Chapter Text
The neon-bruised sky of Neo Tokyo reflected off the slick pavement as First Lieutenant Takemichi Hanagaki weaved through the congested streets on his scooter. At twenty years old, the twin bars of his rank gleamed on his heavy jacket, catching the artificial city lights. He revved the engine, the low hum vibrating through the handlebars, keeping his mind focused on next week.
Next week was the Special Forces aptitude test. It was all he had been working toward.
For twelve years, a terrorist resistance group calling themselves Toman had been a bleeding ulcer in the side of the military-governed city. To most citizens, they were shadowy anarchists trying to bring down the Great Dome. But to Takemichi, they were the reason his life had been ripped apart a decade ago.
He was only ten when his family's car had been stuck in a gridlock on Sector 4. The military clash against Toman had erupted out of the blue. There were no sirens, no evacuation orders—just chaos, gunfire, and the shrieking whistle of a stray RPG-7. The explosive hit the asphalt mere feet from their vehicle. Their car was sent toppling over in a screech of tearing metal.
When the smoke cleared, his father’s right leg was crushed beyond full repair, condemning him to a life with a cane. His mother lost her left eye to the shrapnel. Miraculously, Takemichi had crawled out without a single serious injury—a ghost of a boy left physically whole but hollowed out by guilt and rage.
Now, his parents lived a quiet, heavily subsidized life in the neighboring Ibaraki Nexus Dome, far from the conflict zones. Takemichi, however, had stayed behind in the sprawling belly of Neo Tokyo, splitting the rent on a cramped apartment with his cousin, Masaru. Masaru was also enlisted, a corporal in the logistics division, but the shared blood and uniform meant little. They were little more than strangers who passed each other in the kitchen, too hardened by the military grind to forge a real connection.
Takemichi wanted into the Special Forces to get close. He wanted to be the one kicking down Toman’s doors, holding his rifle to the chests of the people who broke his family.
Suddenly, the air pressure shifted, vibrating heavily against his ribs.
"RAIN PROTOCOL IN EFFECT. RE-DOME SEALING ENGAGED. ATTACH ASSISTANCE DEVICES IMMEDIATELY."
The mechanized voice boomed from the towering streetlamp speakers. Takemichi swore under his breath, squeezing the brakes to pull his scooter over to the side of the street. Around him, civilians scurried to a safe areas away from zooming vehicles, moving with practiced panic.
Everyone knew the government’s Directive: The corrosive acid rain from the outside world vibrates the dome at a frequency that induces auditory paralysis. Without the sync-device, citizens will be rendered entirely deaf.
As a military officer, Takemichi had enforced the protocol dozens of times. Silence was dangerous; it made the populace vulnerable to Toman ambushes.
He dug a sleek, silver crescent from his jacket pocket. Everyone had a hidden identification-and-health chip buried behind their right ear since birth. As Takemichi clipped the device over his cartilage, he felt the sharp, familiar sting as it synced with his internal hardware. Instantly, a layer of thin, synthesized static hissed into his brain, dampening the real world and replacing it with government-filtered auditory feeds.
High above the skyscraper needles, the first heavy drops hit the outer shell of the dome.
The city went deaf on cue. The roaring engines of the armored transports, the shouting of officers, the patter of boots on pavement—it all instantly dissolved into a muddy, distant echo.
Until the static abruptly died.
Takemichi stiffened, tapping his earpiece. The government-approved hum had vanished completely. The auditory filter had snapped. This is the second time in his life, Takemichi fell into a silence so absolute, so suffocating, that he momentarily forgot to breathe.
Is it a jammer? Panic spiked in his chest. His hand dropped toward his sidearm.
As if something underneath was trying to break through.
He adjusted the device again. Then it’s just gone.
One week later, the neon sign of The Electric Vain buzzed faintly, casting a dim pink and blue glow over the scarred wooden counter.
"I can't believe it... I completely blew it!"
Takemichi slammed his forehead against the bar with a pathetic thunk, letting out a muffled, watery sob. Beside him, holding a highball glass, his best friend Matsuno Chifuyu just sighed, patting Takemichi's shaking shoulders with sympathetic patience.
Takemichi had failed. The rejection was still ringing in his ears. He hadn't failed because of a lack of skill—his tactical exam was flawless, and his marksmanship scores were some of the highest in his cohort. He was physically fit. But when it came to the grueling, close-quarters combat gauntlet, his body had given out. ‘Your stamina and spirit are commendable, Lieutenant Hanagaki, but your physical frame is too frail for the blunt-force trauma of Special Forces operations.’
Those words were a death sentence to his revenge.
Takemichi lifted his head, wiping a frustrating mix of snot and tears with his sleeve. He looked blearily at Chifuyu, whose sharp, pristine jacket bore the fresh insignia of the Air Force division.
"It's not fair," Takemichi sniffled, drowning his misery in his lukewarm beer. "You got right in. The Air Force! That was your dream, Chifuyu. And here I am... totally rejected. Pushed out because I couldn't pin a guy twice my size in the mud. I'm a failure."
Chifuyu took a calm sip of his drink. He wasn't one to sugarcoat things, not even for his best friend. "You're not a failure, Takemichi. You just aimed for a target that doesn't quite suit you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're built differently," Chifuyu said, setting his glass down. "Special Forces is a meat grinder. They're attack dogs. You're stubborn as hell, and you've got more heart than anyone in the military, but you're not meant to be a brute-force door-kicker. You need to find another way."
Takemichi hunched over his drink, staring miserably into the amber liquid. He didn't want another way. He wanted the front lines.
Not just the title. Not just the prestige. The access. The proximity. The chance to finally get closer to Toman. To make them pay.
Chifuyu checked his watch. "It's getting late. Let's head home. Masaru is probably asleep already."
"You go on ahead," Takemichi mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast. "I... I think I'd like to stay here for a bit longer. Just finish my drink."
Chifuyu lingered for a moment, his gaze softening, before throwing some credits on the bar counter. "Alright. Don't stay too late, okay? And seriously, don't beat yourself up over this. See you tomorrow, Takemichi."
"Yeah. See ya, Chifuyu."
As the chime of the bar's door rang, signaling his best friend's departure, Takemichi was left entirely alone in the dim light of the booth. He let out a long, heavy breath, finally looking up from his empty glass.
Above the rows of liquor bottles, a holographic TV screen projected the midnight news. The audio was low, but the red-tinted visuals were painfully familiar. It was the same broadcast that looped almost every night. Smoke billowing from a government sector. Armored enforcers holding riot shields. And flashing, bold text running along the bottom ticker: CONFLICT ESCALATES: TOMAN RESISTANCE CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY FOR SECTOR 5 BOMBING.
Takemichi stared at the flickering flames on the screen, the reflection burning in his tired eyes. Toman was out there, tearing the city apart piece by piece, and he was stuck here—a frail first lieutenant sitting in a dive bar, unable to do a damn thing about it.
The news ticker crawled endlessly across the bottom of the holographic screen, a neon reminder of everything Takemichi couldn't change.
Before he could sink any further into his misery, a sudden warmth enveloped his back. Two arms wrapped loosely around his neck from behind, pulling him against a firm chest, and the faint scent of expensive cologne cut right through the stale air of the dive bar.
"Why the long face, small stuff?" a smooth voice murmured right next to his ear.
Takemichi jumped, nearly knocking over his empty glass, and twisted around. Kokonoi Hachime offered him a wide, sharp-toothed grin, his dark eyes glinting with amusement under the bar's dim neon lights. His sleek black hair was styled flawlessly, as always, and he wore his dark trench coat with an effortless kind of swagger.
"Koko-kun! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Takemichi sputtered, trying and failing to peel Kokonoi’s arms off his shoulders.
"Leave him be, Koko. You're going to spill what’s left of his drink," a second, much calmer voice chided from the side.
Taking the stool next to Takemichi was Inui Seishu. With his pale blond hair and the striking, jagged burn scar that marred the left side of his face, Inui always cut a dangerous, imposing figure at first glance. But the look he gave Takemichi was exceptionally soft. He ordered a bourbon from the bartender with a polite nod, turning back to offer Takemichi a gentle, comforting smile. "Hello, Takemichi. It's late."
"Inui-kun," Takemichi breathed a sigh of relief as Kokonoi finally released him with a chuckle to take the stool on his other side. "I didn't expect to see you guys here."
Kokonoi and Inui were somewhat of an enigma. To Takemichi’s knowledge, they both worked in the military's Intelligence Agency—though neither of them ever gave him exact details about their clearance or assignments. Whenever Takemichi asked, they just brushed it off with a joke or blamed it on 'classified paperwork'.
They had only been friends for a few months, and the way they met had been nothing short of chaotic. Takemichi had been riding his scooter home after an exhaustingly long patrol, opting for an unusual route through the abandoned industrial sector just to avoid a massive traffic gridlock. As he zoomed past an old storage warehouse, he noticed movement in the shadows. Stopping, he saw Kokonoi and Inui backed into a dead end, completely unarmed, surrounded by a dozen heavy-set men wielding crowbars and shock-batons.
Takemichi hadn’t thought. He hadn't called for backup, hadn't analyzed the threat, and certainly hadn't calculated his own terrible odds. All he saw were two guys about to be beaten to a pulp.
Revving his engine, Takemichi had ridden his scooter straight through the opening of the warehouse, plowing blindly into the crowd of thugs. He used the heavy machine to knock a few of the attackers down, screaming to the two strangers to run. He had managed to cause just enough confusion and panic to create an opening, allowing Kokonoi and Inui to sprint out behind his retreating scooter.
Since that night, the two intelligence operatives had been immensely grateful. They had tracked him down at The Electric Vain just a few days later, wholly unharmed and amused by his bleeding-heart recklessness. They had taken a surprisingly deep liking to him, and had been his friends ever since, checking up on him and buying him drinks.
"We just wrapped up a long shift at the bureau," Kokonoi said, signaling the bartender. He leaned his elbow on the bar counter, resting his chin in his hand as he observed Takemichi’s slumped shoulders and red-rimmed eyes. His teasing smirk melted into something far more perceptive. "But the real question is, what are you doing pouting at the counter, small stuff?"
Inui frowned, leaning in a little closer to inspect Takemichi's face. "Have you been crying?" The gentle cadence of his voice remained, but a protective, razor-sharp glint flickered briefly in his eyes. "Did someone do something to you?"
"No! No, nothing like that," Takemichi rubbed his face, feeling a flush of humiliation warm his cheeks. He didn't want to look weak in front of them, especially considering they operated in the very elite tiers he was desperate to reach. "It's just... I took the Special Forces physical aptitude test today."
Kokonoi hummed, tapping his fingers against the polished wood of the bar. "And?"
Takemichi let his head drop, staring miserably down at his boots. "And I failed."
Kokonoi blinked, his dark eyes studying Takemichi’s dejected posture. Then, a slow, cunning smirk spread across his lips. He leaned back on his stool, snapping his fingers at the bartender to order another round.
"Well, if the Special Forces are too blind to see what they have right in front of them, I say screw 'em," Kokonoi stated smoothly. "Quit the infantry. Come join our agency instead."
Takemichi’s head whipped up. "The Intelligence Agency?"
"It makes perfect sense," Inui chimed in, a genuine, warm smile breaking through his normally stoic expression. "You said you wanted a way to go after Toman, didn't you? The infantry only hits where they're told, after the fact. But Intelligence? We hunt them before they even strike. It’s a much more direct route. Plus... the three of us would finally get to work together."
Takemichi's eyes widened. Working with Inui and Kokonoi? Taking the fight directly to Toman from the shadows instead of waiting on a frontline order? The idea was exhilarating.
"I can put in a good word," Kokonoi continued, waving his hand as if manipulating the bureaucracy of Neo Tokyo was child's play. "I'll get you set up as a First Rank field agent—a full-on spy. None of that pushing papers behind a desk bullshit for you, small stuff. You belong out in the city."
Takemichi’s heart hammered a frantic, hopeful rhythm. He loved the sound of that. A First Rank agent was an elite status, the kind of role that bypassed years of climbing the standard military ladder. But a sudden twist of guilt settled in his stomach. He wrung his hands around his glass.
"I don't know..." Takemichi murmured, his eyebrows knitting together. "I mean, that sounds incredible, but isn't that cheating? I don't want to just coast by, relying entirely on your connections. If I don't earn my rank, I'm just taking a shortcut."
Kokonoi let out a sharp laugh, reaching over to ruffle Takemichi’s messy hair. "There's no nepotism here, small stuff. You can't just 'apply' to be a First Rank field agent on a terminal screen. The way the bureau gets its operatives is strictly by recommendation from current, highly-cleared agents. It’s protocol."
"Koko is right," Inui reassured him softly. "You won't just be handed the badge. You'll still have to pass our agency's field assessment test. But," Inui added, his eyes softening with unshakeable faith, "after seeing what you did in that alleyway against twelve armed men to save total strangers? I'm entirely confident you will pass with no problem."
Takemichi looked between the two of them—Kokonoi’s sharp, encouraging smirk, and Inui’s steadfast, gentle gaze. His chest tightened. For the first time all day, he didn't feel like a failure. He felt like he finally had a real path forward.
"Okay," Takemichi breathed out, nodding his head. "Okay! I'll do it!"