Among the ruins, a teenage boy was found.
He was sitting motionless beside the shattered remains of what had once been a residential shelter—reinforced concrete split open like a cracked shell. The rain had finally eased into a thin, drifting mist, carrying with it the coppery stench of blood and burned propellant. Next to him lay the twisted corpse of a BETA, its chitinous carapace split apart by an explosion at close range, ichor blackened and steaming against the wet ground.
A few meters away were the remains of two humans.
What was left of them, at least.
Field medics would later identify the bodies as his parents—partially eaten, crushed during the fighting, and exposed for days before relief forces reached the area. The boy himself bore no visible wounds. No shrapnel. No burns. Not even scratches.
That, more than anything else, unsettled the soldiers who found him.
July 11th, 1998 – Ruins of Northern Chūgoku
"Kid… hey. Can you hear me?"
A UN Far East TSF pilot crouched in front of him, helmet tucked under one arm. The boy didn't respond. His eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing in particular—past the ruined skyline, past the drifting smoke, past the world itself.
His right hand was clenched tightly around something.
It took three grown soldiers to gently pry his fingers open.
Inside was a broken identification tag, bent and bloodstained, bearing his father's name.
Nearby, investigators reconstructed what little they could. The BETA corpse showed signs of damage inconsistent with heavy weapons fire—its sensory organs crushed inward, carapace fractured from the inside. A collapsed emergency barricade suggested that the creature had breached the shelter alone, separated from the main swarm.
Someone had fought it at point-blank range.
Someone human.
A shaken Imperial Army officer whispered it aloud before he could stop himself.
"He… killed it. With nothing but debris and a blast charge."
No one contradicted him.
Evacuation Zone, Honshū – Same Day
The boy finally spoke hours later, aboard a refugee transport aircraft packed with survivors.
His voice was hoarse. Flat. Almost mechanical.
"They kept screaming for me to run," he said quietly, staring at his hands.
"So I did."
He paused.
"And then it followed."
No tears came. No shaking. Just silence after that.
The attending psychologist would later note something deeply troubling in her report:
the boy did not display shock in the conventional sense. Instead, his emotional responses appeared… sealed. Contained. As if something inside him had closed a door and thrown away the key.
When asked his name, he hesitated—just for a moment.
"…I don't know," he said.
Not because he couldn't remember.
But because, somewhere deep down, he believed the name belonged to a person who had died in those ruins.
Aftermath
Japan burned.
Kyūshū was gone. Chūgoku was collapsing. The evacuation lines stretched endlessly eastward, and the sound of distant artillery became the background noise of daily life. The BETA advanced, indifferent to borders, history, or humanity itself.
And among the countless refugees—orphans, widows, soldiers without units—was one teenage boy whose survival should have been statistically impossible.
Official records would later list him as:
Status: Rescued civilian
Remarks: Sole survivor of BETA close-contact incident
Further evaluation required
Unofficially, among the soldiers who had seen the corpse and the boy beside it, another name spread in hushed voices:
"The kid who didn't run."
Years later, when Tactical Surface Fighter instructors reviewed combat footage and casualty projections, one of them would pause at a particular file and say:
"This is where it started.
The war didn't just take his family…
it forged something."
Early February, 2000
UN Far East TSF Training Camp – Western Honshū
Snow fell in thin, brittle sheets across the parade ground.
Shinn Watford stood at attention anyway.
Seventeen years old.
Back straight.
Jaw set.
Face bruised deep purple and yellow, blood still wet beneath his nose where it had run freely only minutes earlier.
He didn't wipe it away.
The cold bit into his knuckles as his fists clenched at his sides. Around him, the camp went on as if nothing had happened—cadets jogging, instructors barking orders, the distant mechanical whine of TSF simulators warming up. Life continuing. Always continuing.
Just not for him.
They had found him two years ago in the rubble, next to a dead BETA and the half-eaten bodies of his parents.
Now they stood him here and told him he didn't belong.
"Shinn Watford."
The drill instructor's voice cracked like a rifle shot across the yard.
"You are hereby dismissed from this facility."
Shinn didn't move.
The instructor's eyes were cold. Tired. He had seen too many boys like this—angry, broken, dangerous.
"You were involved in a physical altercation. Multiple witnesses confirm it."
"I didn't start it," Shinn said.
His voice was calm. Too calm for someone accused. Too calm for someone bleeding.
A murmur rippled through the watching cadets.
"Foreigner bastard."
"Half-breed thinks he's special."
"Bet he snapped like an animal."
Shinn didn't look at them.
He had learned early on that meeting their eyes only made it worse.
It had started the way it always did.
A comment about his name.
A joke about his face.
Someone asking which side he'd betray first when the BETA came—Japan's or Europe's.
He hadn't responded.
He never did.
Then someone shoved him.
Another tripped him.
A third spat at his boots.
And finally, one of them said it.
"Your parents died screaming, didn't they?"
That was when Shinn moved.
Not in anger.
In instinct.
The same instinct that had driven a steel rod into a BETA's sensory cluster at point-blank range. The same instinct that told him where to strike, how hard, how fast.
By the time the instructors arrived, three cadets were on the ground.
All of them swore the same thing.
"He attacked us."
And Shinn—bloody, breathing hard, hands shaking—not once denied it.
Because denying things had never brought his parents back.
Had never stopped the war.
Had never mattered.
The dismissal papers were shoved into his chest.
"You're done here," the instructor said. "The war doesn't need unstable pilots."
Shinn finally looked up.
His eyes were empty—but behind that emptiness burned something sharp and terrifyingly focused.
"The war doesn't care," he said quietly.
Silence fell.
The instructor stiffened, then scoffed. "Get your things."
Shinn walked past the line of cadets.
Some looked away in guilt.
Some watched with thinly veiled satisfaction.
One or two looked afraid.
Good, he thought distantly.
Outside the gates, the wind howled across the empty road. In the distance, artillery thundered—a reminder that the BETA were still advancing, still killing, still winning.
He stopped once, hand gripping the chain-link fence.
Two years ago, he had survived the impossible.
One year ago, Japan had burned.
Now, they were casting him aside.
Shinn Watford lowered his head, blood dripping onto the snow.
"…Fine," he murmured.
If the world didn't want him as a soldier—
Then one day, it would face him as something else.
And when it did, the BETA—and everyone who had looked at him and seen a monster—would finally understand:
He hadn't survived the invasion.
He had been made by it.
The cemetery was quiet.
Too quiet.
Snow clung to the edges of the gravestones, half-melted where the weak winter sun touched them. Rows of simple markers stretched across the hillside—names, dates, units. Soldiers. Civilians. Families erased in a war that never paused long enough to mourn them.
Shinn stood before one grave.
No rank.
No unit insignia.
Just two names carved side by side.
His parents.
He lowered himself to one knee, gloved hand resting against the cold stone. For a long moment, he said nothing. The wind brushed past him, carrying the distant echo of artillery from somewhere far away—a reminder that even here, the war watched.
"…I'm sorry," he finally said.
His voice cracked despite himself.
"I told you I'd become a TSF pilot. I told you I'd protect people… so no one else would end up like us."
His fingers tightened.
"But I failed."
The word tasted bitter.
"They said I didn't belong. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was never meant to be there."
A tear slipped free, tracing a line down his bruised cheek before freezing halfway. Shinn angrily wiped it away with the back of his hand, breathing hard, shoulders trembling only once—just once.
Then he stood.
Straightened his coat.
"I won't come back like this again," he said quietly to the stone. "I promise."
That was when he felt it.
A presence.
Not close—but deliberate.
Shinn's hand drifted toward his side out of habit before he remembered he wasn't armed. He turned slowly.
A man stood several meters away near the edge of the cemetery path.
Not UN.
Not Imperial.
The uniform was unmistakably U.S. Army, but not the kind worn by frontline advisers or embassy security. No flashy unit patches. No obvious rank. Just clean, functional, and worn by someone who didn't expect to be questioned.
The man raised a hand slightly—not a wave. A signal.
"Shinn Watford," he said calmly. "I was hoping I'd catch you here."
Shinn's eyes narrowed immediately.
"…Why is a U.S. Army officer standing in front of my parents' grave?"
The man didn't flinch.
"My name is Ian Lee," he replied. "And before you ask—no, I'm not UN, and I'm not here on their behalf."
That made it worse.
Shinn scoffed, stepping back from the tombstone as if to put distance between the man and his parents.
"So what's your angle?" Shinn asked, voice low and sharp. "If you're here to recruit, save it. That camp you just watched kick me out is full of candidates better connected than me."
Ian studied him carefully.
The bruises.
The posture.
The way his weight rested just slightly forward, like he was always braced for impact.
"I'm not here for the camp," Ian said.
Shinn snorted. "Figures."
He turned away, adjusting his bag, and started walking past him.
"Whatever game you're playing," Shinn muttered as he passed, "I'm not interested."
Ian didn't move to stop him.
Didn't raise his voice.
He simply spoke—quietly, confidently—letting the words do the work.
"You killed a BETA at close range at age fifteen."
Shinn stopped.
The wind seemed to pause with him.
Ian continued, still facing the grave, not the boy.
"No heavy weapons. No TSF. No combat training. You exploited terrain, sensory blind spots, and improvised explosives under extreme stress."
Shinn's jaw tightened.
"That report was buried," he said coldly. "UN sealed it."
"It was," Ian agreed. "Which is why only a handful of people ever saw it."
Shinn turned slowly, eyes hard.
"And you're one of them?"
Ian finally looked at him.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them.
"If you think I want pity," Shinn said, "or some propaganda story—"
"I don't," Ian interrupted calmly. "I want results."
That caught him off guard.
Ian took a single step forward—not threatening, not invasive.
"You weren't expelled because you're unqualified," he said. "You were expelled because you don't fit into systems that need obedient pilots."
Shinn laughed—once, humorless.
"So now the U.S. Army suddenly wants me?"
Ian shook his head.
"No," he said. "The U.S. Army doesn't."
He reached into his coat—not quickly—and pulled out a plain folder. No insignia. No seals.
"But someone else does."
Ian held it out—not forcing it into Shinn's hands.
"Walk away if you want," he said evenly. "But if you're serious about that promise you just made…"
His eyes flicked briefly to the tombstone.
"…then hear me out."
The war rumbled in the distance.
And for the first time since he was expelled, Shinn felt it again—that familiar, terrible pull.
Not hope.
Purpose.
The folder never left Ian Lee's hand.
He let it hang at his side as he spoke, voice calm, almost conversational—like they were discussing logistics instead of fate.
"I don't represent the UN," Ian said. "And I don't answer to the Imperial Army either."
Shinn didn't relax.
"That narrows it down to people I shouldn't trust," he replied flatly.
Ian chuckled softly. Not mockery—amusement.
"That's fair." He glanced once more at the tombstone. "What I represent doesn't officially exist anymore. Off the books. Off the record. A joint remnant from the early war years—before politics decided who was expendable."
Shinn's eyes sharpened. "And you want me because…?"
"Because," Ian said, "you're not normal."
Shinn scoffed. "Check the files again. Psychologically unstable. Combat-inefficient. Not qualified to pilot a TSF."
Ian smiled.
"That's what they think a pilot should be."
Then—without warning—
Ian's hand snapped up.
The sidearm cleared its holster in a single smooth motion.
Bang.
Pain exploded through Shinn's chest.
It wasn't heat.
It was impact—like being hit by a truck moving at full speed. The world flipped violently as Shinn was thrown backward, his body slamming into the frozen ground. Air ripped out of his lungs in a silent scream.
His bag skidded away. Snow erupted around him.
Shinn's vision blurred instantly.
So this is it, he thought dimly.
Shot through the heart.
Executed like an animal.
His ears rang. The sky above him swam, gray and distant. He felt his heartbeat stutter—once… twice…
…then slow.
His fingers twitched weakly.
Mom… Dad… I'm sorry.
Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, heavy and absolute. His breathing grew shallow.
He closed his eyes.
UN Far East TSF Training Camp – Same Time
Misaki Takamura stood by the dormitory window, arms folded behind her back.
Snow drifted lazily outside, settling on hangars and training grounds where pilots drilled endlessly for a future that demanded perfection. She was used to being watched—to being praised. The future of the Empire, they called her.
She should have felt satisfied.
Instead, her chest felt… tight.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden.
Shinn Watford.
His bruised face.
The way he hadn't defended himself.
The look in his eyes when he walked away.
"…Was that too much?" she whispered.
Her reflection stared back at her, uncertain.
For just a moment, guilt crept in—sharp and unwelcome.
Then an alarm sounded somewhere distant.
She startled, heart skipping.
For reasons she couldn't explain, she suddenly felt cold.
Cemetery – Minutes Later
Shinn gasped.
Air slammed back into his lungs violently, dragging him into consciousness. His body jerked, hands clawing at his chest as pain flared anew—deep, aching, but… wrong.
Not fatal.
Not anymore.
"What—?!" he choked, eyes flying open.
Ian Lee stood above him, sidearm already holstered, expression unreadable.
Shinn rolled onto his side with a groan, instinct screaming at him to fight. He forced himself upright, vision swimming, and swung—
His fist barely moved before agony tore through his chest, dropping him back to one knee with a strangled gasp.
"Easy," Ian said calmly. "You're not done healing."
Healing?
Shinn's breath hitched.
He looked down with shaking hands and tore open his coat, fingers fumbling at the fabric over his chest.
There was a hole.
Burned cloth. Bloodstain.
But beneath it—
Skin.
Unbroken.
No entry wound. No exit. No scar.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he pressed his palm against his chest.
Warm. Solid.
Alive.
"…What," he whispered hoarsely. "What did you do to me?"
Ian crouched to meet his eye level.
"The round I fired," he said evenly, "was armor-piercing. Designed to punch through modern body armor and liquefy vital organs through kinetic shock alone."
Shinn stared at him in horror.
"It kills normal people instantly," Ian continued. "Even without penetration."
Shinn swallowed hard.
"Then why—?"
"Because you're not normal," Ian said simply.
Shinn's hands trembled as he felt his chest again.
"I felt it," he said. "I died."
Ian nodded once.
"You came very close."
Silence crashed down between them.
"What's happening to me?" Shinn demanded, fear finally breaking through the numbness.
Ian stood, looking down at him—not like a recruiter.
But like a man who had just confirmed a hypothesis.
"This," he said, "is exactly why I want you."
Shinn's mind reeled.
He wasn't rejected because he was weak.
He wasn't expelled because he was unqualified.
He was discarded because he was something else.
And now someone had proven it—with a bullet to the heart.
Shinn's breathing slowly steadied.
The pain in his chest faded—not dulled, not numbed, but gone, as if it had never existed. The cold no longer bit as sharply either. His body felt… wrong. Light. Alert. Awake in a way he had never felt before.
He looked up at Ian Lee, eyes sharp with disbelief.
"…Explain," Shinn said.
Ian exhaled and straightened, gaze drifting briefly to the gray winter sky.
"People like you," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "appear once in a million years—if that. Maybe less."
Shinn frowned. "That's not an explanation."
Ian gave a small, humorless smile. "It's the only honest part I can give you."
He crouched again, resting one forearm on his knee.
"We don't fully understand your condition. Not me. Not my superiors. Not even the people who found it decades ago." His eyes returned to Shinn. "All we know is that under extreme stress—true survival pressure—something in you awakened."
Shinn's jaw tightened.
"So I'm some kind of experiment?"
"No," Ian said immediately. "If you were, you'd already be dissected."
That wasn't reassuring.
Ian continued, "Your cellular response, recovery speed, neural processing under threat—they don't match baseline human limits. That bullet should've stopped your heart by shock alone."
"But it didn't," Shinn said quietly.
"It didn't," Ian confirmed. "Your body adapted. Repaired. Faster than any documented medical response."
Shinn looked at his hands again, flexing his fingers.
"…So what am I?"
Ian shook his head. "That's where my knowledge ends."
Shinn snapped his gaze back up. "You shot me, dragged me into this, and you don't know?"
"I know enough to recognize a weapon when I see one," Ian replied calmly. "And enough to know I'm not the one qualified to explain it."
He reached into his coat again—but this time pulled out a simple metal insignia. No nation. No flag. Just a symbol etched so faintly it was almost invisible.
"My organization was born before the current command structures," Ian said. "Joint effort. UN, Empire of Japan, United States, European Union."
Shinn's eyes widened slightly.
"All of them?" he asked.
"All of them," Ian said. "And none of them."
He closed his fingers around the insignia.
"We don't take orders. We don't answer to councils or parliaments. When politics fail, when treaties collapse, when humanity is cornered…"
He met Shinn's eyes.
"…we act."
Shinn was silent for a long moment.
"And the Professor?" he finally asked.
Ian nodded once. "He's the one who's been waiting for someone like you. Someone who survives what shouldn't be survivable."
He extended his hand.
"I can't promise answers right away," Ian said. "I can promise you the truth—and a chance to fulfill that promise you just made to your parents."
The wind swept across the cemetery again.
Shinn looked at the outstretched hand.
He thought of the camp gates closing behind him.
Of laughter.
Of accusations he never answered.
Of a bullet tearing through his chest—and not winning.
After a second—just one—
Shinn reached out and grasped Ian's hand.
"…I'm in," he said.
Ian's grip tightened briefly. Firm. Certain.
"Good," he replied. "Then welcome to the part of the war no one's allowed to talk about."
UN Far East TSF Training Camp – Later That Evening
The mood in the dormitory was light.
Almost celebratory.
Misaki Takamura sat on her bunk while a few girls lounged nearby, chatting idly as snow tapped softly against the windows.
Someone laughed.
Someone joked about training schedules.
And then Misaki spoke—quietly, hesitantly.
"…Do you think we went too far?"
The room stilled just a little.
Her friends looked at her.
"With Shinn," Misaki clarified. "Kicking him out like that."
One of the girls blinked, then smirked.
"Why? Feeling bad now?"
Misaki didn't answer immediately.
"He didn't even try to defend himself," she said. "What if—"
Another girl cut in, laughing lightly.
"Oh please. Don't tell me you forgot."
Misaki frowned. "Forgot what?"
The girl leaned closer, lowering her voice in mock secrecy.
"Didn't Shinn take your panties that time?" she said. "You were upset, remember?"
Misaki stiffened.
"That was never proven," she said sharply.
The girl shrugged.
"And you agreed expelling him was justified back then, didn't you?"
A couple of the others nodded.
"Yeah, Misaki," one added. "You said people like him were dangerous."
Silence hung heavy.
Misaki looked down at her hands.
She remembered Shinn's eyes.
Not leering.
Not guilty.
Just… empty.
"…I never actually saw him do it," she murmured.
The laughter resumed, softer this time.
"Well, too late now," someone said. "He's gone."
Misaki stared at the dark window.
For reasons she couldn't explain, a chill ran down her spine.
And somewhere far away—beyond the camp, beyond the rules she believed in—
Shinn Watford was stepping into a war that would one day return to them all.
Whether they were ready or not.
Ian Lee didn't argue.
He simply nodded once when Shinn made the request.
"Five minutes," Ian said. "We don't linger."
That was enough.
Shinn Watford's House – Outskirts of the City
The house was small. Too quiet.
Snow had gathered along the eaves, untouched. No lights. No warmth. Just a place frozen in time—like it had been waiting for someone who never quite came back.
Shinn unlocked the door.
The hinges creaked softly as he stepped inside.
Dust hung in the air, illuminated by thin lines of gray winter light slipping through the curtains. Everything was where it had always been. Shoes by the door. A folded blanket on the couch. A faint scent of antiseptic and old cooking oil—memories layered into the walls.
Ian stayed near the entrance, respectful, eyes scanning but silent.
Shinn moved with practiced efficiency.
Clothes.
Documents.
A few personal items.
He packed light.
There was no hesitation. No sentimentality.
Until—
His hand stopped at the edge of the desk.
A small wooden box sat there.
Shinn stared at it for a long moment before opening it.
Inside lay a simple locket.
Silver. Plain. Unassuming.
He had worked extra shifts. Skipped meals. Saved for weeks to buy it.
For Misaki.
He remembered standing at the edge of the training grounds weeks ago, watching from afar—too unsure to approach, too convinced there would be time later.
That was when he saw it.
Saito.
Laughing.
Standing far too close.
And then—Misaki smiling as he fastened a red necklace around her neck. Bright. Bold. Obvious.
Something he had never been.
Shinn closed his eyes.
Not in anger.
In understanding.
"…Idiot," he muttered softly to himself.
Not at her.
At himself.
He closed the box, then reopened it, fingers brushing the cool surface of the locket one last time.
Instead of throwing it away, he slipped it into his pocket.
Not as hope.
Not as love.
But as a reminder.
A reminder of hesitation.
Of silence.
Of believing that doing nothing was safer than being rejected.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
Minutes later, the bag was packed.
Shinn took one last look around the house.
"I'm going," he said quietly—to the empty rooms, to the ghosts that lived there.
He locked the door.
The click echoed louder than it should have.
Road to the Airport
Neither of them spoke as they walked.
The city lights glowed faintly in the distance, blurred by falling snow. Somewhere overhead, aircraft engines rumbled—evacuation flights, military transports, pieces of a world constantly in motion.
Ian finally broke the silence.
"You sure about this?" he asked. "Once you get on that plane, there's no going back."
Shinn adjusted the strap of his bag.
He didn't look back at the house.
"I already left," he replied.
Ian nodded.
That was answer enough.
As they continued toward the airport, Shinn felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not grief.
Not anger.
Resolve.
The boy who had stood helpless in the rubble was gone.
The cadet who had been expelled was gone.
The fool who waited silently while others acted—
Gone.
What remained walked forward into the unknown.
And whatever awaited him beyond that runway—
Shinn Watford would face it head-on.
Mid-January, 2001
Panama Canal Defense Zone
The ocean moved wrong.
At first, radar operators thought it was a storm front—mass displacement beneath the surface, turbulent wakes stretching for kilometers. Then the sonar screens began to scream.
BETA swarm detected.
The warning klaxons wailed across Panama Base as red lights flooded the command center.
"Contacts multiplying—hundreds, no—thousands!"
"They're coming up from the seabed!"
"ETA to shoreline: three minutes!"
The United States Army didn't hesitate.
This wasn't Japan.
This wasn't Europe.
This was the Canal.
And it would not fall.
Beach Defense Line – Pacific Side
Sandbags, steel hedgehogs, and layered kill-zones stretched along the coastline. Abrams tanks dug in hull-down positions, their main guns already tracking the surf. Bradley IFVs and armored formations lined up behind them, missile racks elevated, machine guns spinning up.
Behind the armored line, artillery batteries adjusted elevation.
Farther inland, TSF launch rails screamed as power surged.
One by one, the silhouettes rose into the storm-gray sky:
F-15E Eagle TSFs – heavy assault frames, optimized for firepower
F-14D Tomcat TSFs – interceptor units, wings flexing as they launched
F-22A Raptor TSFs – cutting-edge dominance machines, ghosting forward with terrifying speed
"Panama Base TSF Wing—launch, launch, launch!"
The ground shook as metal giants cleared the rails.
Contact – Shoreline
The sea exploded.
Black, chitinous forms burst from the water in waves that dwarfed any amphibious landing humanity had ever known.
Tank-class BETA emerged first—mountainous bodies grinding forward, armor thick enough to shrug off light fire. Behind them came Grappler-class, their massive limbs tearing through obstacles, flinging wreckage aside with obscene strength.
Then—
"Destroyer-class confirmed!"
The largest shapes rose from the surf like walking fortresses, organic artillery ports opening along their carapaces.
"ALL UNITS—FIRE AT WILL!"
The beach became hell.
Abrams cannons thundered, sabot rounds punching into Tank-class armor, detonations throwing up pillars of sand and alien gore. Missiles streaked from Bradleys, slamming into Grapplers mid-charge, tearing limbs free—but still they came.
Destroyer-class BETA returned fire.
Organic plasma lanced across the shoreline.
Two tanks vanished in white light.
"Sector Bravo breached!"
"Left flank collapsing!"
"TSF support NOW!"
Sky – TSF Engagement Zone
The TSFs dropped like meteors.
F-15E units opened with full barrages—120mm cannons roaring, missiles saturating the surf. F-14Ds darted low, cutting down clusters before pulling vertical at the last second.
And above them—
Raptors moved.
Fast. Silent. Precise.
Destroyer-class BETA targeting nodes vanished in clean, surgical strikes. Heads ruptured. Artillery ports imploded from within.
Still, the swarm pressed forward.
Numbers beyond calculation.
This wasn't a raid.
This was an extermination attempt.
Command Channel – Emergency Priority
"Panama Base to all allied forces—requesting immediate reinforcement!"
"Any available special units, respond!"
"We are holding—but barely!"
Static crackled.
Then a new signal cut through.
Clear. Calm. Unknown.
"This is Independent Task Group Black Flag.
Reinforcement inbound."
The command room froze.
"…Identify yourselves," the base commander demanded.
A brief pause.
"Negative.
Just know this—
the front line is about to shift."
High above the battlefield, beyond radar range, something else entered the atmosphere.
Not a formation.
Not a squadron.
A single descending heat signature.
And somewhere inside a cockpit marked by no nation, no insignia—
A young man watched the battlefield unfold, eyes steady, heartbeat calm.
One year ago, he had left everything behind.
Today—
Shinn Watford was coming back to the war.
Panama Defense Zone – Upper Atmosphere
Mid-January, 2001
The clouds parted.
A single Tactical Surface Fighter descended through the smoke and fire like a blade slipping from its sheath—angular, dark, its surfaces swallowing radar and light alike.
F-15SE Silent Eagle TSF
Shinn Watford stood tall inside the cockpit, his body locked into the Fortified Suit, neural links humming softly against his spine. The helmet sealed with a soft hiss, HUD blooming to life in layered green and amber.
No flags.
No unit markings.
No nation.
Only function.
F-15SE SILENT EAGLE – SPECIFICATION READOUT
Manufacturer: Boeing
Generation: Quasi-3rd / 3rd Generation
Role: Semi-Stealth All-Purpose Fighter
Height: 18 meters
Engines: Pratt & Whitney FE100-PW-220
Armament:
AMWS-21 Combat System
Type-92 Multipurpose Supplemental Armor
AIM-54 Phoenix
Type-74 PB Blade
The system finished its checks in less than a second.
ALL SYSTEMS GREEN
Shinn's hands rested lightly on the control grips.
No shaking.
No hesitation.
Below him, the battlefield burned.
Tank-class BETA ground forward through artillery fire. Grappler-class tore into armored lines. Destroyer-class organic cannons continued to rake the shoreline, forcing TSFs into desperate interception patterns.
Humanity was losing ground.
Again.
A calm voice chimed into his cockpit.
Ian Lee.
"Telemetry looks clean, Shinn."
Shinn didn't respond verbally. He didn't need to.
"Fourth mission," Ian continued, almost casually.
"So try to enjoy the fight."
Shinn's targeting reticle locked onto a Destroyer-class emerging from the surf.
"Copy," he replied at last, voice steady.
A pause.
Ian added, almost like an afterthought:
"And don't go all out."
Shinn's lips tightened behind the helmet.
"…Understood."
The Silent Eagle's engines flared—not loud, not bright, but controlled. He dropped into the combat envelope at an oblique angle, slipping past radar coverage, past targeting solutions, past expectations.
Enemy sensors didn't even register him.
Until it was too late.
Shinn's right hand twitched.
AIM-54 Phoenix – LIVE
Missiles detached silently, streaking downward before igniting mid-fall. Three Destroyer-class BETA vanished in overlapping detonations, their artillery nodes collapsing inward as if crushed by an invisible fist.
Panama command channels erupted.
"WHAT JUST HIT THEM?!"
"Those signatures weren't on our board!"
"Unknown TSF—repeat, UNKNOWN TSF ENGAGING!"
Shinn didn't slow.
The Silent Eagle landed amid the swarm, sand and alien ichor exploding outward as the Type-74 PB Blade deployed with a metallic shriek. One clean arc—
A Tank-class BETA split open from mandible to thorax.
Shinn moved through the battlefield like he had been born to it.
Not reckless.
Not aggressive.
Efficient.
Every motion minimized. Every strike final.
And still—
He held back.
Because Ian had told him to.
Because this was only the beginning.
High above the battlefield, commanders watched in stunned silence as a single unmarked TSF began carving a corridor through a force that had stalled an entire defense line.
And somewhere, deep within Shinn Watford's mind, a quiet realization settled:
This wasn't training.
This wasn't survival.
This was what he had been made for.
Same Day — Tokyo
UN–Imperial Joint Operations Briefing Facility
The ceremony had ended an hour ago.
Fresh insignia caught the light as newly commissioned pilots and officers stood in small clusters, talking over one another with the restless energy of people finally allowed to breathe. Laughter echoed off polished floors; cameras flashed; aides hurried back and forth with tablets full of schedules and deployment notices.
Misaki Takamura stood among them—back straight, posture perfect.
Lieutenant, UN–IJA Joint Forces.
Future of the Empire, just as they had promised.
Her uniform fit flawlessly.
She should have felt proud.
A wall-mounted screen flickered as a breaking alert cut into the room's ambient noise.
"—developing situation in Central America.
BETA swarm confirmed approaching Panama Canal defense zone—"
Several heads turned.
Someone whistled low. "Panama, huh."
"US Army'll handle it," another said casually. "They've got Raptor TSFs stationed there."
Misaki glanced at the screen.
Satellite imagery showed the coastline, red threat markers blooming like infection points across the ocean surface.
"Destroyer-class confirmed," the announcer continued.
"Ground forces engaging—heavy resistance—"
Misaki folded her arms.
"They'll hold," she said, confident. "Panama's too important to lose."
One of her former campmates—one of the girls who had laughed the loudest that day—nodded.
"Yeah. Americans don't mess around with their backyard."
Another smirked. "Unlike Japan back then."
A few chuckled.
Misaki didn't.
She found herself drifting slightly away from the group, eyes fixed on the screen as footage shifted to blurred combat feeds—artillery flashes, TSFs launching, Abrams firing from beachhead positions.
For a brief, irrational moment, a name surfaced in her mind.
Shinn.
She frowned, dismissing it.
Why would he matter now?
"He wouldn't even qualify as a pilot," someone had said.
Right.
She turned back as someone addressed her.
"Lieutenant Takamura, first deployment's coming fast. Nervous?"
Misaki shook her head. "No."
And it was true.
She had trained for this. Prepared for this. Earned her place.
Far away, on the other side of the world, the Panama battle intensified—unknown signals flickering on and off American sensors, BETA units collapsing faster than projections allowed.
But none of that reached this room.
No mention of an unmarked TSF.
No footage of a black, angular silhouette cutting through a swarm like a scalpel.
No name attached to the sudden, impossible reversal on the front line.
Misaki watched the screen one last time as the briefing ended.
"US command's confident," the announcer concluded.
"Situation is… stabilizing."
She exhaled softly.
See? she told herself. The world keeps moving.
She didn't know that, at that very moment—
The boy she had once doubted, dismissed, and helped cast out was standing alone amid burning wreckage, doing what entire divisions could not.
She didn't know that Shinn Watford was there.
She didn't know that the war had just gained something new.
And she certainly didn't know—
That one day, the name on everyone's lips would be his.
Not hers.
Panama Canal Defense Zone – Active Combat
Mid-January, 2001
The battlefield was chaos.
Explosions stitched the shoreline. Abrams tanks fired until their barrels glowed. TSFs dueled amid plumes of sand and alien ichor. Command channels overlapped with half-shouted orders and clipped acknowledgments.
Then—
A new sound cut through it all.
Not static.
Not orders.
Music.
A sharp electric riff burst over an open-band channel, amplified by external speakers mounted along the black TSF's frame. It echoed across the beachhead, bouncing off burning wreckage and shattered concrete.
🎵 "Highway to the—" 🎵
Panama command froze.
"What the hell—who's broadcasting music in a combat zone?!"
The answer arrived immediately—because the F-15SE Silent Eagle moved.
Shinn pushed the throttles forward.
🎵 "Danger Zone!" 🎵
The engines screamed—not in excess, but precision—as the Silent Eagle knifed low over the surf. AIM-54 Phoenix missiles detached in a staggered ripple, arcing outward before slamming down into a cluster of Destroyer-class BETA. Three organic artillery nodes detonated in sequence, collapsing the line of fire that had pinned the armored division for twenty minutes.
Cheers erupted over open channels.
"Direct hits! Destroyers neutralized!"
"Whoever that pilot is—keep doing THAT!"
Shinn didn't answer.
The beat kicked in harder.
🎵 "Revvin' up your engine—" 🎵
He dropped straight into the swarm.
The Type-74 PB Blade ignited, its edge shimmering as it carved through a Tank-class BETA's forward armor. One cut. One step. Another swing—clean, economical, lethal. A Grappler-class lunged; Shinn sidestepped, seized the limb, and drove the blade through its thorax before it could react.
The Silent Eagle never stopped moving.
🎵 "Headin' into twilight—" 🎵
US TSF pilots stared in disbelief as the unmarked unit threaded gaps no simulator could teach, anticipating BETA movement a heartbeat before it happened.
"Is he—predicting them?"
"No way—no human pilot can—"
Shinn rolled, fired, pivoted, and vaulted over a collapsing Destroyer carcass as its death spasms sent shockwaves across the beach. He landed, engines flaring, and tore forward again.
🎵 "Take you right into the—" 🎵
A Phoenix detonated directly beneath a dense cluster of Tank-class units.
The sand itself lifted.
🎵 "Danger Zone!" 🎵
For the first time since the swarm surfaced, the BETA advance stalled.
Then it broke.
Panama Base sensors updated in real time—red markers vanishing faster than operators could track them.
"Enemy density collapsing across sectors!"
"We're pushing them back—repeat, PUSHING THEM BACK!"
Above it all, the music blared—defiant, reckless, alive.
Inside the cockpit, Shinn's expression didn't change.
Heart steady.
Breathing controlled.
Ian Lee's voice cut in, dry but unmistakably impressed.
"You're having fun."
Shinn adjusted his trajectory, lining up another strike.
"…Maybe," he replied.
A pause.
"Remember what I said," Ian added. "Don't go all out."
Shinn's fingers hovered over a control he hadn't touched yet.
"…Roger."
The song roared on across the battlefield as the Silent Eagle surged forward once more—
a black silhouette dancing through fire and alien death—
and for the first time that day, the BETA learned something new:
This battlefield belonged to him.
Panama Canal Defense Zone – Command & Frontline
Mid-January, 2001
The radar screen flickered.
A black silhouette cut across the tactical display—fast, clean, impossible to lock.
"No IFF," a U.S. Army operations officer said sharply. "No nation tag. No unit flag. Who the hell owns that TSF?"
The room buzzed with tension.
A senior officer leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as the data scrolled.
"…That's an F-15SE Silent Eagle frame," he said. "Prototype lineage. Semi-stealth. Not assigned to any standing U.S. wing."
Another officer looked up. "Then whose is it?"
A pause.
Then, quietly:
"It doesn't belong to us.
It belongs to them."
The room fell silent.
"Independent Task Group," the officer continued. "Joint origin. UN, Japan, Europe, the States. Black program. No flags. No command chain."
Someone swallowed. "So… an allied asset?"
The senior officer watched the black TSF plunge straight into a dense BETA cluster and erase it in seconds.
"…Call it that."
Panama Coast – Active Combat
Across the beachhead, speakers mounted on the Silent Eagle's external frame blared music into the storm and smoke.
🎵 Danger Zone 🎵
The guitar riff screamed across the coastline like a challenge.
Shinn drove the Silent Eagle forward, engines singing in perfect harmony with the beat. AMWS-21 fire stitched a precise line through advancing Tank-class BETA. A Grappler-class lunged—too slow. The Type-74 PB Blade flashed once, twice, and the creature collapsed in pieces.
🎵 "Highway to the—" 🎵
"ALL UNITS," a U.S. commander barked, snapping out of his shock. "You see that corridor? FOLLOW IT!"
Abrams cannons thundered.
Bradleys unleashed missile salvos.
Artillery shifted fire to match the black TSF's advance, shells landing exactly where the Silent Eagle had just been—as if the pilot knew where every round would fall.
🎵 "Danger Zone!" 🎵
The BETA line began to crumble.
Japan – UN / IJA Joint Facility (News Feed)
The footage hit the global feeds within minutes.
Grainy at first. Shaky. Then clearer.
A black F-15SE TSF, alone, carving through a BETA swarm near the Panama coast—moving faster than the camera could track, explosions blooming in its wake.
Gasps rippled through the room.
"What is that…?"
"He's soloing them—"
"No unit support?!"
Misaki Takamura stared at the screen.
Her breath caught.
The TSF moved with terrifying confidence—no wasted motion, no hesitation. The music echoed faintly through the broadcast audio, distorted but unmistakable.
One of her friends whispered, stunned, "Is… is that a new American ace?"
Another shook her head. "That's not standard doctrine. Not even close."
Misaki didn't speak.
Something about the movement felt… familiar.
She pushed the thought away.
Impossible.
Panama – Battlefield (Continued)
🎵 "Revvin' up your engine—" 🎵
Shinn didn't slow.
He didn't acknowledge the cheers flooding open channels. He didn't answer the frantic hails trying to identify him.
He simply kept moving—cutting a path so clean that U.S. forces could finally advance in force behind him.
Ian Lee's voice chimed in, calm as ever.
"They've noticed you."
Shinn rolled the Silent Eagle through a plume of smoke, locked targets, and fired.
"…Good," he replied.
🎵 "You'll never say hello to you—until you get it on the—" 🎵
The coast shook as coordinated U.S. firepower finally surged forward—tanks, IFVs, artillery, TSFs—all advancing behind the corridor one unmarked pilot had carved alone.
And across the world, millions watched the footage on loop.
A black TSF.
No flag.
No name.
The question echoed everywhere:
Has the U.S. Army found a new ace?
Only one person on that battlefield knew the truth.
And he kept it to himself as the music roared and the BETA fell—
one after another—
into the Danger Zone.