was the front line.
Her transfer orders felt heavier here.
Central Command Building – Arrival Hall
"Lieutenant Takamura," a deep voice called out.
Misaki snapped to attention.
Standing before her was Commander Paul Radhabinod, his uniform immaculate, posture relaxed but commanding. His eyes were sharp—someone who had seen real combat, not simulations.
"Welcome to Yokohama Base," he said. "You come highly recommended."
"Thank you, sir," Misaki replied.
He gestured toward the expansive hangar visible through reinforced glass. TSFs were being serviced nonstop—scarred armor, replacement limbs, pilots moving with grim efficiency.
"This base doesn't care about reputation," Radhabinod continued. "Only results. If you're here, it means we believe you can deliver."
Misaki nodded, swallowing her nerves.
"You'll be assigned to a mixed unit," he added. "Which brings me to your escort."
Another figure stepped forward.
Elegant. Composed. Unmistakable.
Meiya Mitsurugi.
Misaki stiffened slightly—recognition flashing across her face.
"The Valkyrie of the Empire…" she murmured before catching herself.
Meiya inclined her head politely. "Lieutenant Takamura. I will be overseeing your initial integration."
Her gaze was calm—but piercing. As if she saw more than Misaki wanted her to.
"Follow me," Meiya said. "Your unit is waiting."
TSF Hangar – Assigned Unit Area
The hangar echoed with hydraulic noise and distant engine tests. Three familiar figures stood near a line of training frames.
Misaki slowed.
"…Asagi. Akane. Nomura."
They turned.
Asagi raised a hand casually.
"Well, look who made it."
Akane smiled. "Guess Yokohama likes prodigies."
Nomura gave a short nod, unreadable.
They were all here.
All part of the same group.
The same people who had once stood behind her when Shinn Watford was expelled.
For a moment, Misaki felt the past press against her chest.
Meiya watched the exchange carefully.
"Familiar faces?" she asked.
"Yes," Misaki replied after a beat. "We trained together."
"Then that will make cooperation easier," Meiya said neutrally. "Or more difficult. Time will tell."
She turned to the group.
"You are now assigned to Yokohama's rapid-response rotation. You will fight together. You will survive together. Personal history is irrelevant."
Her eyes lingered—just a fraction longer—on Misaki.
"Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," they answered in unison.
As the briefing broke up and assignments were distributed, Misaki lingered near the hangar railing, watching TSFs move in and out of launch bays.
Somewhere beyond the ocean, beyond Panama, beyond the rumors of a black TSF—
Shinn Watford was alive.
She didn't know that yet.
But standing in Yokohama Base, with the weight of real war pressing in on all sides, Misaki felt something she couldn't name.
Not pride.
Not confidence.
A quiet, unsettling sense that the past she thought she'd left behind…
…was slowly catching up.
Mid-September, 2001
Yokohama Airport
The jet's engines wound down as the aircraft rolled to a stop.
Shinn Watford stepped onto Japanese soil for the first time in years.
He wore a UN uniform now—clean lines, subdued colors, insignia marking him as a Lieutenant Commander. To anyone watching, he looked like any other returning officer: composed, professional, unremarkable.
No one here knew what he really was.
The terminal was busy with civilians, aid workers, and military personnel rotating in and out of the region. Announcements echoed overhead in calm, practiced tones.
Shinn adjusted the strap of his carry bag and scanned the crowd.
Then he saw him.
A broad grin split across a familiar face as a man leaned casually against a column, UN armband visible on his sleeve.
"About damn time," the man called out.
Shinn froze for half a second—
Then smiled.
"…Bernardo."
Bernardo Garcia pushed off the column and closed the distance in a few long strides. He was broader now, older around the eyes, but the same warmth was there—the kind that didn't ask questions you weren't ready to answer.
The two men stopped in front of each other.
For a fraction of a second, they just stared.
Then Bernardo laughed and pulled Shinn into a firm, genuine hug.
"Look at you," Bernardo said, clapping his back. "UN officer. Lieutenant Commander, no less."
Shinn returned the embrace just as tightly.
"And you," Shinn replied, a rare softness in his voice. "Senior Petty Officer. Analyst life treating you well?"
Bernardo snorted. "Define 'well.' Andaman Base hasn't blown up this month, so I took a few days off."
He stepped back, giving Shinn a once-over.
"…You look solid. Different. But solid."
Shinn exhaled slowly.
"So do you. Didn't expect to see a friendly face first thing back."
Bernardo's expression shifted—less joking, more sincere.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Figured you shouldn't walk back into Japan alone."
The words landed heavier than they sounded.
Shinn nodded once.
"…Thanks."
They started walking toward the exit together, blending into the flow of travelers.
"So," Bernardo continued lightly, "Yokohama Base, huh? Big stage. Lots of eyes."
"Exactly why they put me there," Shinn replied.
Bernardo smirked. "Cover job."
Shinn didn't deny it.
They shared a brief look—years of shared secrets compressed into a single glance.
"No worries," Bernardo said, lowering his voice as they passed through the doors into the open air. "I won't blow your cover. Today, you're just another UN officer on rotation."
A pause.
"…But off the record?"
Shinn looked at him.
Bernardo smiled.
"Welcome home, brother."
Outside, the city stretched out beneath a gray autumn sky. Yokohama buzzed with life—unaware that one of the war's sharpest blades had just quietly returned.
And for the first time in a long while, Shinn Watford didn't feel alone.
Yokohama – En Route to Base
Mid-September, 2001
The city rolled past in muted colors as the staff car merged onto the expressway.
Bernardo leaned back in the passenger seat, hands behind his head, glancing sideways at Shinn's reflection in the window.
"So," he said lightly, "Lieutenant Commander Watford. UN Forces. Public record looks squeaky clean."
Shinn kept his eyes forward. "That's the idea."
Bernardo chuckled. "Relax. You've got the posture down. Almost fooled me."
They shared a quiet laugh—short, familiar, easing a tension Shinn hadn't realized he was carrying.
Traffic thinned as the vehicle approached the fortified perimeter. The blast gates of Yokohama Base loomed ahead, floodlights washing steel and concrete in stark white.
Bernardo's tone shifted, becoming more careful.
"You'll be visible here," he said. "Lots of high-caliber pilots. Old families. Sharp eyes."
"I know," Shinn replied. "That's why they sent me."
"And the rules?" Bernardo asked.
Shinn nodded. "Normal operations. Normal mistakes. No heroics unless ordered."
Bernardo grimaced. "You were never good at 'normal.'"
A beat.
"But," Bernardo added, softer, "you'll have people around you this time."
The car slowed at the checkpoint. Credentials were checked. The gates opened.
Inside, the base felt alive—TSFs moving along gantries, crews swapping armor plates, pilots crossing the tarmac with helmets tucked under their arms. Routine. Relentless.
The car stopped near administrative housing.
Bernardo unbuckled. "I'm crashing with a buddy tonight. Day off, remember?"
Shinn stepped out, autumn air cool against his face.
"…Thanks for meeting me," he said.
Bernardo smiled. "Anytime. And hey—"
He hesitated, then clapped Shinn's shoulder.
"If things get heavy, call me. Analyst or not, I'm still on your side."
Shinn met his eyes and nodded once. "I know."
Bernardo waved and headed off, disappearing into the base's web of lights and shadows.
Shinn stood alone for a moment, adjusting his uniform, grounding himself.
A PA announcement echoed across the yard—shift changes, launch prep, names he didn't recognize.
He took a breath and started toward his assigned quarters.
Unseen, across the base—on another walkway, at another time—people who once knew him were living their new lives too.
Paths converging.
Histories waiting.
And for the first time since he'd left Japan, Shinn felt the quiet certainty that sooner or later, Yokohama would test his cover.
Yokohama Base – Main Gate
Mid-September, 2001
Shinn arrived without ceremony.
No escort.
No advance notice.
Just a staff car that rolled to a stop beneath the floodlights of Yokohama Base, engines ticking as the night air cooled the metal.
Two gate guards stepped forward immediately, hands resting near their sidearms.
"Hold," one said. "Credentials."
Shinn nodded and reached into his coat, producing a slim folder—clean, official, stamped with UN authorization codes that looked ordinary enough to pass casual inspection.
The guard opened it.
His brow furrowed.
He checked the name again.
Then the rank.
Then the clearance watermark hidden in the margin.
"…Lieutenant Commander Watford," the guard said slowly.
"Yes," Shinn replied evenly.
The second guard leaned in, whispering something under his breath. The first guard closed the folder and handed it back—politely, but with a new stiffness.
"Sir," he said, "please follow me."
Shinn didn't ask questions.
He followed.
Yokohama Base – Administrative Wing, Waiting Room
The room was quiet. Neutral. Deliberately unremarkable.
A pot of untouched coffee sat on a side table. A wall monitor scrolled routine base notices. No windows.
The guard gestured to a chair. "Please wait here, sir."
Shinn sat, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely on his knees.
The door closed with a soft click.
He exhaled once.
So this is how it starts, he thought.
Not alarms.
Not suspicion.
Paperwork.
Yokohama Base – TSF Hangar A
Same Time
Hydraulics hissed as a TSF's armor plate locked into place.
"Listen up," Misaki Takamura said, her voice carrying easily over the ambient noise.
She stood at the center of Hangar A, helmet under one arm, flight jacket marked with the insignia of Captain. The rank suited her—authority came naturally now.
Around her stood her subordinates.
Asagi.
Akane.
Nomura.
All eyes on her.
"We're rotating into rapid-response readiness," Misaki continued. "No solo heroics. No deviations. Yokohama doesn't forgive mistakes."
"Yes, ma'am," they replied in unison.
Akane grinned slightly. "Relax, Captain. We've got this."
Misaki nodded—but her gaze drifted briefly across the hangar, to the distant launch rails and the dark sky beyond.
Something felt… off.
She dismissed it and turned back to her unit.
"Gear check in thirty. Then we brief."
None of them noticed the quiet activity unfolding on the administrative side of the base.
None of them knew that a name from their past had just passed through the gates.
Administrative Wing – Waiting Room
Minutes passed.
Shinn remained still, eyes half-lidded, senses attuned to footsteps beyond the door, to distant vibrations from TSF engines cycling up.
He felt it.
Yokohama Base was a pressure cooker.
Sooner or later, paths would cross.
The door finally opened.
A different officer stepped in this time—older, sharper, eyes measuring Shinn not with suspicion, but curiosity.
"Lieutenant Commander Watford," the officer said.
"Welcome to Yokohama Base."
Shinn stood.
"…Thank you, sir."
Outside, engines roared as TSFs launched into the night.
Inside the hangars, Captain Misaki Takamura prepared her unit for the next sortie—unaware that the past she thought was buried had already arrived.
And it was waiting.
Yokohama Base – Command & Research Wing
Mid-September, 2001
The door slid open with a muted hiss.
Shinn Watford stepped into the room and came to a precise halt, heels aligned, posture immaculate—an officer's stance refined by discipline rather than parade drills.
At the far side stood two figures who carried weight in very different ways.
Behind the desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was Paul Radhabinod.
Beside a console stacked with holographic readouts, lab coat half-open and eyes sharp with unmistakable predatory intelligence, stood Yuuji Kouzuki—better known as Professor Kouzuki Yuuko.
The room felt tighter with them in it.
"Lieutenant Commander Shinn Watford," Shinn said evenly. "Reporting as ordered."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Paul Radhabinod studied him openly—from the cut of his uniform to the way his weight rested ever so slightly forward, like a man always prepared to move. A battlefield commander's gaze, measuring threat and utility at the same time.
Yuuko, on the other hand, circled half a step, eyes flicking with surgical precision.
Heart rate steady.
Posture relaxed under scrutiny.
No hesitation.
"…Oh?" Yuuko murmured. "You're younger than I expected."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "You were briefed?"
"Partially," Yuuko replied, lips curling faintly. "And I dislike partial data."
Shinn met her gaze without flinching.
Paul finally spoke. "You arrived without prior notice."
"Yes, sir," Shinn answered. "Orders were time-sensitive."
Yuuko leaned closer, peering up at him, then down again—as if expecting to see something hidden beneath the uniform.
"…Interesting," she said softly.
Paul exhaled once. "Lieutenant Commander, Yokohama Base is not a place for mysteries. We deal in clarity here."
Shinn nodded. "Understood."
Yuuko straightened and tapped a few commands into her console. Data flickered briefly—then vanished behind layers of clearance Shinn couldn't see.
She smiled.
"That said," Yuuko continued, "I hate boring officers even more than mysteries."
Her eyes locked onto Shinn's.
"So tell me—are you just another UN transfer… or are you about to make my week interesting?"
The air seemed to hum.
Somewhere else on base, Captain Misaki Takamura prepared her unit, unaware that only a few buildings away, the man whose absence once defined her past now stood before the very people who decided Yokohama's future.
And both Paul Radhabinod and Yuuko Kouzuki had reached the same silent conclusion:
Shinn Watford was not ordinary.
Yokohama Base – Research Wing, Briefing Room
Mid-September, 2001
Professor Kouzuki Yuuko didn't sit.
She circled.
Slowly.
Like a predator examining unfamiliar prey.
"Lieutenant Commander Shinn Watford," Yuuko said lightly, tapping her tablet once. "Let's skip the polite lies and get to the interesting part."
The screen projected into the air between them.
PERSONNEL FILE – CONFIDENTIAL
Name: Shinn Watford
Age: 18
Date of Birth: July 1st
Nationality: Empire of Japan / Kingdom of Sweden
Occupation: UN Officer, European Union Command
(Formerly stationed at Berlin Base)
Rank: Lieutenant Commander
Medical Note:
Suffering from amnesia due to a past accident (Stable)
Yuuko tilted her head, studying Shinn over the glowing text.
"Eighteen," she mused. "Lieutenant Commander. European posting. And amnesia."
She smiled.
"I do enjoy fiction."
Inside Shinn's head, a single thought surfaced immediately.
…Ian, you bastard.
Amnesia.
Of all things.
He kept his expression neutral.
Paul Paul Radhabinod leaned back slightly, arms crossed.
"Amnesia?" he repeated, brows knitting. "That wasn't in the executive summary."
Yuuko waved a hand dismissively. "Because it's convenient."
Her eyes snapped back to Shinn.
"So," she said brightly, "tell me—what kind of amnesia?"
Shinn met her gaze calmly.
"Retrograde," he answered without missing a beat. "Gaps before a certain point. Stress triggers occasionally cause migraines, but no functional impairment."
Yuuko's smile widened.
"Mm-hmm. And you just happened to retain combat proficiency, multilingual fluency, and officer-level decision-making?"
Paul frowned faintly.
"That is… unusual."
Shinn could feel it now.
Yuuko wasn't suspicious.
She was interested.
And that was worse.
"I'm a fast learner," Shinn said evenly.
Yuuko laughed.
"Oh, darling," she replied, stepping closer, "so are monkeys."
The air grew tense.
Paul glanced between them, clearly sensing something off—but he didn't push further. UN orders were UN orders, and Shinn's papers were airtight.
Still…
Yuuko's eyes gleamed.
"You're hiding something," she said softly. "Your heart rate didn't spike once during this conversation. Not even when I read your file."
Shinn knew better than to challenge her directly.
Kouzuki Yuuko didn't lose battles of intellect.
So he changed the battlefield.
He smiled.
Just slightly.
"Professor," Shinn said, tone light, almost teasing, "if I were hiding something from you, do you really think I'd be standing here?"
Yuuko paused.
Paul blinked.
Shinn continued, shrugging casually.
"I heard Yokohama Base runs on secrets layered over secrets. If you dissected every officer with a strange file, you'd never sleep."
He leaned in just a fraction—respectful, but confident.
"And honestly?" he added. "If I did have something abnormal going on, wouldn't the UN have sent me somewhere quieter than your lab?"
Silence.
Then—
Yuuko laughed.
A sharp, delighted sound.
"Oh, I like you," she said, pointing at him. "You're either very clever… or very stupid."
Paul exhaled slowly. "Professor—"
She waved him off.
"Relax, Commander. I won't vivisect him. Today."
Her gaze returned to Shinn, sharp as ever.
"But understand this, Lieutenant Commander Watford."
She leaned close enough that only he could hear.
"People who interest me always end up on my table eventually."
Shinn met her eyes, unflinching.
"…I'll try not to disappoint."
Yuuko straightened, grin lingering.
"Good," she said. "Because I already think you're lying."
She turned back to her tablet, dismissing him for now.
Paul cleared his throat.
"You're dismissed, Lieutenant Commander. Report to administrative assignment. Further orders will follow."
Shinn saluted crisply. "Yes, sir."
As he turned to leave, he felt Yuuko's gaze burn into his back.
The cover held—for now.
But he knew it as surely as he knew the feel of a control grip:
Kouzuki Yuuko had marked him.
And when she started digging—
No amnesia in the world would save him.
Yokohama Base – Administrative Corridor
Moments Later
The door slid shut behind Shinn with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Only then did he allow himself a slow breath.
Marked, he thought.
Definitely marked.
Kouzuki Yuuko wasn't fooled—he'd known that from the moment she smiled. The amnesia cover would buy time, nothing more. Time was all the Black Program ever needed.
He adjusted his uniform and started down the corridor, boots echoing faintly against polished steel floors. Personnel passed him without a second glance—engineers, pilots, aides—all moving with the practiced urgency of a base that lived under constant threat.
To them, he was just another UN officer.
That was the point.
Assignment Desk – Administrative Wing
A clerk glanced up as Shinn approached.
"Lieutenant Commander Watford?"
"Yes."
She scanned his file, eyebrows lifting for half a second before she masked it.
"You'll be temporarily attached to Tactical Evaluation and Readiness," she said. "Hangar-adjacent quarters. You're not assigned a TSF yet—pending review."
Shinn nodded. "Understood."
She hesitated, then added, "Captain Takamura's unit operates out of the adjacent hangar. You'll be sharing briefing facilities."
The name landed heavier than expected.
"…Copy," Shinn replied evenly.
He took the access card and turned away before his expression could betray anything.
TSF Hangar – Catwalk Level
Same Time
Below the catwalk, Misaki stood with her unit as technicians finished diagnostics on their machines.
"All right," she said, voice firm. "We're on standby rotation for the next forty-eight hours. Stay sharp."
"Yes, Captain," Asagi, Akane, and Nomura answered.
As the group began to disperse, Misaki looked up instinctively—she didn't know why.
For a brief moment, she thought she saw someone on the upper level.
A UN officer.
Tall.
Still.
Watching the hangar like he was memorizing it.
Their eyes almost met.
Then he turned and walked on.
Misaki frowned.
"…Did you see that?" she asked.
Akane glanced up. "See what?"
"…Never mind," Misaki said, shaking her head.
But the unease lingered.
Quarters – Night
Shinn sat alone on the edge of his bunk, access card resting between his fingers.
Yokohama Base hummed around him—distant engine tests, alarms cycling, the muted rhythm of a city preparing for war.
Back in Panama, he'd been a shadow.
Here, he was standing under lights again.
Take it slow, Ian had said.
Make friends.
Shinn closed his eyes briefly.
Outside his door, lives moved on—some familiar, some dangerously close to his past.
And somewhere in this base, a Captain who once helped cast him out was commanding pilots who might one day fight beside him… or against him.
Yokohama hadn't exploded.
Not yet.
But Shinn Watford knew better than anyone:
The quiet moments were always the most dangerous.
Yokohama Base – Pilot Quarters / Hangar Office
Evening, Mid-September 2001
Misaki Takamura's communicator vibrated softly against the desk.
She glanced down at the caller ID and paused.
Saito Miyagi
She exhaled, then accepted the call.
"Misaki," Saito's voice came through, relaxed and familiar. "You done for the day?"
"Just wrapped up standby checks," she replied, her tone easing despite herself. "You?"
"Still stuck at Nerima Base," he said. "Command decided we're not rotating for another week. Guess our date's postponed again."
Misaki smiled faintly. "You owe me dinner. Again."
He laughed. "I know, I know. I'll make it up to you. How's Yokohama treating you, Captain?"
"…Busy," she answered after a moment. "Different from camp. Real."
"That's Yokohama," Saito said. "Means you've made it. I'm proud of you."
The words warmed her more than she expected.
"I'll call you later," she said. "Stay safe."
"You too," Saito replied. "Don't let your subordinates give you trouble."
The call ended.
Misaki lowered the communicator—only to realize she wasn't alone.
Asagi was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a grin that was far too knowing.
"Well, well," Asagi said. "That smile means Saito, doesn't it?"
Misaki stiffened slightly. "You were listening?"
"Not listening," Asagi corrected. "Observing. Very different."
Akane glanced over from a locker. "So it is true. Captain's officially taken."
Misaki felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Focus on your assignments."
Asagi laughed. "Relax. We're happy for you."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to tease.
"Funny though," Asagi continued. "Back at camp, Saito was the loudest one saying some people didn't belong. Now look at him—dating the Empire's golden ace."
Misaki's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second.
"That's not fair," she said quietly.
Asagi shrugged. "Maybe. Just saying how it looked."
There was an awkward beat.
Akane tried to lighten the mood. "Hey, at least now you've got someone watching your back."
Misaki nodded, but her gaze drifted toward the hangar windows—the same direction she'd looked earlier when she thought she saw that UN officer on the catwalk.
For reasons she didn't understand, the warmth from Saito's call faded faster than it should have.
"…Yeah," she said softly. "Someone."
Asagi tilted her head, studying Misaki's expression.
"You okay, Captain?"
Misaki straightened, professionalism snapping back into place.
"I'm fine," she said firmly. "Get ready. We're on early rotation tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Asagi replied with a mock salute.
As the others dispersed, Misaki remained still for a moment longer, fingers tightening around her communicator.
Somewhere between Yokohama and Nerima, between past choices and present certainty, an unease lingered—quiet, persistent.
She didn't know why.
But the feeling refused to go away.
Yokohama Base – Night Cycle
Later That Evening
The hangar lights dimmed to their night setting, bathing steel and armor in cool blue tones. Maintenance crews thinned out, leaving only skeleton teams and the distant hum of power systems cycling down.
Misaki stood alone on the observation deck, hands resting on the railing.
Below her, TSFs slept in their cradles—silent giants waiting for the next alarm.
She replayed the call in her head.
I'm proud of you.
Saito's voice had been sincere. Steady. Safe.
So why did it feel… hollow?
Footsteps approached behind her.
Asagi again.
"You're thinking too hard," Asagi said casually, leaning beside her. "That's what command responsibility does to people."
Misaki didn't look away from the hangar. "Do you ever think about camp?"
Asagi blinked. "Out of nowhere much?"
"…Answer the question."
Asagi sighed. "Sometimes. Mostly when I'm tired."
A pause.
"…Why?"
Misaki hesitated.
Images surfaced unbidden—
A boy walking away through falling snow.
A closed gate.
Laughter she hadn't stopped.
"Nothing," she said at last. "Just… adjusting."
Asagi studied her more carefully this time. "You know, if you're worried about that UN officer you saw earlier—"
Misaki stiffened. "You noticed?"
"Hard not to," Asagi said. "Tall guy. Quiet. Gave off a weird vibe."
Misaki's fingers tightened on the railing.
"Did you recognize him?" she asked.
Asagi shook her head. "Nope. But Yokohama gets all kinds."
She smirked faintly. "Relax. Past is past."
Past is past.
Misaki wanted to believe that.
Administrative Wing – Same Time
Shinn lay back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.
The base schedule scrolled on a wall display—drills, simulations, standby rotations. Names flickered by.
And then—
CAPT. TAKAMURA, M.
His eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
So she really was here.
Captain now.
He closed his eyes.
No anger.
No resentment.
Just distance.
Cover, he reminded himself. Normal life.
Ian's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
You need friends. Real friends.
Shinn exhaled.
Friends meant exposure.
Exposure meant risk.
But hiding forever wasn't living.
Somewhere in the base, Misaki stared down at silent machines, uneasy for reasons she couldn't name.
Somewhere else, Shinn Watford lay awake, fully aware that Yokohama Base had just become the most dangerous place he'd ever been.
Not because of the BETA.
But because of the past—
and how close it was to colliding with the present.