The silence after the Aldebaran War clung to Shōma Nagisawa. He sat motionless on the edge of a crumbling overpass, one boot hanging off the ledge, the other planted firmly in dust. Below him, the wind stirred ash through the hollow remains of a once-bustling transit line. He watched it without blinking, without speaking, eyes fixed on the slow drift of debris.
The low hum beneath his skin never faded.He flexed a gloved hand, listening to the faint whir that accompanied the movement.
Unflinched by a splintering beam, Shōma merely tilted his head, tracking the fall with detached precision before returning his gaze to the horizon
Beside him lay a battered comm device. He hadn't turned it on in days. The world might still be burning, but he hadn't answered a call since he buried what was left of Midori's rifle.
The battlefield had been a maelstrom of shattered earth and echoing screams, a brutal symphony that resonated deep within the man he once was. Through the choking haze of smoke and the stench of ozone, the monstrous silhouette of Aldebaran had squatted against the bruised twilight, a symbol of the endless, brutal Third Kanto War that had become a grim etching on his soul.
Beside him, Midori Fuse, her worn witch's hat askew, adjusted the brim with a familiar gesture. The subtle twitch of her cat-like ears betrayed her heightened senses, picking up the distant tremors that vibrated through the ravaged ground. Model Cat Initiator. The title spoke of unmatched agility and perception, yet the playful sway of her tail couldn't entirely dispel the quiet sorrow that often veiled her emerald eyes – a reflection of too much seen, too much endured in a world unraveling at the seams.
"Shōma," her voice, usually a bright melody laced with teasing, was a soft thread against the cacophony, yet it held a core of unwavering steel. "We'll see this through... together."
A rare, hesitant smile touched the corners of Shōma's lips. "Together." A fragile promise whispered into the heart of chaos.
But fate, it seemed, delighted in cruelty.
The chaotic retreat during the Third Kanto War was a blur of panicked cries and the relentless, grotesque advance of the Gastrea. In that maelstrom, Midori moved with a desperate, selfless grace, throwing herself in front of an unknown Initiator, a fleeting shield against overwhelming horror. The sickeningly sweet sting of the virus was swift, the tell-tale purple veins blooming like poisonous flowers beneath her skin.
A flicker of something akin to despair, not for herself but for him, crossed her face. Shōma saw it – the agonizing understanding of the burden she feared she would become. Without a word, she slipped away into the skeletal remains of the ravaged forest, the oppressive silence swallowing her whole. He found her too late, the light already gone from her eyes, a small, self-inflicted wound a stark testament to her unbearable choice.
Her death wasn't a heroic sacrifice in the heat of battle, but a quiet, devastating surrender in the cold grip of despair.
The silence Midori left behind was a crushing weight, a tangible presence that suffocated the man Shōma used to be more effectively than any Gastrea. She hadn't just been his Initiator; she had been the quiet anchor in his storm-tossed existence, the one constant in a world consumed by war. Her absence was a gaping wound, a raw, aching reminder of his failure. If only I had been faster. If only I had seen it coming. The questions echoed endlessly in the hollow chambers of his grief.
Days bled into weeks, marked only by the gnawing emptiness. Shōma became a ghost haunting the periphery of the conflict, the weight of his guilt a physical burden that stooped his shoulders. The vibrant hues of the world had faded, leaving only shades of gray and the bitter taste of loss clinging to his tongue.
Yet, even in the suffocating darkness, the echo of Midori's final act – a twisted echo of her selflessness – resonated. It wasn't a command to live for her, but the stark, brutal reality of her choice, a chilling reminder of the stakes. A flicker of something akin to resolve, born not of hope but of a grim understanding, began to stir within him.
It was during this self-imposed exile, amidst the dust and shadows of a ruined city, that the familiar figure of Rentarō Satomi materialized. Years had passed since their shared, rigorous training at the Tendo dojo, a lifetime ago in the brutal calculus of war. Shōma had walked away then, seeking a different path, but the shared discipline, the unspoken bond forged in sweat and mutual respect, hadn't entirely broken.
Rentarō approached with a quiet understanding in his gaze, acknowledging the unspoken weight Shōma carried. He spoke of his own battles, his own burdens, and then extended a calloused hand, an unspoken invitation to stand together once more. Shōma hesitated, the raw ache of loss still a fresh wound. But in Rentarō's steady, unwavering eyes, he saw not pity, but a shared grim determination.
"I can't do this alone, Shōma," Rentarō's voice was low, earnest. "But maybe... together, we can still carve out a future from this wreckage."
Shōma agreed, not out of obligation or a sudden surge of hope, but out of a weary recognition of the necessity of fighting, and a nascent belief in Rentarō's quiet strength.