Yokohama Base – Morning Cycle
Early Morning, Mid-September 2001
The morning shift had just begun.
Personnel flowed through the main corridor—pilots in flight suits, technicians clutching tablets, officers exchanging clipped greetings as the base woke fully from its night cycle.
Misaki Takamura walked at the front of her group, helmet tucked under her arm, posture confident in the way only a newly promoted captain could be.
Asagi, Akane, and Nomura followed close behind.
"Captain," Asagi was saying, "maintenance wants another hour on Unit Two—"
Misaki nodded, then—
thump.
She collided with someone coming around the corner.
"Ah—sorry—" Misaki began instinctively.
The man she bumped into steadied himself, stepping back half a pace.
Tall.
UN uniform.
Lieutenant Commander insignia.
And a face she knew.
Her breath caught.
"…Shinn?" she said without thinking.
The man blinked.
Polite. Blank.
"Yes?" he replied—then tilted his head slightly.
"Excuse me… have we met?"
The corridor seemed to go quiet.
Asagi froze mid-step.
Akane's mouth parted slightly.
Even Nomura stiffened.
Misaki felt the blood drain from her face.
"…What?" she asked faintly.
The officer looked genuinely confused—not acting, not guarded. Just… unaware.
"I'm sorry," he continued calmly. "Do I know you, Captain?"
Misaki searched his eyes desperately.
No recognition.
No flicker of memory.
Nothing.
"You're… Shinn Watford," she said slowly, as if saying it differently might change something.
He frowned apologetically.
"That's my name, yes," he said. "But I don't recall meeting you."
Asagi couldn't help herself. "You're kidding, right?"
Shinn glanced at her, then back to Misaki.
"…Should I?" he asked.
The words hit harder than any accusation ever had.
Misaki's confidence faltered. "You don't remember me? Misaki Takamura?"
He considered it—truly considered it—then shook his head.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't."
Then, with a courteous nod, he stepped to the side.
"If you'll excuse me," Shinn added, already moving past them. "I'm due at administrative."
And just like that—
He walked on.
Bootsteps fading down the corridor.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Misaki stood frozen, heart pounding in her ears.
Why…?
Why didn't he remember?
Asagi finally whispered, "…Captain?"
Misaki didn't answer.
She turned abruptly and flagged down a passing base crew member.
"Excuse me," she said, voice tight. "That UN officer—Lieutenant Commander Watford. Who is he?"
The crewman blinked, surprised at the question.
"Him? Oh—Lieutenant Commander Shinn Watford," he replied.
"Transferred from the UN European Union branch. Berlin Base originally."
Misaki's eyes widened.
"…Lieutenant Commander?"
"Yes, ma'am," the crewman said. "High clearance too. Came in quietly."
He jogged off, leaving the words hanging in the air.
Asagi stared after Shinn's retreating figure. "Since when does someone like him outrank you?"
Misaki didn't hear her.
Her mind was racing.
He didn't remember.
Not an act.
Not hesitation.
Genuine confusion.
Yuuko's words from weeks earlier echoed faintly in her memory.
Amnesia.
Misaki clenched her fists.
The boy she once knew hadn't just changed.
He had lost something.
And for the first time since Yokohama, a sharp, sinking realization took hold:
Whatever Shinn Watford had become—
Whatever had happened to him—
It was far bigger than a grudge.
And somehow…
she was standing on the outside of it.
Yokohama Base – TSF Hangar / Launch Deck
Late Morning
The cockpit sealed with a solid clack.
Inside the Type-94 Shiranui, Misaki Takamura sat motionless as the systems came online. HUD layers bloomed across her visor—altitude, sync rate, weapons status—all green.
She should have been focused.
She wasn't.
Excuse me… have we met?
The words replayed in her mind with merciless clarity.
Her grip tightened on the control sticks.
"Why…" she murmured, barely audible inside the helmet. "Why don't you remember?"
Shinn's expression hadn't been cold.
It hadn't been hostile.
It had been worse.
Empty.
No resentment.
No recognition.
No past.
Amnesia, she thought again, unease coiling in her chest. The file Yuuko had mentioned. The way he'd looked straight through her as if she were just another officer in the corridor.
The Shiranui's systems chimed.
SYNC RATE STABLE
Misaki forced herself to breathe.
Focus. You're a captain now.
But even as the catapult powered up beneath her TSF, one question refused to let go:
What happened to you, Shinn Watford?
Yokohama Base – Administrative Wing, Quiet Corridor
Same Time
Shinn leaned against a bulkhead, communicator held loosely to his ear, eyes half-lidded as he listened.
Then—
He sighed.
"…Yeah. I ran into her."
A pause.
Then loud, unmistakable laughter burst through the line.
"—HAHA—oh man," Bernardo Garcia laughed. "You actually pulled the amnesia card on her?"
Shinn winced slightly. "Keep it down."
Bernardo snorted. "Sorry, sorry—just—damn. That's rich."
Shinn stared down the corridor, voice low. "She asked if we'd met. In front of her unit."
"And you went full 'excuse me, ma'am'?" Bernardo said, barely holding it together.
"…I had to," Shinn replied flatly. "Yuuko's watching. Everyone's watching."
Bernardo exhaled, laughter tapering into amusement. "Still. The look on her face must've been priceless."
"It wasn't," Shinn said quietly.
That sobered him.
"Oh," Bernardo said. "That bad?"
"She looked… lost," Shinn answered after a moment. "Like she was trying to remember something she couldn't reach."
A brief silence followed.
Bernardo cleared his throat. "Hey. You did the right thing. Cover's cover."
"I know," Shinn said. "Doesn't make it easier."
Bernardo chuckled softly. "Welcome back to 'normal life,' Lieutenant Commander."
Shinn almost smiled.
"…Yeah."
"Listen," Bernardo added, tone gentler now. "Just remember—you're not pretending for nothing. You're buying time. For yourself."
Shinn closed his eyes briefly. "I know."
The call ended.
He straightened, pushing off the wall, mask of neutrality sliding back into place.
Yokohama Airspace – Launch
The Type-94 Shiranui roared into the sky, Misaki Takamura executing a flawless ascent—professional, controlled, perfect.
Below, the base shrank into steel and concrete.
Above, clouds swallowed her TSF.
And somewhere else within the same fortress, Shinn Watford walked on under a borrowed truth, carrying a past he wasn't allowed to acknowledge—
while the woman he once knew searched for answers he could never give her.
Not yet.
Yokohama Airspace – Training Zone Alpha
Minutes Later
The Type-94 Shiranui cut clean arcs through the clouds.
Inside the cockpit, Misaki Takamura ran the drill by muscle memory alone—roll, burst, vector change—her hands moving perfectly even as her thoughts refused to settle.
He looked at me like a stranger.
The Shiranui's sensors chimed as she completed the maneuver set.
TRAINING PATTERN COMPLETE
Misaki didn't slow.
She pushed the throttle again, harder than required.
"Captain," Asagi's voice crackled over the squad channel, "you're ahead of the profile."
"I know," Misaki replied curtly. "Adjust your formation."
Asagi hesitated. "Roger."
The truth gnawed at her focus.
Shinn hadn't flinched.
Hadn't looked away.
Hadn't even hesitated.
If he were lying… she would have seen it.
Her breath hitched once before she forced it steady.
Amnesia, she thought again. But how much?
Yokohama Base – Observation Corridor
Same Time
Shinn stood before a reinforced window overlooking the launch lanes, watching contrails braid the sky.
He knew which one was hers.
The Shiranui's movement was unmistakable—precise, aggressive, controlled just enough to be dangerous.
Bernardo's laughter echoed faintly in his memory, already fading.
You did the right thing.
He believed that.
He had to.
Still, a familiar ache settled low in his chest—not pain, not regret, but the weight of unfinished things.
Take it slow, Ian had said.
Make friends.
Shinn exhaled.
Friends meant history.
History meant risk.
And Misaki Takamura was both.
Training Zone Alpha – End of Sortie
Misaki brought the Shiranui back down smoothly, skids kissing the deck with textbook precision. The cockpit opened to the cool air of the hangar, engines winding down.
Asagi jogged over, helmet tucked under her arm.
"You flew like you were chasing something," she said lightly.
Misaki didn't meet her eyes. "Clear the post-flight checks."
Asagi blinked. "…Captain?"
Misaki paused, then added—quietly, more to herself than anyone else:
"Find out everything you can about Lieutenant Commander Shinn Watford."
Asagi's teasing grin vanished. "You sure?"
"Yes," Misaki said, finally looking up. "Discreetly."
Asagi nodded once. "Understood."
Across the base, Shinn turned away from the window as a notification pinged on his wrist display:
ADMIN BRIEFING – 30 MIN
He straightened his uniform.
Cover intact.
Distance maintained.
Yet both of them—pilot and shadow—felt the same pull, the same sense that Yokohama was tightening its grip.
The war had paused.
The past had not.
And sooner rather than later, something here would force the truth into the open—
whether either of them was ready or not.
Yokohama Base – Afternoon
Shinn Watford paused on an exterior walkway as a familiar silhouette cut across the sky.
A Type-94 Shiranui roared overhead, banking cleanly above the base before disappearing into the clouds.
He didn't need the IFF to know who it was.
"…Still flies the same," he murmured, more observation than memory.
He turned away before the thought could grow teeth.
Research Wing – Moments Earlier
Inside her lab, Kouzuki Yuuko frowned at her tablet.
Denied.
Redacted.
Looped access.
Again.
"Well now," she said, tapping her pen against the screen. "That's rude."
Every path she chased through Shinn Watford's file collapsed into sealed corridors—UN authority stacked over independent blacklists stacked over something else. No contradictions. No leaks. Too perfect.
She smiled thinly.
"Someone spent a lot of effort hiding you," Yuuko whispered. "Which means you're worth the trouble."
Motor Pool – Late Afternoon
Shinn found quiet by accident.
An old man sat on a folding crate near the motor pool, polishing a battered thermos with exaggerated care. His uniform was worn, rank long since faded into something unofficial.
"New face," the man said without looking up. "Means trouble or paperwork. Which one?"
"…Paperwork," Shinn answered.
The man chuckled. "Good. Trouble's louder."
He capped the thermos and offered a hand. "Saburō Tenma. Been here since Yokohama had fewer walls."
Shinn shook it. "Shinn Watford."
Tenma studied him—kindly, shrewdly. "Eyes like you've seen too much for your age."
Shinn shrugged. "I get that a lot."
Tenma laughed, a warm sound. "Stick close to old men. We've got stories, and we don't ask questions."
For the first time that day, Shinn smiled—small, genuine.
"…I'll remember that."
Command Corridor – Early Evening
Misaki Takamura didn't waste time.
She stood before Paul Radhabinod, posture formal, voice steady despite the knot in her chest.
"Sir," Misaki Takamura said, "I need clarification regarding Lieutenant Commander Shinn Watford."
Paul regarded her for a long moment, then nodded once.
"He has amnesia," he said plainly. "Documented. Stable."
Misaki stiffened. "So… he truly doesn't remember?"
"That's correct," Paul replied. "Whatever you think you shared with him—he doesn't have it."
Silence.
Paul's tone softened, just a fraction. "Captain, Yokohama doesn't allow the past to steer the present. You have a unit. A mission."
He held her gaze. "Put it aside. Focus forward."
Misaki swallowed and nodded. "Yes, sir."
Dusk – Base Walkway
As the light faded, Shinn walked with Tenma's thermos warming his hands, the day settling around him like a held breath.
Above, contrails thinned.
Below, engines idled.
Yuuko dug.
Misaki searched.
Paul guarded the line.
And Shinn—caught between shadows and sunlight—did what he'd been told to do.
He kept moving forward.
One Week Later
Yokohama Base
Seven days passed without incident.
Which, at Yokohama, meant something was coming.
Shinn Watford settled into the rhythm quickly.
Paper briefings.
Simulation blocks.
Observer status during live scrambles.
To most of the base, he was exactly what his file said: a UN Lieutenant Commander on temporary attachment—quiet, competent, distant. He spoke little, listened more, and never lingered where questions might form.
The only constant was Saburō Tenma.
They shared tea during maintenance lulls, standing near the motor pool as TSFs cycled in and out.
"You know," Tenma said one afternoon, squinting at the sky, "bases like this chew people up if they stare backward."
Shinn nodded. "I've noticed."
Tenma smiled. "Good. Means you'll last."
Across the base, Misaki Takamura threw herself into work.
Training sorties doubled.
Readiness drills sharpened.
Mistakes—hers or her unit's—were corrected immediately.
She followed Paul Radhabinod's advice.
Put it aside. Focus forward.
And yet—
Every time she saw a UN officer's silhouette in the corridor…
Every time a quiet voice answered a briefing question just a second too fast…
Her thoughts drifted back.
He really doesn't remember.
The certainty hurt more than accusation ever had.
Asagi noticed.
"You've been pushing hard," she said after a late drill. "You don't have to prove anything."
Misaki didn't answer. She just watched the hangar doors close.
In the research wing, Kouzuki Yuuko made no visible progress.
Every probe into Shinn Watford's records ended the same way: sealed, rerouted, denied.
She clicked her pen, annoyed—but amused.
"Fine," she muttered. "I'll wait."
Waiting, after all, was something she was very good at.
On the seventh night, the base lights dimmed for night cycle.
Shinn stood on an exterior catwalk, looking out over Tokyo Bay. The air was calm. Too calm.
His wrist display chimed—low priority.
STATUS UPDATE:
BETA movement remains minimal.
Alert level unchanged.
Ian's voice echoed faintly in memory.
When the quiet lasts too long…
Shinn closed his eyes briefly.
Below him, Yokohama slept behind walls and steel. Above him, the sky was clear.
Somewhere else on the base, Captain Misaki Takamura reviewed tomorrow's sortie schedule—unaware that the week of calm was nearly over.
And when the silence finally broke—
It wouldn't ask who was ready..
Yokohama Base – Cafeteria
Next Day, Late Morning
The cafeteria buzzed with low, steady noise—trays sliding, utensils clinking, conversations kept deliberately light. Outside the reinforced windows, the bay lay calm, deceptively peaceful.
By chance—or by Yokohama's quiet sense of irony—Shinn Watford ended up at the same long table as Misaki Takamura and her unit.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Shinn set his tray down with practiced ease, posture relaxed, expression neutral. He nodded politely. "Mind if I sit?"
Misaki hesitated—then gestured to the open space. "Go ahead."
Across from her, Asagi blinked, surprised, while Akane exchanged a look with Nomura.
They ate in silence for a few seconds.
Misaki broke it first, professional tone carefully measured. "Lieutenant Commander Watford. Settling in?"
"Yes, Captain," Shinn replied. "Yokohama's efficient."
Asagi snorted softly. "That's one word for it."
Shinn smiled—small, courteous. "It grows on you."
The smile disarmed more than it should have. Akane relaxed a fraction; Nomura watched quietly, eyes sharp.
Misaki studied Shinn's face, searching—habit, not intention—for some flicker of recognition.
Nothing.
She swallowed. "You're attached to Tactical Evaluation, right?"
"For now," Shinn said. "Observer status."
Asagi raised a brow. "Observer? With that rank?"
Shinn shrugged lightly. "Paperwork has a sense of humor."
A few chuckles followed—thin, but real.
The tension eased, just a little.
Then Misaki asked, carefully, "Berlin Base. How was it?"
Shinn paused—just long enough to be honest within the lines he'd been given. "Cold. Busy. Teaches you to rely on procedures."
"And people?" Misaki pressed, softer than she intended.
He met her gaze, unguarded. "Eventually."
The word landed heavier than it sounded.
A base-wide tone chimed—standby notice, nothing urgent. Conversation resumed around them.
Shinn rose first, collecting his tray. "Good luck with your sorties, Captain."
She nodded. "…Thank you."
As he walked away, Asagi leaned in, whispering, "He's… not what I expected."
Misaki watched Shinn disappear into the crowd, her thoughts louder than the room.
He really doesn't remember.
And for reasons she couldn't quite name, that hurt more than if he had.
Outside, the bay remained calm.
Inside Yokohama Base, threads were tightening—quietly, inevitably—around a table where the past and present had shared a meal and said nothing of what was coming next.
Yokohama Base – Cafeteria Corridor
Moments Later
The crowd swallowed Shinn as he cleared the tray return.
Behind him, conversation at the table resumed—but not quite the same.
Asagi leaned closer to Misaki, voice low. "He's… normal. Too normal."
Akane nodded. "Doesn't act like someone hiding something."
Nomura didn't look convinced. "Or he's very good."
Misaki stayed quiet, eyes following the gap where Shinn had been. Amnesia, Paul had said. Documented. Stable. The words didn't make the feeling go away.
"Enough," she said finally. "Back to work."
They stood, chairs scraping softly, and headed for the hangar.
Yokohama Base – Exterior Walkway
Shinn stepped into the daylight, the sea breeze cutting the lingering cafeteria warmth. He slowed near the railing, watching cranes trace lines over the bay.
"Careful," a familiar voice said. "Yokohama likes to test newcomers."
Shinn turned to see Saburō Tenma ambling up with his thermos. The old man nodded toward the cafeteria. "Sat with pilots, didn't you?"
"By coincidence," Shinn replied.
Tenma chuckled. "Coincidence is how this place introduces trouble."
Shinn considered that. "I'm trying to keep my head down."
Tenma raised the thermos in salute. "Good luck with that."
They stood together in companionable silence.
Hangar A – Pre-Brief
Misaki faced her unit, the earlier edge smoothed back into command presence.
"Today's rotation is light," she said. "No heroics. Clean execution."
"Yes, Captain," the unit answered.
Asagi hesitated. "About earlier—"
Misaki cut her off gently. "It doesn't matter."
She believed it—mostly.
Administrative Wing – Quiet Office
Shinn's wrist display chimed once.
LOW PRIORITY – STATUS UPDATE
BETA activity unchanged.
He exhaled. Calm again. The lull stretched on.
He glanced back toward the hangars—toward the table they'd shared, the words not said.
Take it slow, Ian's voice echoed. Make friends.
Shinn straightened and moved on.
Across the base, Misaki keyed in her sortie notes, fingers steady, mind not.
For now, Yokohama held its breath—
the past seated beside the present,
both pretending they didn't recognize each other—
as the quiet counted down.
Late September, 2001
Yokohama Base – Joint Training Rotation
The visiting unit from Nerima Base arrived mid-morning—fresh uniforms, familiar faces, old habits.
Among them walked Saito Miyagi, now wearing the insignia of Second Lieutenant. He carried himself the same way he always had: chin slightly raised, eyes measuring the room as if it belonged to him.
Then—
He collided with someone at the corner of the corridor.
"Watch it—"
Saito stopped short.
The man in front of him wore a UN uniform, Lieutenant Commander's bars catching the light.
Shinn Watford.
Saito's lips curled into a familiar, slow grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Look who crawled back."
Shinn adjusted his sleeve, expression neutral. "Excuse me."
That alone drew a few looks.
Saito stepped closer, voice lowering. "Still playing the quiet act? Thought you'd learned your place by now."
Shinn blinked once—confused, not offended. "Do I know you?"
The corridor went still.
Behind Saito, a few of his friends exchanged glances. One of them—Kamui—snorted.
"Cute," Kamui said. "He used to pull that face when Saito and the rest put him in his place. Guy was a punching bag back at camp."
Shinn regarded them calmly. "I don't remember any of that."
The words landed flat. Honest.
Saito's grin vanished.
"Enough," Saito snapped, grabbing Shinn by the collar. "Stop pretending."
What happened next was fast—and quiet.
Shinn's hand shot up, fingers closing around Saito's wrist. Not a strike. A clamp.
Bone met steel resolve.
Saito gasped as the grip tightened—controlled, precise—forcing his hand to release. He stumbled back a step, shocked more than hurt.
Shinn leaned in just enough for Saito to hear.
"Whoever I was back then," Shinn said, voice low and dark, "I don't know him. And I don't recognize any of you."
He straightened, smoothing his uniform.
Then he paused.
Turned.
Met Saito's eyes—cold, distant.
"If you try this again," Shinn continued evenly, "I will report your conduct to Nerima Base Command. In full."
Silence.
The realization spread through the group like a chill: this wasn't the boy they remembered.
Saito swallowed hard. Kamui looked away.
"…Sorry," Saito muttered at last. "Lieutenant Commander."
Shinn nodded once and walked on, footsteps unhurried.
They watched him go, stunned.
"What the hell happened to him?" Kamui whispered. "Did he hit his head or something?"
Saito didn't answer. His jaw was tight, thoughts racing.
Amnesia?
No… this was something else.
He turned sharply toward the hangars.
"I need to talk to Captain Takamura," Saito said.
Because whatever Shinn Watford had become—
It wasn't an act.
Yokohama Base – Hangar Office
Late September, 2001 – Same Day
The door slid shut behind Saito Miyagi with a sharp hiss.
Misaki Takamura looked up from her tablet, irritation flickering—then she saw his face.
"What happened?" she asked, already standing.
Saito ran a hand through his hair, breath uneven. "I ran into Shinn."
Misaki froze. "…Where?"
"Main corridor," Saito replied. "I thought he was messing with me. Acting like he didn't remember."
Her chest tightened. "Because he doesn't."
Saito frowned. "That's what you said before, but—Misaki, this wasn't an act. He shut us down. Cold. Professional." He hesitated. "I grabbed him."
Misaki's eyes widened. "You what?"
"He—" Saito swallowed. "He caught my wrist. Just like that. I couldn't move. He told me to stop, or he'd report me to Nerima Command."
Silence stretched between them.
"That's not… the Shinn we knew," Saito finished quietly.
Misaki turned away, staring through the glass at the hangar floor where TSFs were being serviced. "Commander Radhabinod confirmed it," she said. "Documented amnesia. Stable."
Saito scoffed weakly. "Amnesia doesn't explain that. He didn't look scared. Or angry. He looked like… like we were strangers in his way."
Misaki closed her eyes for a beat. The cafeteria. The corridor. Excuse me… have we met?
"I warned you," she said softly. "Put the past down."
Saito clenched his jaw. "Then what is he now?"
Misaki didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was steady—but quiet. "An officer. A Lieutenant Commander. And not ours."
Saito nodded, shame creeping in. "I apologized. So did the others."
"That was the right call," Misaki said. "Don't test him again. Or me."
He met her gaze. "You still care."
She didn't deny it. "I care that this base stays intact."
Saito exhaled. "Understood."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Misaki… if he really doesn't remember—"
"Then we let him be," she said. "And we focus forward."
The door slid open. Saito left.
Misaki remained, hands braced on the desk, staring at the reflection in the glass.
Across the base, Shinn Watford walked alone along an exterior walkway, the bay wind tugging at his coat. The confrontation had already faded into procedure and caution—exactly how he wanted it.
He didn't look back.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he wouldn't.
Yokohama Base – Joint Training Area
The training field stretched wide beyond the outer defensive walls—scarred terrain deliberately shaped to mimic urban ruins and open kill zones. Sensor towers rose like skeletal fingers, tracking every movement.
This was a mock battle.
But no one present treated it lightly.
Observation Deck
From behind reinforced glass, Paul Radhabinod watched the field with arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Beside him stood Kouzuki Yuuko, tablet in hand, already pulling telemetry feeds into layered graphs and heat maps.
A step back, hands behind his back, stood Shinn Watford.
Officially: observer.
Unofficially: benchmark.
"Rules are simple," Paul said. "Non-lethal loadouts. First decisive suppression wins."
Yuuko smirked. "And I get all the data."
Field – Yokohama Base Team
Blue markers flared to life.
At the center moved Type-94 Shiranui units—fast, aggressive, doctrine-heavy. At their head:
Misaki Takamura, calm and precise.
"All units," she ordered, "split into pairs. Draw them into urban terrain."
Her voice was steady.
Focused.
She did not look toward the observation deck.
Field – Nerima Base Team
Red markers advanced in tighter formation.
Second Lieutenant Saito Miyagi led the push, his unit confident—perhaps too confident.
"Press them," Saito commanded. "They're testing us."
His eyes flicked once—briefly—to the distant deck.
That UN officer…
Contact
The field erupted into motion.
Shiranui units blurred forward, using speed and terrain, darting between broken structures. Nerima TSFs countered with overlapping fire lanes, forcing close engagements.
"Nice opening," Yuuko muttered. "Yokohama's baiting."
Paul nodded. "Textbook."
Shinn said nothing.
His eyes followed movement patterns—not sides.
Turning Point
Misaki's Shiranui cut left, drawing two Nerima units into a narrow approach.
"Now," she said.
Yokohama's second pair dropped in from elevation, simulated suppressive fire pinning the red units.
"Red Team suppressed," the system announced.
Saito clenched his jaw. "Fall back—regroup!"
Too late.
Another Shiranui vaulted in, sealing the pocket.
Observation Deck
Yuuko's eyes sparkled. "Captain Takamura's improved. She's thinking three steps ahead."
Paul glanced sideways at Shinn. "Your take?"
Shinn spoke evenly. "Nerima hesitated after first contact. Leadership friction."
Paul raised a brow. "You noticed that?"
Shinn nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Yuuko smiled thinly. "Of course he did."
Final Exchange
Saito tried to break out—overcommitted.
Misaki didn't.
She waited.
Then struck.
The system chimed.
BLUE TEAM – DECISIVE SUPPRESSION ACHIEVED
The field went quiet.
Aftermath – Observation Deck
Paul exhaled slowly. "Yokohama wins."
Yuuko tapped her tablet, already replaying Shinn's eye-tracking feed she definitely shouldn't have had access to.
"Fascinating," she murmured. "He wasn't watching sides. He was watching outcomes."
Paul turned fully toward Shinn. "Lieutenant Commander. You never once reacted emotionally. Not when Nerima faltered. Not when Yokohama closed in."
Shinn met his gaze calmly. "It was a training exercise."
Yuuko laughed softly. "Liar. But a disciplined one."
Out on the field, Misaki powered down her Shiranui. She looked up—just once—toward the observation deck.
Her eyes met Shinn's.
No recognition.
No warmth.
Just two officers acknowledging a result.
And for reasons she couldn't explain, that felt heavier than any defeat.
Yokohama Base – Observation Deck
Post–Mock Battle
The last telemetry lines faded from the glass.
For a moment, only the low hum of the base filled the room.
Paul Radhabinod didn't look away from the replay. He scrubbed back a few seconds—again, and again—watching how Shinn's gaze tracked not units, but decisions.
"…You weren't reading pilots," Paul said slowly. "You were reading intent."
Shinn stood at ease. "Yes, sir."
Paul turned to him. "That's not something you pick up from a briefing room."
Before Paul could continue, Kouzuki Yuuko stepped in, eyes alight with interest.
"So," Yuuko said brightly, tapping her tablet, "let's get the obvious question out of the way."
She looked Shinn up and down—once, deliberately.
"Have you ever piloted a TSF?"
Shinn met her gaze without hesitation and nodded. "Yes."
Paul's brow furrowed. "When?"
"Before my UN transfer," Shinn replied evenly. "Training and limited operations."
Yuuko's smile sharpened. "What generation?"
Shinn answered without drama. "First-generation. Second-generation."
A beat.
Paul blinked. "No third-gen? No modern frames?"
"No, sir," Shinn said. "The machines were… older."
Yuuko laughed softly. "Older, he says."
She flicked her tablet, pulling up silhouettes—boxy early frames, angular second-gens—primitive compared to Yokohama's Shiranui.
"And yet," she continued, eyes never leaving Shinn, "you read a mixed-unit engagement like a veteran staff officer."
Paul crossed his arms. "You're telling us you learned this on outdated hardware."
Shinn inclined his head. "Hardware teaches limits. Tactics fill the gaps."
Silence settled again—this time heavier.
Yuuko's expression shifted from playful to intent. "Interesting answer."
Paul exhaled slowly. "Lieutenant Commander… you realize this raises questions."
"I understand, sir."
Yuuko smiled, delighted. "Oh, it raises opportunities."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial.
"Old machines force pilots to survive with judgment instead of performance," she said. "Which means—"
"—they learn to think first," Paul finished.
Both of them looked at Shinn.
He remained still, respectful, unreadable.
Paul nodded once. "Very well. For now, this stays as an observation."
Yuuko added lightly, "For now."
Out on the field, TSFs were being towed back to their berths. Pilots laughed, argued, replayed mistakes.
Up here, three people had just reached the same quiet conclusion:
Shinn Watford didn't just watch battles.
He understood them.
And sooner or later, Yokohama Base would ask him to do more than stand behind glass.
Yokohama Base – Hangar Row C
Late Night
The hangar lights were dimmed to night-cycle amber, long shadows stretching across dormant machines.
Shinn Watford walked slowly between them.
Here rested the old ghosts of the war—machines long since eclipsed by newer generations, yet kept clean, maintained, remembered.
A Type-77/F-4J Gekishin, armor dulled but proud.
A Type-89/F-15J Kagerou, frame scarred with honest wear.
Then he stopped.
"…A MiG?" Shinn murmured.
The MiG-21 Balalaika stood apart, its silhouette unmistakable even in low light. Soviet lines. Old doctrine. Completely out of place in Yokohama.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"You noticed her too."
Shinn turned to see Saburo Tenma standing a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, eyes resting on the Balalaika.
"I was wondering why a MiG would be here," Shinn said.
Tenma smiled—small, tired, warm.
"She belonged to my wife."
Shinn said nothing.
Tenma continued, voice steady but distant.
"She was a pilot. Soviet forces, back when lines were blurrier and alliances thinner." He chuckled softly. "Flew that Balalaika like it was part of her body."
He took a step closer to the machine.
"Crash-landed near Yokohama during an early engagement. Bad damage. I was part of the recovery team." His eyes softened. "I pulled her out. She lived."
Shinn listened.
"She stayed," Tenma went on. "Paperwork turned into conversations. Conversations into days." A pause. "Days into love."
The hangar hummed quietly around them.
"She fell ill years later," Tenma said. "Not from the war. Just… life." His gaze never left the MiG. "When she passed, I donated her TSF to the base. To honor her."
Shinn frowned slightly. "It's still here."
Tenma nodded. "I told command it was waiting for its owner to come back and claim it."
He smiled again—this time with sadness.
"She never did."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
"Every time I walk through here," Tenma said quietly, "that MiG reminds me that even in this war… some things were worth saving."
Shinn looked at the Balalaika again—at the quiet dignity of a machine that had outlived its pilot, waiting faithfully for a return that would never come.
"…Thank you for telling me," he said.
Tenma glanced at him, surprised—then nodded.
"Don't forget stories like this," the old man said. "They're why we keep fighting."
Shinn bowed his head slightly.
As he walked on, the MiG-21 Balalaika remained where it was—silent, patient, loved.
Waiting.
Yokohama Base – Hangar Row C
Late Night, Continued
They sat on a low maintenance bench near the hangar wall, the amber lights humming softly above them. Between them, the silhouettes of old TSFs rested like sleeping giants.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Saburō broke the silence.
"You know," he said quietly, eyes still on the machines, "you don't get eyes like yours from training."
Shinn didn't look up.
"You get them from surviving."
Shinn's jaw tightened just a fraction.
Saburō finally turned to him. "You've been through a lot."
A pause.
"…Bullied?" Saburō asked, not accusing—just stating a possibility.
Shinn nodded once.
No explanation.
No bitterness.
Just truth.
Saburō exhaled slowly, as if that confirmed something he'd already known.
"I figured," he said. "People who push others down usually do it because they're afraid of what they can't control."
Shinn's fingers rested loosely on his knees. "It didn't feel that way back then."
"No," Saburō agreed. "It never does."
He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting to the MiG-21 Balalaika.
"But listen to me, son," Saburō continued, voice steady and warm. "The ones who bullied you… they can't reach you anymore."
Shinn finally looked at him.
"They're still here," Shinn said. "Some of them."
Saburō smiled gently. "Physically, maybe. But not where it matters."
He tapped his chest once.
"You moved forward. They're still dragging old habits behind them."
The words settled in the quiet air.
"You didn't become smaller," Saburō added. "You became elsewhere."
Shinn let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"…Thank you," he said.
Saburō chuckled softly. "Don't thank me. Just don't let their past decide your future."
They sat there a little longer, two men separated by decades but connected by loss, endurance, and quiet understanding.
Above them, the old TSFs waited.
And for the first time since arriving at Yokohama, Shinn Watford felt something rare and unfamiliar settle in his chest—
Not resolve.
Not anger.
Peace.