Next Day – Yokohama Base
Morning routines resumed as if nothing had changed.
But for those who had known Shinn Watford, everything had.
Hangar Office – Pre-Brief
Misaki Takamura stood with Asagi, Akane, Nomura, and Saito Miyagi, the conversation drifting—inevitably—back to one name.
"He's not the same," Saito muttered, arms crossed. "Not even close."
Akane nodded. "The way he looked at us yesterday… like we were furniture."
Asagi tilted her head, thinking. "Or like he genuinely didn't know who you were."
Saito scoffed. "You don't just forget years of—"
"Asagi might be right," Misaki interrupted quietly.
They all looked at her.
"Commander Radhabinod told me himself," Misaki continued. "Shinn has documented amnesia. Stable."
Silence followed.
Nomura frowned. "Convenient."
"Maybe," Misaki said. "But it explains a lot."
Asagi glanced toward the cafeteria through the glass. "Then explain this."
They followed her gaze.
Cafeteria
At a corner table sat Shinn Watford, alone, calmly eating.
What caught Asagi's eye wasn't who he was with.
It was what he was eating.
"…Is that spicy curry?" Asagi asked.
Akane squinted. "That's not just spicy. That's insane."
Nomura's eyes widened slightly. "No one here eats that."
Misaki stared.
A memory surfaced—unwanted, vivid.
Shinn, coughing but grinning, saying it wasn't spicy enough.
Shinn stealing extra chili packets.
Shinn insisting pain meant it was working.
Her fingers tightened.
"…He always liked spicy food," Misaki whispered.
The others looked at her.
That detail—small, human—hit harder than the confrontation.
Yokohama Base – Shinn's Quarters
Later That Day
The room was quiet.
Shinn sat on the edge of his bunk as his wrist display vibrated once—then resolved into an encrypted channel.
IAN LEE:
⚠️ Heads up.
Intel confirms an imminent coup d'état within the Empire of Japan.
Timeline unclear. Stay low. Stay clean.
We'll call when it's time.
Shinn closed the message.
No surprise.
Just confirmation.
He reached into his locker and took out a worn photograph.
A family photo.
Rome, Italy.
Sunlight. Stone steps. Laughter frozen in time.
His mother, smiling warmly.
His father, one arm around her shoulders.
And a younger Shinn—seven years old—squinting at the camera, carefree.
Before everything.
The memories came whether he wanted them or not.
The BETA invasion.
The screams.
The smell.
His parents torn apart—eaten—while he hid, helpless, watching the world end.
Then later—
Boot camp.
Fists.
Bruises blooming across his ribs.
Saito's relentless punches.
Laughter.
Misaki's slap—sharp, final.
Darkness after darkness.
But he remembered.
All of it.
The "amnesia" was a shield.
A lie that kept the past from killing the present.
Shinn brushed his thumb across the photo.
"…I miss you," he whispered.
A tear slipped free.
Then another.
They traced silent paths down his cheeks as he smiled—softly, painfully—at the family that could never come back.
Outside, Yokohama Base hummed with routine and readiness.
Inside a quiet room, a boy who remembered everything mourned in silence—
waiting for the moment the world would need him again.
Yokohama Base – Evening
Late September, 2001
Shinn sat alone at his desk, the room lit only by the soft glow of his terminal.
Folders bloomed across the screen—old, buried, half-forgotten archives. He moved through them with practiced care until one title stopped him cold.
OPERATION HONGQI (紅旗)
He opened it.
1973. Kashgar, Xinjiang.
The first BETA Hive landing unit touches down on Earth.
Shinn read slowly. Once. Then again.
PRC forces mobilizing in secrecy.
UN aid refused.
Early advances—hope, arrogance, momentum.
Then the words that changed everything:
Laser-class BETA.
Air superiority erased in a single appearance.
He leaned back, eyes scanning the lines as the report detailed the retreat, the desperate call to the Soviets, the joint counteroffensive—the first human attempt at Hive capture.
Nine days.
Nine days of blood, attrition, and reality.
Capture abandoned.
Extermination ordered.
Nuclear fire.
And even then—failure.
Scorched earth. Retreat under atomic shadow.
Shinn closed his eyes briefly.
So this is where it truly began, he thought. The moment humanity learned it wasn't the hunter.
He read the final paragraph again, slower this time, committing it to memory.
"…We never beat them," he murmured. "We only survived."
The screen dimmed as he minimized the file.
Outside his window, Yokohama Base hummed on—lights, engines, the distant clatter of maintenance teams.
History repeating itself, quietly.
Yokohama Base – Joint Training Room
Same Time
Laughter broke the tension as chairs scraped back and forth.
Misaki Takamura stood at the center of a loose circle—Yokohama and Nerima pilots mixed together for joint session briefings that had already drifted far from doctrine.
Saito Miyagi leaned casually against a table, arms crossed, that familiar grin returning now that the day's edge had dulled.
"Friendly wager," Saito said, eyes on Misaki. "Tomorrow's sim. If you lose—"
Misaki raised an eyebrow. "—I already know what you're going to say."
Saito shrugged. "You owe me a date."
A few pilots whistled. Someone laughed.
"And if you lose?" Misaki asked coolly.
Saito smirked. "Then I shut up for a month."
Asagi snorted. "Bold gamble."
Misaki considered him for a second—then nodded. "Fine."
Saito's grin widened. "Deal."
But even as the group laughed and the tension eased, Misaki's thoughts drifted—unbidden—back to the cafeteria, to spicy curry no one else would touch, to a quiet UN officer who looked through her like a stranger.
She shook her head slightly.
Focus forward, she reminded herself.
Shinn's Quarters – Night Deepens
Shinn shut down the terminal.
Operation Hongqi lingered in his mind—not as history, but as warning.
He reached once more for the family photo, resting it against the desk lamp. Rome. Sunlight. Smiles.
"Someday," he whispered to the quiet room, "we'll finish what they couldn't."
Outside, Yokohama slept behind walls and steel.
Inside two different rooms, two different paths continued—
one bound by memory,
the other by momentum—
both moving closer to a future that would not care about wagers or dates.
Only survival.
Late September, 2001
Yokohama Base – Pre-Deployment
The order came down just before dawn.
Okinawa.
A forward operation—recon and suppression drills along the island chain, with live-fire authorization if contact escalated. Routine on paper. Rarely routine in practice.
On the flight line, engines warmed as TSFs were brought to readiness. The air smelled of coolant and salt.
At the center of it stood Misaki Takamura, helmet under her arm, calm and composed as she addressed her unit. Asagi, Akane, and Nomura listened closely, the banter of yesterday replaced by professional focus.
Nearby, the visiting Nerima detachment formed up—Saito Miyagi among them, assigned as supervisory liaison for the joint exercise.
From the elevated observation walkway, Kouzuki Yuuko watched with open interest, tablet already pulling live feeds. Her eyes flicked between pilots and telemetry with predatory satisfaction.
"Remember," Yuuko called out, voice carrying, "this isn't a parade. I want clean data. Don't disappoint me."
"Yes, ma'am," came the chorus.
Observation Walkway
A few steps back from the glass, Shinn Watford stood with his hands clasped behind him.
Officially, he was there as an observer. Unofficially, he was reading everything—the spacing, the posture, the micro-hesitations before launch.
Misaki's Type-94 Shiranui rolled into position. For a split second, her visor tilted upward, as if she felt the weight of eyes on her.
Shinn didn't move.
He simply noted the timing.
"Green across the board," a technician announced.
Launch rails locked.
Sortie
One by one, the machines leapt skyward—blue flames against the pale morning. The formation tightened as they climbed, angling south toward Okinawa.
Misaki's voice cut cleanly through the channel. "Maintain formation. We keep it boring."
Saito answered from Nerima's element. "Roger. Supervising."
Yuuko watched the icons slide across her display, smiling. "Beautiful," she murmured. "Now let's see what breaks."
Walkway – After Launch
The last contrail faded into the sky.
Shinn remained where he was.
He thought of Operation Hongqi—of first contact and hard lessons learned too late. He thought of Okinawa's long horizon and the thin margin between drills and disaster.
"Fly safe," he said quietly, to no one in particular.
Behind him, Yokohama Base returned to its steady hum.
Ahead of them, the southern seas waited.
And somewhere between observation and inevitability, Shinn Watford kept watch—
measuring time,
counting options,
ready for the moment when watching would no longer be enough.
Late September, 2001
Okinawa – Coastal Defense Emergency
The alert cut through Yokohama Base like a blade.
BETA CONTACT – OKINAWA COASTLINE.
Okinawa – Forward Coastal Zone
Black shapes churned beneath the surf.
Then the water boiled.
BETA forms clawed their way onto the beach—Tank-class first, their massive silhouettes tearing through sand berms, followed by smaller units fanning outward with terrifying coordination.
Evacuation sirens wailed.
Along the coastal highway, Type 90 MBTs, IFVs, and AFVs formed a moving wall as civilian transports were rushed inland under armored escort. Smoke grenades bloomed, masking retreat routes as engineers detonated pre-set obstacles.
Above the horizon, the sea answered.
The Tsushima-class Gunboat squadrons adjusted course.
Farther back, steel giants loomed:
Mogami
Musashi
Mino
Gun turrets rotated in unison.
"Target solutions confirmed," came the calm naval voice over the net.
"Awaiting fire authorization."
The coastline braced for thunder.
Yokohama Base – War Room
A massive holographic map of Okinawa hovered at the center of the room—red markers blooming along the beaches, blue defensive lines forming and reforming as data updated in real time.
Paul Radhabinod stood at the head of the table, hands braced, eyes locked on the projection.
"Laser-class?" he asked.
A base operator shook her head. "Negative so far. Composition appears mixed ground units only."
Beside him, Kouzuki Yuuko smiled thinly, fingers dancing across her tablet.
"No Lasers," she mused. "Then this is a probe… or bait."
The doors slid open.
Misaki Takamura strode in with her team, flight gear still warm from transit. Saito Miyagi followed, expression set and professional.
"Captain Takamura reporting," Misaki said. "TSF units en route to Okinawa airspace."
Paul nodded once. "You'll reinforce the beachhead after naval softening."
Yuuko glanced at Misaki, then back to the map. "I want clean telemetry. Don't let them close the distance."
At the edge of the room, silent as ever, Shinn Watford observed.
He didn't stare at the red markers.
He watched the spacing.
The angles of approach.
The timing between BETA clusters and tidal patterns.
Where the swarm hesitated—just for a breath—before committing.
"…They're testing reaction time," Shinn said quietly.
The room stilled.
Paul turned. "You're sure?"
Shinn nodded. "They're not pushing deep. They're mapping responses—naval fire, evacuation speed, TSF arrival windows."
Yuuko's eyes gleamed. "Oh my. He's right."
She overlaid Shinn's projected vectors on the holo map.
The match was unsettlingly precise.
"So," Paul said, exhaling slowly, "they want to see how we bleed."
Shinn's gaze hardened. "Then don't let them learn."
Outside the war room, orders rippled outward.
Naval guns elevated.
TSFs accelerated.
Okinawa's beaches became a line humanity could not afford to lose.
And as the first bombardment countdown began, every eye—whether on the coast or in the war room—turned to the same truth:
This was no drill.
And Shinn Watford was watching a battlefield that felt…
dangerously familiar.
Okinawa Coast – Battle Commences
Late September, 2001
The countdown reached zero.
Out at sea, the first thunderclap rolled across the horizon.
The Tsushima-class Gunboat squadron fired in sequence, shells arcing low and fast before slamming into the surf line. Water and sand detonated upward, tearing through the foremost Tank-class BETA ranks.
A heartbeat later, heavier guns spoke.
The Mogami loosed a disciplined broadside, followed by the deep, chest-crushing roar of the Musashi and Mino. The shoreline vanished behind walls of fire and pressure, shockwaves rolling inland.
"Naval fire effective," an operator reported from the war room. "Enemy forward elements collapsing."
"Maintain cadence," Paul Radhabinod ordered. "Don't let them reform."
Yokohama Base – War Room (Live Feed)
The holo map updated in rapid pulses. Red markers flickered, thinned—then began to shift.
"They're fanning out," Misaki said, eyes narrowed. "Trying to bypass the kill zone."
Shinn leaned in, tracing a faint arc with two fingers. "They'll push here next—between bombardment cycles."
Yuuko overlaid his prediction. The map chimed as the swarm bent—exactly as he'd said.
"…I hate being impressed," Yuuko muttered, delighted.
"Captain Takamura," Paul said, already moving. "Intercept vector Gamma. Saito, cover her left."
"Roger," Misaki replied. "Moving."
Okinawa Airspace – TSF Arrival
Contrails stitched the sky as Type-94 Shiranui units dropped through the smoke. Misaki's machine led, engines flaring as she plunged toward the breaking point.
"Blue Team in," she called. "Engaging."
Suppressive fire stitched across the sand. Grappler-class BETA lunged and fell; Tank-class armor cracked under coordinated strikes. Saito's element slid into position, sealing the flank.
"Hold the line," Misaki ordered. "Don't chase."
The beach stabilized—briefly.
War Room – The Read
"They're probing for response lag," Shinn said, voice steady. "Watch the rear markers."
The holo map pulsed again. New red contacts shimmered—secondary emergence, just offshore.
Paul's jaw tightened. "They're learning."
"Then teach them faster," Yuuko said. "Authorize counter-push."
Paul nodded. "Do it."
Okinawa Coast – Counter-Push
Naval fire shifted inland, carving corridors. TSFs surged forward into the gaps, not overextending—disciplined, exactly as Shinn had urged.
The BETA advance faltered.
"Enemy momentum broken," came the report. "Repeat—broken."
War Room – A Quiet Beat
As the map cooled from red to amber, Misaki exhaled, steadying her tone. "Beach secure. For now."
Paul allowed himself a single nod.
Yuuko glanced sideways at Shinn. "You didn't call for glory. You called for restraint."
Shinn's eyes stayed on the map. "They wanted data. We denied it."
Outside, Okinawa's guns fell silent—temporarily.
Inside the war room, everyone understood the same thing:
This fight wasn't over.
But for tonight, the line held—because someone had read the battle before it was fought.
Okinawa Coast – Nightfall
The sky darkened, and with it came the uneasy quiet that followed heavy fire.
On the coast, flames guttered where shells had churned the beach into glassy slag. Engineers pushed forward under cover, sealing breaches and laying fresh obstacles. Type 90 tanks idled hull-down, turrets steady, while IFVs swept the dunes for stragglers.
In the war room, the holo-map cooled from red to amber—contained, not cleared.
"Surface contacts dropping," an operator reported. "No Laser-class signatures. Offshore movement minimal."
A pause.
"Too minimal," someone added.
Paul Radhabinod didn't look away from the map. "They don't withdraw like this unless they've learned enough."
Kouzuki Yuuko smiled thinly. "Or unless they want us to think they have."
She flicked a command, splitting the display into layers—tide tables, shell cadence, TSF arrival windows.
"Lieutenant Commander," she said without looking at him, "what's your read?"
Shinn's eyes traced the faint blue currents offshore. "They'll test again before dawn. Smaller thrusts. Different angles. They want to see if our restraint holds when we're tired."
Paul nodded. "Recommendations?"
"Don't chase," Shinn said. "Rotate crews. Keep naval fire irregular. Make our response unpredictable."
Yuuko's eyes glittered. "Adaptive denial. I like it."
Okinawa Airspace – TSF Holding Pattern
Misaki's Type-94 Shiranui hovered at altitude, engines whispering. Sweat cooled under her suit as she listened to the channel—reports steady, controlled.
"Blue Team, maintain altitude," she ordered. "No pursuit."
Saito's voice came back, measured. "Copy. Holding."
She glanced down at the dark shoreline and felt a chill—not fear, but recognition. This wasn't a push for land.
It was a question.
War Room – The Test
Yuuko stepped closer to Shinn, lowering her voice. "You're calling patience against an enemy that feeds on momentum. Why?"
Shinn answered without hesitation. "Because momentum cuts both ways. If we give them noise instead of patterns, they leave with less than they came for."
Paul watched them both. "And if they surge anyway?"
Shinn met his gaze. "Then we answer—hard. But only then."
Yuuko laughed softly. "You'd make a dreadful showman."
"I'm not here to perform," Shinn replied.
For a beat, Yuuko studied him—then nodded. "Very well. Let's do it your way."
Pre-Dawn – Contact
The first ripples appeared offshore—small, scattered.
"Secondary contacts!" the operator called. "Light units probing—multiple points."
Paul raised a hand. "Hold."
Naval guns stayed silent. TSFs held. Shore units waited.
The probes crept closer… then stalled.
Moments later, they turned back.
A low murmur swept the room.
"They're disengaging," the operator said. "No commitment."
Paul exhaled. "Good."
Yuuko tapped her tablet, satisfied. "They asked a question. They didn't like the answer."
Aftermath – Quiet Victories
As dawn thinned the night, Okinawa's coast remained intact.
Misaki guided her Shiranui home, exhaustion settling in—but also something else: clarity. The battle had been won without chasing ghosts.
Back in the war room, Paul finally turned to Shinn. "Your approach saved lives."
Shinn nodded once. "It denied data."
Yuuko's smile returned—sharp, pleased. "You're going to be very useful here."
Shinn said nothing.
Outside, the sea receded, keeping its secrets—for now.
And in the pale light of morning, everyone present understood the same truth:
This war would be won not just by firepower—but by those who could read the silence between attacks.
Four Weeks Later
Yokohama Base
The base felt… lighter.
For one evening, alarms were quiet and duty rosters loosened. With Paul Radhabinod's approval, former camp members and active pilots gathered inside a repurposed hangar—tables set between inactive frames, music low, laughter real.
Misaki Takamura moved among them as both captain and classmate—greeting faces from another life. Asagi teased, Akane laughed too loud, Nomura stayed near the edges, watchful as ever.
Stories were exchanged. Old rivalries softened. Some names went unspoken.
Misaki smiled when required—but her eyes kept drifting, unconsciously, toward the hangar doors.
He won't be here, she told herself.
And yet, the thought lingered.
Hangar Row C – Restricted Bay
Same Evening
Far from the celebration, another hangar breathed in the dark.
Shinn Watford walked alone in his UN fortified suit, boots echoing softly as he approached the familiar silhouette.
The MiG-21 Balalaika waited where it always had—silent, dignified, patient.
He paused.
"This'll just be a systems check," Shinn murmured, almost apologetic. "Nothing fancy."
He reached for the ladder—
"About time."
Shinn froze.
Then turned.
Leaning against a tool cart, thermos in hand, was Saburo Tenma—eyes bright, smile knowing.
"You…" Shinn started. "I thought you were off duty."
Saburō chuckled. "I am. Doesn't mean I miss moments like this."
He nodded toward the Balalaika. "She's been waiting."
Shinn studied the old man. "…You knew I'd come."
Saburō shrugged. "Machines like that don't call to just anyone."
A quiet beat.
"You planning to fly her?" Saburō asked.
"Test flight," Shinn replied. "Low altitude. Short duration."
Saburō smiled, softer now. "My wife always said the Balalaika hated being idle."
He stepped closer, resting a hand on the TSF's armor—familiar, reverent.
"If you're going to take her up," Saburō continued, "do me one favor."
Shinn met his gaze. "Name it."
"Bring her back," Saburō said simply. "She's lost enough."
Shinn nodded. "I will."
The ladder creaked as he climbed. The cockpit lights flickered to life—old interfaces humming awake like a remembered song.
As the canopy began to close, Shinn glanced down once more.
Saburō raised his thermos in a quiet salute.
"Fly safe," the old man said.
Across the base, laughter rose under warm lights.
In a quiet hangar, an old machine prepared to breathe again.
Two paths—one of reunion, one of remembrance—moved forward together.
And somewhere between them, Yokohama Base held its breath..
The celebration filled the hangar with warmth—music echoing between steel ribs, voices rising together in half-remembered camp songs. Faces from boot camp past laughed shoulder to shoulder: those who had trained together, failed together… and even those who had once conspired to push one boy out.
They sang anyway.
Time had softened edges.
Misaki Takamura stood among them, smiling when the chorus swelled, clapping in time. For a moment, it felt almost normal—almost like the war had stepped aside.
She didn't notice the absence.
Runway Control – Same Time
High above the hangars, Paul Radhabinod watched the night through reinforced glass.
A low mechanical hum cut through the music.
He leaned forward.
From Hangar Row C, a familiar silhouette rolled into moonlight—the unmistakable lines of the MiG-21 Balalaika. Old, angular, dignified. Alive again.
Paul's lips tightened—not in anger, but recognition.
"…So," he murmured, "it's you."
He keyed a private channel.
Runway – Secure Line
"Tower," Paul said evenly. "This is Radhabinod."
A pause.
"Runway is clear," he continued. "You're authorized to sortie. Keep it clean. Keep it quiet."
The reply came back calm and steady.
Shinn Watford: "Copy. Short test profile."
Paul allowed himself a faint smile. "Bring her back."
Hangar Row C – Night Air
The Balalaika's engines spooled, a deeper, older note than modern frames—less refined, more honest. Floodlights caught on weathered armor as the TSF taxied forward.
From a distance, Kouzuki Yuuko laughed loudly amid the party, oblivious—too busy enjoying herself to notice telemetry blips she would definitely have opinions about.
Paul watched the machine line up on the runway.
"Clear skies," he said softly, to no one.
Takeoff
The engines roared.
The MiG-21 Balalaika surged forward, lifting cleanly into the night—an old warrior reclaiming the sky. Its contrail cut a pale line above Yokohama, fading quickly into darkness.
Back in the hangar, the song reached its final verse. Applause followed. Glasses clinked.
Misaki glanced up—just once—toward the distant rumble she couldn't quite place.
Paul turned away from the glass, duty reclaiming his posture.
He knew exactly who was flying.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Yokohama Airspace – Night
Minutes After Takeoff
The MiG-21 Balalaika climbed smoothly into the dark, engines singing a lower, older note—less polished than modern frames, but steady and true.
Inside the cockpit, Shinn eased the throttle, letting the machine feel the air again.
She flies… honest, he thought.
No aggressive maneuvers.
No showmanship.
Just clean lines, gentle banking turns over Yokohama Bay. The city lights glittered below like scattered stars.
"Stability nominal," Shinn murmured. "Response lag within acceptable limits."
The Balalaika answered with a subtle vibration—as if pleased to be understood.
Runway Edge – Below
Saburō Tenma stood alone near the floodlights, thermos clasped in both hands, eyes tracking the faint silhouette overhead.
"She always liked nights," he said softly. "Said the sky was quieter."
The machine banked once, graceful.
Saburō smiled—tears threatening, but not falling.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Reunion Hangar – Same Time
The song ended to applause.
Laughter surged back in, louder now.
Misaki Takamura felt it again—that low, distant rumble through the floor. She frowned, eyes drifting upward.
"Anyone else hear that?" she asked.
Asagi shrugged. "Hear what?"
Misaki shook her head. "Never mind."
But her gaze lingered on the ceiling, unease tugging at her chest.
Why does that sound… familiar?
Yokohama Airspace – Test Complete
Shinn leveled out, checking fuel and temps. He rolled the Balalaika into a final, wide arc—one last look at the bay—then keyed the secure channel.
"Tower, this is test bird," he said calmly. "Profile complete. Requesting RTB."
Paul Radhabinod's voice came back immediately.
"Clear to return. Good flying."
"Copy."
As the Balalaika descended, Shinn's thoughts drifted—not to tactics or data—but to the faces in the photo on his desk. To Rome. To sunlight.
He guided the machine home.
Hangar Row C – Landing
The MiG touched down gently, skids kissing the runway with a practiced ease. Engines wound down, the old frame settling into stillness.
Shinn climbed down and removed his helmet.
Saburō was already there.
"Well?" the old man asked.
Shinn met his eyes. "She remembers."
Saburō laughed quietly, relief breaking through. "So do you," he said, not as a question.
Shinn didn't answer—but he didn't deny it either.
Reunion Hangar – Late Night
As the gathering wound down, Misaki stepped outside for air. She looked toward the darkened runway—too late to see anything but cooling lights.
For reasons she couldn't explain, she felt both lighter and more unsettled than before.
Somewhere on the base, an old TSF slept again.
And somewhere between past and present, Shinn Watford stood quietly—having given something back to the sky without asking anything in return.