October 10th, 1945. 2047 Hours.
The night air tasted of ash and copper—the permanent scent of post-war Tokyo, where fires still smoldered in places no one bothered to extinguish. Sekitanki crouched in the back of the stolen transport truck, checking his Type 100 submachine gun for the third time, his hands moving with mechanical precision while his mind screamed that this was insane, that seven people were about to die for a 60% chance at escape.
No. Not 60%. These odds don't account for reality. For Murphy's Law. For the universe's preference for tragedy over triumph.
Across from him, Kaito sat with perfect stillness—2228-era meditation techniques keeping his heart rate controlled, his breathing measured. But his eyes betrayed everything: terror and determination fighting for dominance.
"Five minutes," Sergeant Hayashi said from the driver's seat, voice carrying the calm of someone who'd already accepted death. "Nakamura reports guard shift change happening on schedule. American and Japanese security rotating. Timing window is optimal."
Optimal. Such a clinical word for the narrow gap between success and catastrophic failure.
Private Saito finished his equipment check—camera jammers, lock picks, wire cutters, all the tools of his former criminal life now repurposed for noble theft. "Still can't believe we're doing this. Stealing from our own military. From the Americans. If we fail—"
"When we fail," Corporal Ito corrected, deadpan despite the explosives strapped to his waist, "make sure you die heroically. Give them a good story for whatever trial they don't give us before the execution."
Nervous laughter rippled through the truck. The kind of laughter that happened when the alternative was screaming. Yamamoto, the medic, spoke quietly: "I've prepared morphine injections. If anyone gets wounded badly enough that extraction becomes impossible—"
"We're not leaving anyone behind," Sekitanki interrupted. "I know. That's why I have them. So wounded don't slow us down from the inside." The implication settled like ice: If you can't walk, you die faster. Mercy becomes murder becomes survival.
This is what we've become. People planning very strange protocols. Soldiers plotting treason. Time travelers destroying people who did nothing except guard something they couldn't understand.
The truck stopped three blocks from Research Facility Seven. Close enough to reach on foot. Far enough that the vehicle wouldn't be immediately connected to what came next.
They exited into darkness—shadows moving through bombed-out neighborhoods where no one looked too closely at armed people anymore. The war had taught civilians that curiosity about soldiers with guns was a quick path to shallow graves.
Sekitanki activated his radio—stolen American equipment, frequencies Nakamura had memorized. "Sound off. Everyone positioned?"
Nakamura took position at the communications station. American radio frequencies were now being spoofed, while Japanese response channels were fully monitored. For the next twenty minutes, every message they received would be filtered through him.
Ito secured his position in the east wing. The charges were set and ready—he waited for the command to detonate. Saito reached the perimeter breach point. The security cameras would be offline in sixty seconds.
The plan was in motion. No stopping now. No going back to being people who didn't kill for personal gain. "Hayashi, Yamamoto, with me," Sekitanki said. "Kaito, engine running, extraction route clear?"
"Clear. Truck's fueled. Route rehearsed. I'll be thirty seconds away when you radio." Kaito's voice was steady but his hand found Sekitanki's shoulder—a moment of contact that said everything words couldn't. Come back. Please come back. I can't do this alone.
"Eighteen minutes," Sekitanki said. "Clock starts when Ito's charges blow."
2057 Hours - Perimeter Fence
Saito worked with the speed of someone who'd spent a criminal lifetime bypassing security. Wire cutters severed the chain-link in precise cuts, creating an entrance that wouldn't be immediately visible to passing guards.
"Cameras down," he whispered. "Eight feeds looping previous footage. Security thinks everything's normal. We have maybe ten minutes before someone notices the timestamps aren't advancing."
They moved through the gap—three soldiers, weapons ready, crossing into territory that would make them enemies of two nations simultaneously if caught.
The facility loomed ahead, concrete brutality lit by harsh perimeter lights. Two guards at the main entrance, visible through the fence. More inside. How many total? They'd counted during reconnaissance but numbers became abstractions when you knew you'd have to kill them.
They're just doing their jobs. Following orders. They don't deserve—stop. You decided. You committed. Guilt is a luxury you can't afford until after you survive.
Sekitanki led them toward the ventilation shaft—their planned ingress point, a weakness Kaito had identified during the reconnaissance mission. The grate was secured but not alarmed. Saito had it open in thirty seconds.
"I go first," Hayashi said. "I'm the soldier. You two are the brains. Brains don't take point."
Before Sekitanki could argue, the sergeant had dropped into darkness. Sekitanki followed, then Yamamoto, descending into metal tunnels that smelled of mildew and recycled air and the particular staleness of spaces humans rarely entered.
They crawled through ventilation ducts barely large enough for their bodies, the tight space triggering memories of the Carboniferous—trapped in collapsed buildings, insects hunting him through narrow passages, survival measured in centimeters.
Then I was alone. Now I have help. That should feel better. Why doesn't it feel better? Because the help was people he was leading to death.
"Section D ventilation access point," Hayashi whispered ahead. "Can see through the grate. Two guards visible. Both armed. Standard patrol pattern—they cross paths every ninety seconds."
"Wait for the explosion," Sekitanki said. "Ito's distraction pulls them away or distracts them enough we have first-move advantage."
They waited in the darkness of the ventilation shaft, breathing quietly, listening to guards below talk about mundane things—where they'd eat after shift, whether they'd get leave to visit family, completely unaware that three soldiers in the ceiling were planning to kill them.
They're humans. Real people with families and dreams and—
His radio crackled softly. Nakamura's voice: "American patrol reporting suspicious movement, east perimeter. Japanese security responding. Attention shifting away from Section D."
Good. The first layer of distraction working. Then, exactly 2100 hours: BOOM.
The explosion wasn't close—Ito had positioned his charges in the east wing, far enough to avoid damaging the machine but close enough to trigger facility-wide panic. The sound rolled through the building like thunder, followed immediately by alarms, shouting, the chaos of people trying to determine if they were under attack.
Below, both guards abandoned their posts, running toward the explosion. "Now!" Hayashi kicked the grate free, dropped into Section D with Sekitanki and Yamamoto following.
The room was exactly as remembered: machine on the central platform, monitoring equipment on the walls, the triple-locked door the only exit. They had minutes—maybe—before guards realized the explosion was distraction rather than genuine attack.
"Door," Sekitanki ordered. Hayashi moved to the entrance, positioning himself to ambush anyone entering. Yamamoto began disconnecting monitoring equipment—if the machine moved, sensors would scream.
Sekitanki approached his creation like a deity reaching a shrine. Three months since he'd touched it. Three months of imprisonment and planning and becoming someone who'd do anything—anything—to go home.
I'm here. Finally here. And I have minutes to disassemble you, extract the critical components, escape before everyone dies.
His hands moved over the temporal core, identifying structural damage. Worse than he'd thought. The housing had cracked further during American examination. The quantum oscillator was barely holding together. The power systems were—"Contact!" Hayashi's shout.
The door burst open. Two American MPs, responding faster than projected, weapons raised—
Hayashi's Type 100 spoke first. Three-round burst, controlled and lethal. The first MP dropped, guts torn open, dying before he hit the floor. The second got his rifle halfway up before Hayashi's second burst caught him in the throat.
Blood sprayed. Bodies fell. The violence was clinical, efficient, over in three seconds. Two people dead. Two people who woke up this morning expecting to go home tonight. Gone. Because we needed them dead.
"Keep working!" Hayashi reloaded, taking position at the door again. "I'll hold!"
Sekitanki forced his hands to move, disconnecting the temporal core from its housing. The machine had been partially disassembled by Japanese scientists—a blessing now, making extraction faster. He pulled components with practiced efficiency, his Carboniferous survival instincts overriding moral paralysis.
Survive first. Feel guilty later. That's always been the rule. More gunfire in the hallway. Hayashi was firing controlled bursts, falling back into the room, covering the entrance against—
Americans burst through. Four of them, coordinated fire team, moving with military precision that made the previous guards look amateur. The firefight was chaos incarnate.
Hayashi took a round to the shoulder, spun but kept firing. Yamamoto pulled his sidearm, covering the left flank. Sekitanki grabbed the Type 100 he'd brought, firing from behind the machine platform.
The Americans had training. Had coordination. Had everything except knowing they were fighting people with nothing left to lose.
One went down to Hayashi's fire. Another caught Yamamoto's pistol shot—wounded, not dead, still dangerous. The third got to cover behind monitoring equipment.
Fourth one targeted Sekitanki.
Time crystallized. Sekitanki saw the American's finger tighten on the trigger, saw the barrel swinging toward him, saw his own death approaching at approximately 750 meters per second—
Yamamoto threw himself into the line of fire.
The bullets that should have killed Sekitanki punched through the medic instead. Three rounds, center mass, lethal placement. Yamamoto dropped without sound, already dead.
No. No no no—
Rage ignited. Not the cold calculation of survival but something primal, something that had been building since the Carboniferous—fury at a universe that kept taking people who helped him, that kept making him watch friends die for his impossible escape.
Sekitanki moved like he'd moved in the Carboniferous—pure violence, no hesitation. His bullets found the third American. The fourth tried to retreat but Hayashi was there, wounded but functional, putting him down with brutal efficiency.
Silence fell. Four Americans dead. Yamamoto dead. Blood pooling on concrete. The smell of blood and death and shattered futures. "No time!" Hayashi gasped, blood soaking his uniform. "Extract the machine! Go!"
"You're hit—" "And I'll slow you down! Take the machine and GO!"
Sekitanki wanted to argue but Hayashi was right. The wounded sergeant couldn't run, couldn't fight. Bringing him meant failure. Leaving him meant—
Means he dies here. Alone. Surrounded by people he killed for strangers. "I'm sorry," Sekitanki whispered.
"Don't be. This is the death I wanted. Better than drinking myself to oblivion in a barracks." Hayashi smiled through pain. "Tell your family you made it home. Make this matter."
Sekitanki pulled the temporal core free—30 kilograms of impossible technology, heavy and awkward. The quantum oscillator came next, held carefully because dropping it meant three eras of work became garbage.
"Kaito, extraction, NOW!" The radio crackled: "Thirty seconds out. Be ready to move fast!"
Sekitanki staggered toward the ventilation shaft, burdened by components and guilt. Behind him, Hayashi took position at the door, weapon raised, ready to buy time with his life.
"Hey," the sergeant called. Sekitanki looked back. "You're a good soldier. Better than most I've killed besides. Don't let this make you into something that can't go home."
Then more American soldiers appeared in the hallway and Hayashi opened fire, screaming something that might have been rage or might have been joy, giving everything for people he'd known three weeks.
Sekitanki climbed into the ventilation shaft as gunfire erupted below. Heard Hayashi's Type 100 fall silent. Heard the sergeant's final scream cut short. Five volunteers became four. Four became three. How many more before we escape? How many deaths is my homecoming worth?
2114 Hours - Facility Exterior
Sekitanki emerged from the ventilation shaft into chaos. The facility was on full alert—guards everywhere, searchlights sweeping, American and Japanese forces coordinating response to what they thought was a coordinated attack.
Saito materialized from shadows. "Ito's down. Charges went off but he got caught in the response. Japanese security got him. He took as many as he could before—" The thief's voice broke. "Before they stopped him."
Six survivors. And we haven't even reached the extraction point. The stolen truck roared up, Kaito at the wheel. "IN! NOW!"
They threw the machine components into the truck bed. Sekitanki jumped in after them. Saito followed. Kaito floored the accelerator before they'd even settled.
Behind them: gunfire, shouts, the sound of pursuit organizing. "Nakamura?" Sekitanki shouted into the radio. Static. Then: "Compromised. Americans found my position. I'll keep broadcasting false orders as long as I can. Get clear. Don't stop. Don't—"
The transmission cut off. A burst of gunfire audible over the radio before silence. Seven became six became five. How many more?
"The workshop!" Kaito was driving as his 2228 reflexes operated the truck, weaving through destroyed streets, using rubble as cover. "We get there, we assemble, we jump before they find us!"
"They'll find us," Saito said. "They'll search every building, every—" A military jeep roared out of a side street. American soldiers, responding faster than projected. They opened fire.
Bullets punched through the truck's thin metal. Saito jumped, hit in the leg. He returned fire from the truck bed, his weapon spitting flames into the night.
Kaito took a corner so hard they nearly tipped. The jeep stayed with them. More gunfire. More bullets finding metal and flesh.
Saito's weapon clicked empty. He was reloading when another burst caught him—guts, neck, terminal shots. The thief who'd wanted his skills to serve someone's happiness died serving exactly that, falling into the truck bed beside the machine he'd helped steal.
Seven became six became five became four. Four people dead. Four families destroyed. Four futures ended for one impossible escape. "WORKSHOP! TWO BLOCKS!" Kaito screamed.
They crashed through the workshop door—literally, truck smashing through the old loading gate. Kaito hit the brakes. They tumbled out, dragging machine components into the space they'd prepared.
Outside: sirens, searchlights, the machinery of two nations' military forces converging on their position. "How long to assemble?" Kaito asked, already working on the quantum oscillator.
"Ten minutes minimum. We don't have ten minutes!" "Then we make time!"
They worked with desperate speed, connecting components by touch and memory. The temporal core locked into place. The quantum oscillator connected—barely, held together by improvisation and prayer. Power systems salvaged from the truck's battery, insufficient but hopefully enough for one jump.
Navigation was impossible. The targeting computer was destroyed. They'd jump blind—aiming for general temporal coordinates, hoping physics and luck favored them.
60% chance becomes 40% becomes 20%. We're going to die here or scatter across random timelines. "Done!" Kaito shouted. "Coordinates set for—2228, Tokyo, best approximation!"
"Wait—" Sekitanki grabbed him. "The machine can only take one person. Remember? The calculations—" "Fuck the calculations! We're both dying here or both taking the chance!"
"Kaito, the math is absolute—" "THEN WE BOTH DIE! I'm not leaving you! Not after everything!" The workshop door exploded inward. American forces—ten of them, weapons ready, flashlights cutting through darkness.
"HANDS UP! DOWN ON THE GROUND!" No time. No options. No choice. Sekitanki grabbed Kaito, pulled him toward the machine. "We jump together. Whatever happens—" "Together."
They hit the activation sequence simultaneously. The temporal field built instantly—unstable, wild, barely contained. The machine screamed, tearing itself apart under loads it wasn't designed to handle.
"CEASE FIRE! SECURE THE DEVICE!" The Americans opened fire. Bullets passed through the temporal field, their trajectories bending, reality warping around the machine's influence.
One round found flesh. Sekitanki gasped, feeling impact in his side. Not deep. Not immediately fatal. But bleeding, painful, another injury layered on three years of accumulated damage.
"HOLD ON!" Kaito screamed.
The field collapsed inward with violence that felt like dying. Reality tore. Space-time fractured. Sekitanki felt his consciousness fragment, scatter, experiencing multiple moments simultaneously—
The Carboniferous. The green and the terror. Kamakura. Yuki's smile. Takeda's honor. WWII. Four friends dying for strangers. Something new approaching. Digital. Clean. Wrong. Then: nothing.
??? - Time Unknown - Location Unknown
Sekitanki woke to whiteness. Pure, antiseptic white.
He was lying on something soft. Medical bed, maybe. His side ached where the bullet had hit. But the wound was... treated? Bandaged? How long had he been unconscious?
"You're awake. Good. The temporal displacement put you into shock. We weren't sure you'd survive the transition."
A persons voice. Professional. Clinical. Sekitanki tried to sit up. Failed. His body was too weak, too damaged. "Where—" His voice came out as a groan. "Where am I?"
"Tokyo. The year is 2228. You made it. Against approximately 97% odds, you successfully displaced yourself forward 283 years." 2228. Kaito's era. We made it.
"Kaito—where's—" "Your companion is being treated in another facility. His injuries were severe but survivable. You'll be reunited once you're both stable."
Relief flooded through him. We both survived. We both made it. The machine worked. We—
"However," the person continued, "there are complications. Temporal displacement is highly illegal in 2228. Has been since the Causality Wars of 2089. You've violated approximately seventeen different laws by using that machine."
"I didn't mean—we were just trying to go home—"
"I understand. But understanding doesn't change legality. You'll be detained, processed, evaluated. Then decisions will be made about your future."
The person stepped into his field of vision. Maybe forty, wearing some kind of uniform he didn't recognize—not military, not civilian, something between.
"My name is Agent Nakamura. Temporal Regulation Agency. And you, Sekitanki Hankō suru hito, are the most interesting case we've had in decades. Welcome to the future. Try not to break any more laws while you're here."
She left. Sekitanki lay there, processing.
I made it. After the Carboniferous, after Kamakura, after WWII. After four friends died helping us escape. I'm here. In 2228. In a future where time travel is illegal and I'm a criminal.
And Kaito is alive.
That has to be enough. That has to mean something. Outside his window, Tokyo 2228 spread out—towers of glass and light, vehicles hovering, a city that looked like science fiction made real.
And somewhere in this impossible future, the machine that had carried him across four eras was gone. Destroyed in the jump. No way to go back. No way to reach 2024.
He was home. Or as close to home as he'd ever get again.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "Digital Kings"]