September 20th, 1945. Two days after the reconnaissance.
Sekitanki woke at 3 AM from a dream that wasn't a dream—a memory of the machine's temporal field reaching for him through the observation glass, quantum particles recognizing their creator across the barrier, calling him home with the same desperate pull he felt toward it.
It knows I'm here. It's waiting.
He found Kaito already awake, sitting outside the barracks beneath stars that looked the same in 1945 as they would in 2024 or 2228. The same constellations, the same moon, the universe utterly indifferent to human suffering across any era.
"Couldn't sleep?" Sekitanki asked.
"Keep thinking about what comes next. The heist. The violence. The people we'll kill to get what we want." Kaito's voice carried the weight of someone who'd crossed a threshold and couldn't go back. "I used to be a medical student. I took an oath—first, do no harm. Now I'm planning to harm everyone who stands between me and my grandmother."
"You think I don't feel it too? I was a physicist. Science is supposed to expand knowledge, make lives better. Not become the justification for violence." Sekitanki sat beside him. "But we stopped being who we were the moment we displaced. The Carboniferous burned away my innocence. Kamakura taught me that honor without survival is just poetic death. And this place—this era—is teaching me the worst lesson yet."
"Which is?" "That love makes you capable of anything. Even becoming a monster."
They sat in silence, two time travelers from different futures, both learning that displacement didn't just move you through time—it transformed what you were willing to become.
"We start recruiting today," Kaito said finally. "Five soldiers willing to die for our escape. You're sure we can find them?"
"In a unit of people who've lost everything? Yes. The question isn't finding volunteers—it's choosing which desperate people we're willing to lead to their deaths."
0800 Hours - Unit 23 Barracks
Sergeant Hayashi sat in his usual corner, methodically cleaning a rifle he'd cleaned a hundred times, the motion mechanical therapy against memories that wouldn't stop surfacing.
"Hayashi-san," Sekitanki approached carefully. "Can we talk?"
The sergeant looked up with eyes that had seen too much and forgotten nothing. "If this is about the mission, I already know. You two are planning something. Have been since you arrived. I've been watching." Shit.
"Then you know—"
"That you're not ordinary soldiers. That your interest in Research Facility Seven wasn't professional curiosity. That you look at that machine the way drowning soldiers look at shore." Hayashi set down the rifle. "Question is: what are you planning? And should I stop you or help you?"
Kaito exchanged glances with Sekitanki. They'd prepared cover stories, deflections, lies that would hold under interrogation. But looking at Hayashi—broken, guilt-ridden, searching desperately for something that mattered—Sekitanki made a decision that was pure instinct.
Sometimes truth is the only thing that works.
"We're going to steal it," he said quietly. "The machine. We're going to break into Research Facility Seven, take it by force, and use it to escape this era."
Hayashi absorbed this without visible reaction. "Escape to where?" "Home. To times we belong to. To families waiting for us." "And you need help. Five volunteers willing to die so two people can go home. People who've kind of given up on trying at life, like me."
"Yes." "And you're telling me this because...?"
"Because lying to you would be an insult. Because you've earned honesty through everything you've survived. And because—" Sekitanki paused, searching for words. "Because I think you're looking for a death that means something. A sacrifice that redeems what you've done. This is that chance. You told me you wanted that, and that basically everybody told you the exact same thing about themselves. Probably even me at this point. So please help me us Hayashi. And for the love of the universe, please don't die on any of us."
Hayashi was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was hollow: "In China, I did things. Orders from command, but I still did them. Villages. Civilians. Things that can't be forgiven or forgotten. I drink to quiet the screams. It doesn't work. They're always there."
"So you want redemption through death?"
"I want my death to mean something beyond just ending the screaming. If I die helping two people escape hell—helping them reach families that love them—maybe that balances the scale a little. Maybe the last thing I do can be beautiful even if everything before was ugly. And I can kind of see the same thing through you... and that friend of yours."
"You understand we're committing treason? Killing guards who are just doing their jobs? Possibly destroying military property, attacking American and Japanese forces—"
"I understand I'm already damned. This just gives my damnation a purpose." Hayashi smiled grimly. "Count me in. And I know four others who feel the same. Unit 23 is full of soldiers looking for meaningful deaths. You're offering them exactly that. And I can see in yours and your friends eyes, that you two. Don't want that. But unfortunately for you two, us depressed soldiers won't allow you to stop us. So count me in. And make this process snappy."
1400 Hours - Abandoned Warehouse District
They met in a gutted factory—Hayashi, Sekitanki, Kaito, and four others:
Private Yamamoto (the medic): "My family died in the firebombing. All of them. I saved dozens of soldiers who'll go home to families I'll never have. This is my family now—you two. And families help each other escape. Even if they die in the process. Even if I'm only kind of a soldier to. I promise you I still consider myself one of you people."
Private Saito (the former thief): "I was going to die in prison before the war offered me this uniform. Been living on borrowed time since. Might as well spend it on something interesting. Plus, stealing time machines sounds more fun than dying drunk in a ditch."
Corporal Ito (explosives expert): "Lost my hearing in the left ear from artillery. Lost my faith in everything from watching what we did to win a war we lost anyway. But I still know how to blow things up. That skill might as well serve someone's happiness before I'm done."
Private Nakamura (communications specialist): "You need someone who can intercept American radio traffic, forge authorization codes, create communications chaos during the heist. I can do that. And I want to know that my technical skills helped someone go home, even if I never do."
Seven people total. Seven desperate souls bound by the understanding that some sacrifices were worth making even when the odds were catastrophic.
Sekitanki spread blueprints across a broken table—facility layouts stolen from Ishida's office, security schedules memorized during their reconnaissance, guard patterns observed and catalogued.
"Research Facility Seven, Section D. The objective is to retrieve a single experimental device, roughly 400 kilograms in total, currently broken down into parts for transport. Security includes a triple-locked access door, at least four guards, full camera surveillance, and joint American–Japanese security personnel."
He traced the route with his finger. "Entry will be through the ventilation system at this point. Saito will disable the camera network. Ito will create a diversion—an explosion in the east wing, distant enough to draw security response without triggering a full facility lockdown. Meanwhile, Nakamura will inject false communications indicating an external attack, further pulling security away from our position."
"Hayashi, Yamamoto, and I will move on Section D, neutralize any remaining guards, and secure the device. Kaito will handle the getaway truck. From the first explosion, we have fifteen minutes before a facility-wide alarm and twenty minutes before full lockdown. We need to be at least ten kilometers away within eighteen minutes—or we're dead."
"What about casualties?" Yamamoto asked. "The guards we'll have to go through?"
"We minimize but don't eliminate. Anyone who doesn't surrender dies. This is survival, not warfare. We can't afford mercy beyond what's tactically sound."
The words tasted like ash. I'm planning murder. Calling it survival. Justifying it with necessity. This is who I've become. Hayashi studied the plans with professional assessment. "American response time?"
"Four to six minutes from alarm to arrival of reinforcements. We'll be gone by then if timing holds." "And if timing doesn't hold?" "Then we fight our way out. I didn't survive the Carboniferous and medieval Japan to die in a research facility. And you guys didn't face an entire world war for nothing either."
Kaito spoke up, his voice precise, like someone who had already run every variable. "Equipment requirements: five Type 100 submachine guns, grenades, cutting torches for the vault door if explosives prove too risky, and a truck capable of carrying at least six hundred kilograms—enough for the machine and all of us."
"Procurement?" Hayashi asked. "Already working on it. Black market contacts Saito established. Most equipment available within a week." "Timeline?"
Sekitanki looked at each face—people who'd agreed to probable death for two strangers' escape. "October 10th. Three weeks from now. Gives us time to prepare, rehearse, gather materials. Also gives me time to ensure the machine can be repaired once we have it."
"And if it can't be repaired?" Ito asked. "If we die stealing something that doesn't work?"
"Then we die for hope instead of despair. That's still better than what most of us are doing now—dying slowly from guilt and alcohol and the weight of surviving when we shouldn't have."
September 28th, 1945 - 0200 Hours
Rehearsal number seven. They moved through the abandoned factory like ghosts practicing death, timing each movement to the second. Ito indicated the placement of the dummy charges. "Explosion here—thirty-second delay. It'll draw security toward the east wing."
Nakamura mimed working a radio. "I'll feed fake traffic—American accents, reports of suspicious activity along the perimeter fence. That should pull the western guards."
Saito demonstrated camera disabling. "Eight cameras, eight kills, forty-second window before backup systems engage."
They'd practiced until every movement was muscle memory. Until they could execute in their sleep. Until the plan was either perfect or as close to perfect as desperate time travelers could make it.
During a water break, Yamamoto approached Sekitanki quietly. "I need to know: when you use the machine, will you remember us? The people who died getting you home?"
"Every day. Every moment. I'll carry you all for the rest of my life." "Good. That's all I want. Not monuments or medals. Just to be remembered by someone who made it home."
The weight keeps growing. Every era, more ghosts. More debts I can't repay. More names I'll carry.
October 8th, 1945 - Two Days Before the Heist
Everything was ready. Equipment cached in a safe house. Truck stolen and hidden. Rehearsals completed. All that remained was the waiting—the worst part of any operation, when imagination supplied every way things could fail.
Sekitanki found Kaito working on the machine's quantum oscillator, trying to rebuild components using 1945 materials and 2228 knowledge—a puzzle that shouldn't be solvable but had to be.
"It's not going to work," Kaito said without looking up. "I've run the calculations fifty times. Even if we get the machine, even if we repair the temporal core and power systems, the quantum oscillator is too damaged. We need components this era can't manufacture."
"Then we improvise. Use substitutes. Accept reduced efficiency." "Reduced efficiency means reduced accuracy. We could aim for 2024 and land in 1824. Aim for 2228 and arrive in 2328."
"Then we try again. Jump until we get close enough."
"With what power source? Each jump requires more energy than this entire city consumes in a week. We get one shot. Maybe two if we're incredibly lucky."
Sekitanki sat beside him, exhaustion and desperation making the words come easier: "I know. I've known since we started planning. The mathematics suggest approximately 60% chance of reaching our intended eras. 30% chance of missing by decades or centuries. 10% chance of catastrophic failure that scatters us across random timelines."
"And you're still doing this? Leading seven people to probable death for a coin-flip chance at going home?"
"Yes. Because 60% is better than zero. Because staying here is guaranteed failure. Because—" His voice broke. "Because I have to try. I promised my mother I'd come home. Promised Yuki I'd remember them. Promised everyone who helped me survive that their sacrifices would matter. I can't keep those promises if I give up now."
Kaito absorbed this. "My grandmother used to tell me a story. About a person who climbed a mountain knowing he'd probably die trying to reach the summit. His friends asked why he'd risk everything for an uncertain reward. He said: 'Because the possibility of success is just more alive than the certainty of giving up.'"
"Wise grandmother."
"She had terminal illness even then. Was dying slowly. Taught me that life isn't about the destination—it's about refusing to accept inevitable endings." Kaito smiled sadly. "I learned from the best."
They worked through the night, rebuilding components that probably wouldn't work, solving problems that might kill them, preparing for a heist that would almost certainly end in death or capture.
But they were trying. Actively refusing to accept defeat. And somehow, that felt like victory in itself.
October 9th, 1945 - 1800 Hours - Final Briefing
Unit 23's "survivors"—the seven who'd volunteered for impossible escape—gathered one last time in the safe house. Tomorrow night, they'd either be dead, captured, or somehow, impossibly, successful.
"Last chance to back out," Sekitanki said. "No shame. No judgment. This is suicide with extra steps." No one moved. Seven faces, seven commitments, seven people who'd chosen meaningful death over meaningless survival.
Hayashi raised his sake cup. "To the two who go home. May they remember us kindly. May they tell stories that make us sound braver than we were. May they live long enough that our deaths feel worth it."
They drank. The sake tasted like goodbye and gasoline and the copper tang of fear. "Tomorrow," Kaito said quietly. "Everything changes." "Tomorrow," Sekitanki agreed.
That night, he couldn't sleep. Instead, he sat writing letters he'd never send—to his mother, explaining everything. To his father, apologizing for wasted years. To Yuki, Takeda, Kanemoto, Enjō—thanking them for teaching him that connection mattered more than genius.
And to the seven people who'd volunteered to die for strangers: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You deserve better than a desperate physicist's salvation. But I promise: if I make it home, I'll make sure history remembers Unit 23's final mission. I'll make sure you're not footnotes in a classified file. You'll be the heroes who gave everything so two impossible people could go home.
Thank you for choosing beautiful deaths when ugly survival was easier.
Thank you for believing my promises were worth dying for. I'll carry you forever. Dawn arrived too quickly. The heist was twelve hours away. Success was improbable. Survival was unlikely. But they were trying anyway.
Because sometimes refusing to accept inevitable endings was the only victory available. And sometimes, that was enough.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "Blood and Circuits"]