Chapter Text
Rain incessantly drummed on the rusted corrugated iron of the hangar. Every drop hitting the metallic surface produced a dull, melancholic thud, intensifying the oppressive atmosphere. The grey clouds hung low in the sky, pressing their weight down onto the earth. In the distance, the rumble of thunder could be heard, a faint, steady murmur ripping through the silence.
Shin stood at the entrance of the hangar, his pale hands loosely hanging at his sides. The worn, oversized uniform, which almost seemed to swallow his small frame, was heavy with rain. The air was cold and damp, the wind carrying the scent of wet foliage and rusted metal. The hangar itself was in a sorry state: puddles of water had collected at the entrance, the faded paint peeled from the walls, and the light filtering through the dirty windows was weak and murky.
His gaze drifted to Fido and his Juggernaut, both motionless in a corner. The two machines seemed as exhausted as their owner, each of them witness to countless battles and lost comrades. Their metallic bodies adorned with scratches and dents. Just a few days ago, Shin had lost his entire squad, the first defensive squadron of the twenty-seventh ward, the Bayonet Squadron. Among them was his vice captain, Saiki Tateha, who had brought some light into Shin's bleak world with his cheerful demeanor, and the other members, some of whom were now just more voices in the chorus of the dead that relentlessly haunted Shin.
His red, expressionless eyes turned to the Alba officer, who regarded him with disdain. "You colored swines can't even listen," snorted the officer, his voice full of disgust and aversion. "The others will come tomorrow. Let's see how long it takes for you to kill them all again." With these words, the Alba turned away, leaving Shin behind. The harsh words still echoed in his mind.
Shin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In his mind circled the stories the Alba told about him. The boy who heard ghostly voices and always survived. The harbinger of death who knew no friend or foe. The Eighty-Six, who was only contacted through the radio if possible. The pig, in the form of a young teenager, who had long abandoned his humanity. With lifeless red eyes, deep black hair, and pale skin, clear signs of his imperial blood from Giad. An outsider among outsiders. Nothing but a tool for the Alba. And no more than dirt for the other Eighty-Six. An enemy they feared. A traitor. All these thoughts weighed heavily on him, but he knew that dwelling on memories would bring nothing.
Shin looked at the Juggernauts, his soon-to-be comrades. He wondered how he would explain to them that he could hear the voices of the Legion. In his last squadron, they had been suspicious at first, calling him crazy. But gradually, their opinion had split. Some felt relieved that he could warn them. Others felt uneasy, believing he attracted death. His name as the Undertaker was like a stigma that followed him. How many after this squadron would he have to deliver the coup de grâce to? How many would leave him alone this time?
The rain intensified, as if the sky itself wept for the soldiers' fate. Once again, he let his eyes sweep over the gloomy hangar. Fido stood in a corner, the Scavenger a silent companion in this desolate world. Tomorrow would mark a new day. A new battle. He had to stay strong, for himself and for the others. Hoping they would trust him. And as before, he would keep his distance. There was no point in forming friendships when he saw them die soon anyway.
With a deep sigh, he made his way to the barracks. The path was muddy and slippery, each step feeling like wading through an invisible barrier. The barracks looked as dreary as the rest of the base, but at least they seemed to have suffered no major damage. He took a deep breath and entered the barracks. The dim light filtering through the dirty windows cast dark shadows on the damp walls. The air was heavy and musty, the smell of mold and stale moisture lingering. He quietly made his way through the rooms, his footsteps barely audible on the worn wooden floor. When he finally reached his quarters, he carefully and meticulously placed his few belongings on the sparse bed assigned to him. Without another word, he reclined. The lumpy mattress was anything but comfortable. With his expressionless gaze fixed on the ceiling, staring into the darkness, he listened to the rain, which continued to drum incessantly on the roof, and the voices that always haunted him.
Outside, the mechanics gathered, some of them trying to shield themselves from the rain, while others worked on the machines. Their gazes repeatedly shifted to the door of the barracks through which Shin had just disappeared. Quiet conversations started. Their murmurs mingled with the monotonous sound of the rain. One of the older mechanics shook his head. "The boy looks like a ghost. Small, pale, and those eyes…"
A younger mechanic, perhaps in her early twenties, standing beside him, sighed. "Yes. Those eyes, just so expressionless. He's young, probably never learned that what's happening isn't normal." She smirked wryly. They were all Eighty-Six themselves. But as mechanics, they were indispensable and not sent to the front. Their expertise and skills were too valuable.
Another mechanic, who was currently bending over one of the Juggernaut's legs, glanced over to them. "Have you heard the stories about him? His name is Undertaker. The Reaper of the Western Front. Every squad he's been assigned to has been completely wiped out so far. He always returns alone. Even the Alba don't want to associate with him. They say he's cursed."
The mechanic nodded. "They say he hears the voices of the dead. That's... eerie."
The older mechanic sighed. "I've heard those stories too. But in the end, he's probably just a damn good pilot. Although, he must be a little crazy to go against the Legion with those swords. A miracle he's still alive. Or a curse. Either way, I've heard he's going to give us a lot of work. His limiters are supposedly removed too."
The young mechanic working on the legs looked at the grey-brown Juggernaut with the eerie emblem of its owner. "He deploys his Juggernaut, which looks like a skeleton, roaming the battlefield searching for heads. Maybe that's why he has this reputation."
Another mechanic, who had been silently listening, shook his head. "Eighty-Six dying is nothing new. But the boy... He seems to have been through more than most. It wouldn't surprise me if other Eighty-Six took out their frustrations on him."
The older mechanic nodded in agreement. "The Alba have excluded us because of our appearance and stripped us of our rights. We're nothing more than cattle to them. But are we really any better? The boy can't be blamed for the war any more than we can. And the Alba are sending us all to our deaths. It's only a matter of time. We're all victims of this hell."
A brief silence fell as the rain continued to drum on the roof. The mechanics looked at each other, their thoughts revolving around what had been said and the boy with the expressionless red eyes. Then they returned to their work. The conversations ceased, but the unease remained palpable in the cold, damp air of the hangar.
The next day dawned as bleak and rainy as the last. The sky was still covered by heavy, grey clouds, and the fine, cold rain fell incessantly. The hangar was bathed in dim light as the new members of the squadron arrived. Officers and soldiers kept them in check.
One by one, the new soldiers disembarked, 23 in total. They all seemed older and larger than Shin, most of them he would estimate to be around 14 to 17. Their faces were tired and serious, their eyes wary. Some bore the marks of previous battles, scars and hard looks telling of the horrors they had already endured. Others showed fear of the unknown in their gaze. New recruits fresh from the training camp. None of them name bearers like him.
Shin stood at the edge of the hangar, silently observing them. His pale face was expressionless, his red eyes fixed on the newcomers without visible emotion. The rain had soaked his hair, yet he seemed to hardly notice.
The new soldiers soon noticed him. Some of them eyed him curiously, others with undisguised mistrust. Others with awe. Whispered conversations began, spreading like a soft hum through the group. A few of the newcomers cast furtive glances at Shin and exchanged meaningful looks.
One of them, perhaps 16 years old, pushed his wet hair out of his face and watched Shin out of the corner of his eye. Beside him stood a girl with stern features, her arms crossed over her chest. They seemed to be having a quiet conversation, but their voices were drowned out by the rain. It was clear they had heard stories about the new captain.
"So that's him?" one seemed to whisper, noticing Shin's piercing eyes. "The Undertaker?"
Another just shrugged, looking uncomfortable. The fact that their new captain was so young and clearly carried the blood of their enemies seemed to bother many. The tension in the air was palpable. Some even seemed to be afraid, while others appeared angry. A stocky boy with a grim expression muttered something to his neighbor, who then grinned disdainfully. A girl with short hair gave Shin a long, probing look.
Between the newcomers and the Alba officers watching the scene, there was a tense atmosphere. The officers stood protected under the hangar roof, their blue, snug uniforms with the five-colored flag mocking them in the weak light. Their gazes were cold and dismissive, their demeanor unforgiving. To them, they were nothing but cattle.
"Another child," muttered one of the officers, his voice full of contempt as he looked at a young Eighty-Six whose face showed fear and unease. He probably had never seen a real fight. "Let's see how long he lasts."
The rain intensified, as if the sky itself wanted to reinforce the oppressive mood. Shin remained motionless, his thoughts an impenetrable puzzle. He knew this day was only the beginning and that he had to earn the trust of his new comrades. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on his slender shoulders, yet he showed no weakness. Not before his squadron and certainly not before the Alba, who regarded him with disdain, but also with unease.