Chapter Text
A pale wash of light filtered from the vending machines in the long, echoing corridor, illuminating the pinched features of the Captain of the First Division.
Narumi Gen stood before their squat, metal frames, scratching at his chin, which still bore traces of stubble he’d been too occupied to shave that morning.
His favourite coffee was out.
All that was left was the bitter black stuff that Hasegawa seemed to love.
Muttering in discontent, he pulled out his wallet, a limited edition Gundom print that had started to look a tad frayed from the number of years he’d hung on to it. Shaking some loose change out into his palm, he slotted it into one of the machines, opting for a juice instead.
This was a challenge he faced each time meetings of the top brass (him included) took place at Ariake Maritime Base.
The Captains of various divisions, sometimes with their Vice-Captains and platoon leaders in tow, would descend upon their headquarters, a discordant mess of clashing personalities and egos, high-handed measures and differing views on what was the ‘right’ way to go about things.
Even now, the glaring contrast in priorities was evident, with those hailing from the surrounding countryside still clinging to tradition and historical landmarks, remnants of a time that instilled pride and honour.
Gen had little use for that kind of thing.
Sure, he’d applied himself to his studies, but only to the valuable lessons history taught, including which guys had been too far up their own asses to figure out how to handle shit.
Clicking his tongue in irritation, he took a sip of his juice.
It was lukewarm.
They’d really need to service these vending machines.
What with the other divisions swarming here like locusts, they’d cleaned out all the best items (including his sweet, sweet coffee).
Then he remembered the requisition form on his table, shoved somewhere under a fast food carton, that Hasegawa had sent for this very issue, and scowled.
Fuck.
Couldn’t they get any of the trivial stuff done without his goddamn signature at the foot of every page?
Slurping up the last of the juice, he was about to make his way to a trash receptacle nearby, when he heard it.
Voices.
Nearby, by the sound of it.
Gen certainly wasn’t the sort to bother much with the affairs of others, but he recognised both speakers, one with a greater sense of immediacy than the other.
Hoshina, that sly, nasty, bowl-cut loser.
And was that -
Once he’d made the decision, there was no going back. This time, he’d decided to eavesdrop, unashamedly so.
The muted conversation grew clearer as he approached the doors of the nearby break room, one that was mostly empty because of how far out it was from the busiest sectors of the facility.
Through the small gap where the door stood ajar, he caught a glimpse of the room’s interior, and the two individuals standing within, a few feet apart, subtle tension evident in both their frames.
Oh, now this was a surprise.
Hoshina Soshiro, as he expected, and his older brother, Hoshina Soichiro, Captain of the Sixth Division.
They’d both been present at the meeting that day. In fact, Soshiro had delivered a report on his current progress as a candidate for developing Numbers Weapon 10.
If Gen had to hazard a guess, he’d say that this confrontation probably had something to do with that.
While he didn’t give a damn about Soshiro and his weird family matters, most were aware that the Vice-Captain had very little contact with his brother and, by extension, his clan.
Within the room, Soichiro had folded his arms, legs apart, a contrast to Soshiro’s casual grace.
“You won’t reconsider?”
“Not a chance.”
“Numbers weapons are risky things.”
“Think we’ve covered that.”
“There’s a chance you’ll – “
“Die?”
Soichiro’s demeanour was very similar to his younger brother’s in many ways, an easy, offhand charm, strapped in place as effectively as a gas mask. The deep furrow between his brows was testament to how Soshiro’s words had slid beneath the skin.
He inhaled deeply, as if ready to cross some familial Rubicon.
“Soshiro – “
“Are we done here? You know pretty well that nothin’ you say will change my mind.”
Gen raised an eyebrow at the tone of voice. While the words were delivered with the customary, even drawl, there was an undercurrent of sharp intolerance, as if every sentence uttered by Soichiro were a practice dummy, sliced down to size by a razor-edged tongue that would brook no rebuttal.
“I knew that the moment I asked you to talk.”
“So what’s your deal? I’ve got places to be.”
“I’d rather you heard it from me.”
“Meaning?”
“The clan’s issued an official notice. There’s to be an intervention. They want to see you.”
Soshiro laughed, low, humourless, as if marvelling at the audacity of what he’d heard.
“Do they now?”
“Father wants to see you.”
“Pity I’ll have to turn down the invitation then. I’ve got a Numbers weapon to help develop, in case you missed that.”
He turned, making his way to the door.
Through the narrow gap, Gen could see that Soshiro was nowhere near as calm as he’d presented himself during the brief meeting. His posture was noticeably stiff, wound tight with some strong emotion, hands bunched within his pockets.
Soichiro had one last appeal, it seemed.
“Please don’t do this. You know why they want to see you. Because they don’t want you to die.”
“Not sure what the problem is. If we’re all raised for military service, then that’s part of the package, right?”
“You know what – “
“And I’ve said it before. Ain’t nobody choosin’ my way of death but me.”
The door slid open.
For a moment, Gen had the sensation that his implanted Numbers weapon had activated, so aware was he of the dangerous unveiling of Soshiro’s gaze at the sight of him.
Surprise, so fleeting he almost missed it, followed by something looming and dark, a shadow across the sun that brought a chill to the skin.
It wasn’t in Gen’s nature to apologise, or even step aside, so he stood there while Soshiro brushed by him without a single word.
Within the room, Soichiro regarded him impassively as his brother moved out of sight, as if Gen’s presence was nothing more than an anomaly of environment, a piece of furniture he hadn’t taken note of before.
He opened his mouth to speak, but that familiar surge of irritation, the kind that made Gen grind his teeth, restlessness imbuing his limbs, had taken hold.
Not waiting to hear what the other Captain had to say, he turned abruptly and made for the sliding doors that whispered open for him.
Out in the wide courtyard beyond, Soshiro was already some distance away, the steady sway of his neatly combed hair the only indication of his speed.
Before Gen had a chance to process the strange nature of his own reactions, he was breaking into a light jog to catch up.
The beat of his footsteps on the paving must have echoed across to his target, but Soshiro showed no sign of slowing down.
Damn fox-eyed bastard.
Gen hissed between his teeth in irritation.
“Oi! You!”
Soshiro was not sure when exactly everything had gone sideways.
He’d had it under control.
Hell, he’d even agreed to speak to Soichiro for the first time in … well, he couldn’t rightly recall.
On some level, he’d recognised lurking remnants of buried pain, unearthed like the pale, fossilized forms of ancient sea creatures. He should have known better.
The conversation had gone exactly the way he’d foreseen, with the exception of the summons from his family.
He’d gone ahead and joined the Defence Force without their approval, and now, they were trying to –
“Oi! You!”
Oh, for the love of -
Of course, Soshiro had seen him outside the small break room, listening in like he was in some kind of espionage thriller, a crumpled juice box held forgotten in one hand.
Today, luck just wasn’t on his side, huh?
Slowing, he turned to see Narumi Gen skidding to a stop, the juice box held like a magic wand about to banish him to another realm.
“The hell? What’re you motoring like that for?”
Soshiro breathed out, collecting the shreds of his patience.
“Woulda thought that was obvious.”
An awkward silence descended over their impromptu meeting.
For once, it seemed like Narumi had no idea why he’d pursued Soshiro in the first place.
Reaching up to run aggravated fingers through the shorn hair at the base of his scalp, Soshiro uttered a small sigh.
“Look, Captain Narumi, I gotta go. If there’s something you need, send me an email.”
“I don’t like sending emails.”
“Huh?”
“They require typing and shit.”
“You’re always typing on your game pad.”
“That’s totally different.”
“Right.”
An ocean breeze whistled through the courtyard. Distantly, seagulls bickered over scraps.
Soshiro turned to leave, wondering why on earth he’d entertained yet another pointless conversation with someone who intensely irritated him, when Narumi spoke.
“I heard what he said. ‘Bout your clan and stuff.”
“And what’s that got to do with you?”
Anyone else would have recognised the warning signs, the still set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw.
Not Narumi.
“Can’t you just tell ‘em to fuck off?”
From the time he was very young, Soshiro had learned the mark of a true swordsman, one who was in control of every breath, every muscular contraction, every emotion that fluttered within the chest, beating like the wings of a thousand frantic crows against the ribcage of containment.
He’d always prided himself on keeping an even temperament. His equanimity marked him as a Vice-Captain; to be pleasant, personable, to know his officers as he would his own flesh and blood, to never mince his words, to know the right things to say, to be the pillar that upheld everything that the Third Division stood for.
Right now, though … right now, he –
Stepping forward until he was right before Narumi, he cocked his head in mock query.
“And how exactly would I go about doing that?”
“How the hell would I know? Just get on the phone or something.”
“There are eighty-five current members of the Hoshina clan, including branch houses, fifteen of who are clan elders.”
“So? Ever heard of a conference call?”
“You – “
For some reason, every single aspect of Narumi Gen that roused his ire came flooding to the forefront in an instant.
The way he never worked half as hard as Captain Ashiro, the way he ran his Division, the unruly behaviour, the childish incompetence at tasks that required the bare minimum of application, his edgy dye job, his bullish stare, his main character syndrome, his habit of butting into places he didn’t belong –
Soshiro took another step forward until he was nose to nose with Narumi. The other’s eyes widened briefly, before he stared him down in return, anger building behind his gaze too.
Like he had any right.
He was the one who’d come after Soshiro after all.
“You really have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, huh? Just wanted to mouth off ‘bout things you know nothin’ about as usual.”
“Sure I know nothing. What do I know about Vice-Captain Sword-up-his-ass and his super special childhood in the giant compound?”
Narumi’s expression had now warped to a recognisable one, one that welcomed challenge.
A fight was familiar ground, after all.
Soshiro wouldn’t back down either.
“Super special? This ain’t some fantasy video game, Captain.”
“You’re just making up problems where there aren’t any,” Narumi countered aggressively. “A clan is just a bunch of people tying themselves up in knots over some outdated traditions. Son of this, son of that. Get off your high horse, Hoshina. You’re not any better than me ‘cos of your grand old swords.”
The last barb was fired off with a stabbing finger to the chest, and before he could register what he’d done, Soshiro slapped it away, teeth bared.
“Better? Better? I’ve had to listen to – “
“Cry me a goddamn river! If you were so important, they’d have come for you long before this. What, they forgot you exist while they were fawning over golden boy over there?”
Without meaning to, Soshiro took a step back.
It was Narumi, of all people, but the words had struck and scraped, like shards of ice against the hull of a ship braving waters it was never meant for.
He allowed it to swallow him, within the cold cradle of safety he’d always found a refuge in.
“This conversation is over.”
“Huh? I’m not – “
“Good day, Captain Narumi.”
As he walked away, he almost expected to feel a harsh grip on his arm, a tug on his jacket. He wasn’t even sure how he’d respond if that occurred.
Fortunately, it didn’t.
There was some vague awareness of the warm wind in his hair, of his own footsteps echoing over the wide paving stones, of the deadly peace that blanketed him like a snowdrift, as it always did before his blade flickered out, silver and precise.
There was no swordplay here, only the single manner by which he’d managed to block it all out over the years.
He emerged from the shade of Ariake Base, into the sun, and its heat still didn’t quite reach him.
“What is the matter with you?”
Hasegawa was at it again.
Gen didn’t reply, at huge risk of gaining a boot to the rear, as he well knew.
This time, however, his second-in-command stepped to the side, leaning against the low table where the remnants of a model kit lay scattered.
“You’re upset. Did your Yamazon delivery not arrive?”
“Fuck’s sake, I’m not upset! Just – never mind. I’ve got another level to crack. Don’t disturb me.”
“Was it the meeting?”
“No, it wasn’t the meeting.”
“Did your platoon leaders get ice cream without you again?”
Gen turned to him slowly, mouth set in a grim, unamused line.
“Oi, oi. Hasegawa. I don’t know about you, but it sounds awfully like you’re talking about some kid throwing a tantrum.”
“Your point being?”
Flinging his controller aside (with what even he could acknowledge as childish petulance), Gen pushed himself to his feet, waving his hands as he began to pace.
“Okay, fine. Fine. If you want to know so bad – “
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, you’re going to listen anyway, Hasegawa! That’s your job!”
“I don’t think I’m paid enough for what I’m about to listen to.”
“Look, hypothetical situation.”
“Oh. One of those.”
“Are you listening or what?”
“Yes.”
“So, what if you knew someone. Someone you didn’t particularly like. In fact, let’s put it this way … this person gives you a headache every time you see them. They’re like a stone that gets lodged in your shoe, or like when you’re wearing the combat suit, and that bit gets wedged in your ass-crack when you make a big jump. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Anyway, what if you saw that person in a … situation. Like, not a very great situation.”
Hasegawa was frowning now.
“You mean they’re in danger of some kind?”
“No, no, not like that. Something that would maybe upset them? I dunno. So, you see that, and you try to say something to … help. Give them a push in the right direction. But because that person’s such an insufferable jerk, it kind of comes out wrong.”
“Wrong in what way?”
“Well, maybe you said something, and it just made everything even worse for them.”
“Hmm.”
To his credit, Hasegawa never did anything by halves.
He took his time, one large finger braced against his chin as he considered Gen’s dilemma carefully.
“Well, in my opinion, whether you like this person or not has nothing to do with it.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. You recognised that they were in a situation that required your help.”
“Well, it didn’t exactly – “
“So, you poked your nose where it didn’t belong?”
“Hey, hey, this is all hypothetical, remember?”
“Of course. Either way, you didn’t consider the fact that you disliked them when you tried to give them assistance. You just saw a person in need, am I right?”
Gen shrugged, stiff and reluctant.
“Maybe.”
“If you’ve made things worse, then the onus is on you to explain your intention.”
“Explain? Urgh.”
Distaste puckering his mouth, Gen turned away.
“It’s up to you. You can leave things as they are, but something tells me that you’re not the kind of man to do that.”
Having delivered his piece, Hasegawa gave a firm nod, as if satisfied, and strode from the office. The echoing silence left in his wake did nothing to help ease Gen’s mood.
Restless, he picked up his phone, flipping through the JAKDF app for the section on contact details.
As a Captain, he had full access to the database, even though he’d hardly ever made use of it.
A quick, simple search gave him what he needed.
In bold black letters, neatly spaced, beside a photo of an angular fox face beneath dark, neatly shorn bangs, a tab to send a message to one Hoshina Soshiro, VC (3rd Div).
There was a phone line too, but Gen was quite certain that Hoshina wouldn’t answer a call coming through from him.
He hesitated, wondering if it was even worth the effort.
It would be all too easy to leave it alone. It wasn’t as if Hoshina would ever bring it up again. If what he knew of the man was correct, he’d be back to his smug, chipper self the next time he encountered him, or perhaps avoid him entirely.
Nothing to lose there, if he was being honest.
Some deeper-seated urge wouldn’t allow him to let things stand, though.
After all, Gen had seen it, clear as day, reflected in the other’s rarely-open gaze for one unguarded moment, as deep as a burgeoning bruise.
He’d managed, somehow, to hurt Hoshina, and deeply at that.
Muttering a soft ‘fuck’, Gen pressed the message tab with deliberation, before starting to type.