September 12th, 1945. Thirty-seven days since the surrender.
The abandoned factory had become their sanctuary—a skeletal structure on Tokyo's outskirts where two time travelers could work without questions, without witnesses, without the world intruding on their desperate preparations.
Sekitanki knelt on oil-stained concrete, organizing salvaged components with obsessive precision. Each piece was arranged in perfect symmetry, labeled in modern Japanese that would look like incomprehensible code to anyone from 1945:
TEMPORAL CORE REPAIR - PRIORITY ONE:
The device wasn't built from proper supplies—there was no factory, no clean laboratory. Instead, it came together from whatever could be taken or salvaged in wartime. High-capacity capacitors were stolen from American communications equipment. Dozens of Grade-A vacuum tubes were pulled from bombed-out radio stations, each one tested repeatedly because failure wasn't an option. Nearly pure copper wire was stripped from destroyed electrical places.
For insulation, compounds were used, and the resonance chamber itself was fabricated from artillery casings—repurposing the tools of war into something entirely different.
QUANTUM OSCILLATOR RECONSTRUCTION:
Timing and stability were the hardest parts to solve. Six oscillators were stolen from naval communications systems, their levels carefully matched. Precision came next—salvaged from German equipment and acquired through the black market, valued for their reliability under stress. Even the materials weren't that of a standard issue, relying instead on experimental things taken from a university laboratory, never meant for wartime use but pressed into It's service anyway.
TACHYON EMITTER ARRAY:
The final components were the most uncertain. Sekitanki experimented with focusing elements made from crude glass lenses and carefully polished metal, doing his best to do precision with what little he had. True conductive objects were impossible to obtain, forcing him to attempt unstable substitutes with mixed results. As for field objects, they existed only in theory—he had no way of knowing whether materials available in 1945 could ever replicate what the equations demanded.
Every component was there. Tested. Ready. Waiting for the machine they didn't have yet.
Kaito watched from across the workspace, cleaning his rifle with mechanical efficiency. They'd been doing this for three weeks—spending every off-duty moment here, stealing components, preparing for a heist they hadn't planned yet, fixing a machine they hadn't retrieved.
Finally, Kaito set down his weapon and spoke: "Why are we doing this?" Sekitanki didn't look up. "Preparing for when we get the machine back."
"That's not what I mean." Kaito's voice held unusual tension. "Why are we collecting all these pieces? What makes you so certain we can repair something that's been sitting in a military facility for months, probably damaged further by scientists who don't understand it?"
"Because I've seen the damage. Captain Ishida gave me supervised access three weeks ago. Ten minutes. That's all they allowed." Sekitanki's hands stilled on a capacitor.
"The temporal core housing is cracked in seven places but structurally sound. The quantum oscillator lost three critical parts—catastrophic, but I can rebuild them if I have the right materials. The tachyon emitter array I reconstructed in Kamakura using wasp stingers is completely destroyed—I need to fabricate a new one from scratch. The power system is fried. The navigation computer is corrupted."
His voice dropped.
"And the outer casing shows signs of disassembly. They've been taking it apart. Studying it. Breaking things through ignorance. Every day it sits there, it becomes harder to repair. Every day we wait is another day closer to it being irreparable. So that means time is certainty not on are side."
"So we're racing against degradation."
"We're racing against everything. Against American investigators who want to claim it. Against Japanese holdouts who think it's a miracle weapon. Against time itself."
Kaito crossed the space between them. Sat down among the components, careful not to disturb the precise arrangement.
"Talk to me. Really talk to me. Because I've watched you do this every night for weeks. Stealing, scavenging, testing, organizing. You barely sleep. You barely eat. You're driving yourself into the ground preparing for something that might be impossible."
"It's not impossible."
"Then explain it to me. Make me understand why you're so certain this will work when everything about it sounds insane." Sekitanki picked up a vacuum tube. Examined it in the dim light filtering through broken factory windows.
"Because the alternative is staying here forever," he said quietly. "Dying in 1945. Growing old in the wrong century. Never seeing our families again. Never fulfilling our promises."
"Is that what this is about? Promises?"
"Isn't that what everything's about?" Sekitanki's control cracked. "I left them. My mother. My father. The people in Kamakura who saved me when I was empty and hollow. I just... left. Without explanation. Without closure. Without telling them what they meant to me."
His hands trembled.
"My mother used to make miso soup every morning. Too salty. Always too salty. But I never told her I liked it anyway. I thought it was beneath me to acknowledge something so mundane. I was too brilliant for domestic comfort. Too special for ordinary love."
The vacuum tube slipped from his fingers. Rolled across concrete. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.
"My father read the newspaper at breakfast. Same routine every day. I found it boring. Predictable. The actions of someone who'd settled for mediocrity. I couldn't see that he was just... being present. Being there. Choosing to exist alongside us instead of chasing empty achievements."
Kaito listened in silence, understanding this was confession, not conversation.
"And in Kamakura—" Sekitanki's voice broke completely. "Yuki, Takeda, Kanemoto, Enjō—they taught me that connection matters more than genius. That being known by a few people who actually see you is worth more than being famous to thousands who don't. They filled the emptiness I'd carried my entire life."
Tears fell. The first time Kaito had seen Sekitanki cry.
"But I didn't tell them. Didn't explain what they meant. I just built another machine and jumped, trying to get home, trying to finally say the words I'd been too empty to say before. And the machine malfunctioned. Threw me here. Threw me to 1945, and now everyone thinks I'm dead."
"My mother has mourned me. Buried an empty coffin. Moved on or tried to. My father wakes up every morning and his son isn't there for breakfast. The people in Kamakura are seven hundred years dust. And none of them know—"
He couldn't finish. Just sat there among the components, broken completely, grief spanning centuries pouring out in a factory that smelled of rust and old warfare.
Kaito was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his own voice was thick:
"My grandmother raised me after my parents died. Tanaka Hisako. Worked three jobs to put me through medical school. Never complained. Just loved me. Unconditionally. The way grandparents do."
He pulled out a photograph—worn, carried everywhere, showing an elderly granny with kind eyes and a gentle smile.
"She taught me how to tie my shoes. How to study. How to be kind even when the world isn't. When I was twelve and got bullied for being smart, she said, 'Kaito, your mind is a gift. Don't let anyone make you feel small for being big.' She saved me. In every way a person can be saved."
"Then she got sick. Neurological Degeneration Syndrome. The only disease 2228 medicine can't cure. Progressive. Fatal. She had six months. Maybe." His hands shook holding the photograph.
"I couldn't accept it. I'm a medical student—I should be able to save her. So I spent two years building a time machine in secret. Stole equipment. Violated every law about temporal mechanics. My plan was simple: jump forward fifty years, steal the NDS cure from whatever future develops it, bring it back, save her."
"The night before I left, she held my hand. Said, 'Kaito, where do you go at night? You look so tired.' I wanted to tell her. Wanted to say, 'I'm building a time machine to save you, Grandmother. Because you're worth violating causality itself.'"
Tears fell onto the photograph.
"But I couldn't risk her stopping me. So I lied. Said I was studying. She smiled—that smile that meant she knew I was lying but loved me anyway. Said, 'Whatever you're doing, be careful. I want my grandson to outlive me. That's the natural order.'"
"Three days later, I activated the machine. It should have sent me to 2278. Instead, I materialized in May 1945. Middle of a battlefield. My machine was destroyed on arrival. I spent the first week just trying not to get killed."
His voice broke.
"And then I realized: I'm stuck. I'm stuck 283 years before she even exists. And she's dying without me. She wakes up and I'm gone. No note. No explanation. She probably thinks I abandoned her. Thinks I ran away because I couldn't handle watching her die."
They sat together in the abandoned factory, two time travelers from different futures, both carrying guilt that spanned impossible distances. The silence stretched. Rain began falling outside—soft at first, then harder, the sound filling the empty space.
Finally, Sekitanki spoke:
"We're the same. Both running from failure. Both trying to fix what we broke. Both terrified we'll never get the chance." "Yes." "So we do this together. We get the machine. We repair it. We get home. We tell the people we love that we're sorry. That they were worth everything. That we finally understand."
Kaito looked at him directly. "Can you promise me that? That we'll both get home?"
The question hung between them. Sekitanki wanted to promise. Wanted to believe it was possible. But he hadn't finished all the calculations yet. Hadn't verified the field specifications against mass requirements.
What if the machine can only take one person? What if I have to choose? But he couldn't voice those fears. Not now. Not when Kaito needed hope. "I promise," he said, the lie tasting like copper. "We'll both get home. Together."
"Together." Kaito extended his hand—modern gesture in pre-modern war. They shook. The pact was made. The promise given. Neither knew that the promise was impossible. That the physics would be absolute. That only one could go home.
The moment crystallized into something sacred between them—two people who understood each other completely, bound by shared trauma and desperate hope.
"Show me," Kaito said suddenly. "Show me how we're going to do this. The actual plan. The steps. Make me understand your certainty."
Sekitanki stood. Walked to where he'd drawn diagrams on the factory wall in chalk—schematics and equations and mechanics explained in modern explanations.
"The machine works by creating a kind of bubble in spacetime. Inside that bubble, time doesn't flow the same way it does outside. By carefully tuning the machine—changing its internal resonance—we can make that bubble shift forward or backward through time."
He drew more diagrams as he explained.
"But the core's damaged. Three of the resonance chambers are broken, which means the field won't stay stable—it'll try to collapse in on itself. To keep that from happening, we need these," he said, pointing to the capacitors, "to control the power flow. And these," he added, tapping the vacuum tubes, "to fine-tune the machine's frequency."
"The tachyon emitter is the part that actually breaks through spacetime. If it doesn't focus the temporal energy perfectly, we won't travel together—we'll be scattered across random points in time. That's why these focusing elements matter so much. The tolerances are absurd—errors measured in some meters could tear everything apart."
Kaito absorbed the technical explanation. "And if the focusing is off? Even slightly?"
"Best case, we land in the wrong year. Worst case is temporal fragmentation. Our minds wouldn't move through time normally anymore—we'd experience every moment of our life at once. Many things, 1945, the jump, our deaths—all happening simultaneously. The mind wouldn't survive that. Permanent fracture. At that point, death would be a mercy."
"Comforting."
"I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm explaining why I'm so obsessed with getting every component perfect." Sekitanki's expression was haunted. "Because one mistake—one miscalculation, one impure material, one misaligned focus—and we don't die clean. We die experiencing every version of ourselves across time, unable to distinguish present from past from future. Conscious forever in temporal hell."
Kaito stared at the diagrams. "And you think you can prevent that with salvaged 1945 components?"
"No. I think I can prevent that with Carboniferous survival instinct, Kamakura-era craftsmanship principles, and desperation so absolute it transcends physics." Sekitanki smiled without humor. "I've survived things I shouldn't have survived. Built things I shouldn't have been able to build. This is just another impossible task."
"You're insane." "Yes. But I'm insane with purpose. That's the difference."
They worked through the night, Sekitanki explaining each component's function, Kaito asking increasingly technical questions. As medical student from 2228, he understood advanced physics in ways 1945 soldiers couldn't. They collaborated—Sekitanki's theoretical knowledge combined with Kaito's practical understanding of future technology.
"In my era," Kaito said around 3 AM, "time travel is illegal precisely because of scenarios like ours. The Causality Wars in the 2080s—people weaponizing time, trying to change history, creating paradoxes that nearly shattered reality. Entire timelines erased. Billions of people who never existed because someone changed things."
"What stopped it?"
"Global ban on temporal technology. Every design destroyed. Every researcher who understood the principles was... removed. The government in 2228 doesn't even acknowledge time travel exists. It's the ultimate forbidden knowledge."
"Yet you built a machine anyway."
"For my grandmother. For love. I'd burn down causality itself if it meant she lived." Kaito's expression was fierce. "Wouldn't you? For your family? For the people in Kamakura who saved you?"
"Yes. Without hesitation." "Then we understand each other perfectly."
As dawn approached, Kaito started humming—a melody Sekitanki had never heard. Melancholic and beautiful, the notes speaking of longing and hope intertwined.
"What is that?" Sekitanki asked.
"'Temporal Lullaby.' Written in 2156, after the Causality Wars. It's about people separated by time, wondering if they'll ever find each other again." Kaito's voice softened. "My grandmother used to sing it to me when I couldn't sleep. When I was scared of things I couldn't control. She'd say, 'Kaito, love transcends distance. Even impossible distance. Even time itself.'"
"Can you teach me? The words?" Kaito looked surprised. "You want to learn a song from 2228?"
"I want to learn something from your era. Something that matters to you. So when we get home—when you're with your grandmother again—I'll understand what that moment means."
Kaito's composure cracked. He pulled Sekitanki into a sudden, fierce hug.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For being my friend. For understanding. For making this hell bearable. I was so alone before I met you. Three months of surviving, fighting, watching people die, thinking I'd die here without anyone knowing what I tried to do."
Sekitanki stiffened initially—three years of emotional isolation didn't dissolve easily. But then he hugged back. Really hugged back. Letting himself feel the connection, the friendship, the bond forged through impossible survival.
"We're going to make it," he said, his voice rough with emotion he'd buried for years. "Both of us. We're going to get home. We're going to tell the people we love that we're sorry. That they were worth everything. That we finally understand."
"Together?" "Together. I promise."
The lie tasted like ash, but the moment was genuine. Two people from different futures, understanding each other completely, bound by promises that felt sacred even if one of them was impossible.
Kaito pulled back, wiping his eyes, and started teaching Sekitanki the first verse of "Temporal Lullaby":
"時の川を渡り" (Crossing the river of time) "君を探してる" (Searching for you) "遠い未来でも" (Even in the distant future) "心は繋がる" (Hearts remain connected)
Their voices echoed in the abandoned factory—imperfect harmony, modern Japanese lyrics sung in pre-modern ruins, two people from different eras creating something beautiful from shared grief.
As they sang, neither knew:
The machine could only support one person's mass Only one of them would go home This moment of friendship, this breakthrough of Sekitanki's emotional walls, would be what destroyed him completely when he arrived in 2228 alone Kaito would sacrifice himself in Episode 12, forcing Sekitanki into the machine while staying behind to die This song—this "Temporal Lullaby"—would be what Sekitanki sang to himself in 2228, broken and alone, grief making the melody sound like accusation rather than comfort
But for now, there was just two friends preparing for the impossible, finding hope in each other's company, believing against all evidence that maybe—maybe—they'd both survive.
The sun rose over occupied Tokyo, painting the factory in colors of gold and shadow.
Sekitanki looked at the components—ready, tested, waiting. Looked at Kaito—his first real friend, the person who understood his emptiness because he carried the same weight. Another friend who did so at that.
"When we get the machine back," he said, "we repair it immediately. No delays. We've prepared everything. All we need now is the heist." "Then we start planning. Today. Because every day we wait is another day we're not home."
They began sketching plans—facility layouts, security patterns, escape routes. Preparing for the mission that would either save them or kill them. The friendship that had formed between them was absolute now. Unbreakable. The kind of bond that transcends eras.
Which made what was coming—the terrible choice, the impossible sacrifice, the moment when one went home and one stayed forever—all the more devastating.
But that revelation was still ahead. For now, there was hope. There was friendship. There was the shared dream that maybe, against impossible odds, they'd both get home.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "The Price of Access"]