Valkyr
Lancer
July, 2006 - Japanese Outlands
Yuji stared at the ground between his feet as the carriage travelled down the track. The darkness outside was like a wall of black pressed against the windows. The fluorescent glow of the carriage lights protected the occupants from the void beyond, casting a pale, clinical hue over everyone inside. The air was dry and still, filled only with the quiet rattle of metal wheels against rails and the occasional creak of strained suspension. Every so often, the flicker of a passing light pole outside broke the monotony, momentarily painting the carriage in fleeting shadows.
"This isn't right," a man stammered out.
Yuji didn’t look up.
"They can't do this to us. We're human beings," the man continued, his voice cracking with desperation.
People began to turn toward the voice. A middle-aged man, similar in age to Yuji, stood gripping a metal pole for balance. He was malnourished, his skin taut and pale. His ribs pressed against fabric that hung off him like it belonged to someone else. The faint trembling of his arms betrayed how much strength it took just to remain upright.
"It's all a nightmare. I can't wake up. I can't wake up," the man muttered again, more frantically.
Whispers and muttering followed. Eyes lowered. Heads turned. The man was clearly breaking down. But who wasn’t? Grief and fear were part of the air now. They breathed it with every shallow inhale. Some passengers closed their eyes. Others whispered reassurances to themselves as though repetition could become belief.
Yuji shifted in his seat but kept his gaze down. The man began to sob, his voice dissolving into broken gasps, shaking now.
"I need to wake up. My family needs me. I need my family. I need them."
His knees gave out. A few nearby passengers reached out, steadying him, offering hushed comfort. One woman placed a hand on his shoulder. Another gave him her scarf. The man wept into someone's sleeve, clinging to whatever shred of warmth he could find.
Yuji looked up.
The pain was raw. It cut through the hum of the train and the drone of overhead lights. Yuji watched the man crumble and saw himself. Saw his own collapse, one year ago. Two. Three. He'd lost track. The despair was universal, but each person bore it alone. It was in the silence, in the staring, in the way people clung to what little they had left.
He felt his throat tighten. A tear rolled down his cheek.
He leaned back against the cold wall of the carriage, letting the fluorescent light wash over him. His eyes closed. Memory came like smoke—fleeting, curling around the edges of his mind.
May 26th, 2003 - Kyoto
"This is unit 309, I am taking a break." Yuji sighed and clipped the radio handset back onto the holder attached to the dashboard. The radio crackled with static before control acknowledged his break.
He shifted the car into first gear and eased into the road, heading toward the outlying suburbs of Kyoto. The city had grown quieter in recent weeks. Streets once teeming with life now lay desolate, dotted with sandbags, makeshift barricades, and the occasional glint of watchful eyes peering from behind boarded-up windows. The only ones who walked the streets now were the desperate, the reckless, or those with nothing left to lose.
Yuji rolled past shuttered storefronts and vehicles left to rot at awkward angles. Billboards hung loose, swaying in the breeze like forgotten prayers. Every corner reminded him of the change. The way life had been before the portal storms—before the skies cracked open and rained monsters. Before reality turned alien.
Would it ever end? Would those swirling rifts ever seal? Or would this... this new normal persist forever? A cold eternity under alien skies?
He turned onto a narrow road flanked by homes in various states of decay. The neighborhood had once been beautiful—well-tended gardens, clean sidewalks, laughter echoing during summer evenings. Now it was just another husk. Debris littered the lawns. Windows were boarded up. Some houses had collapsed entirely, overtaken by creeping vines and mold. Hints of old lives clung stubbornly—bicycles rusting in driveways, a child’s shoe on the porch.
Yuji slowed the car and pulled into a familiar driveway. The engine clicked and groaned as it came to a halt. He stepped out, boots crunching on gravel. The air smelled of smoke and stagnant water. Distant thunder—or perhaps artillery—rumbled in the distance.
Walking up the short path to the front door, he adjusted his jacket. His badge was still pinned to the chest—faded, but intact. A symbol of a world that no longer existed. He knocked firmly, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet afternoon.
Footsteps. The door creaked open.
A familiar face. Her eyes still tired, but warmer than anything he’d seen in days.
Yuji took a deep breath. His voice caught in his throat.
"Ma'am. I am afraid your husband is..." He paused, letting his head drop slightly in mock solemnity.
He looked up again, and smiled.
"Hungry. Very, very hungry."
Natsuki rolled her eyes, a laugh bubbling up as she stepped aside to let him in. He leaned forward and kissed her gently, grounding himself in that fleeting moment of peace before anything could come and spoil it.
"I suppose we could spare some rations for the handsome man that has been protecting us all this time," Natsuki teased.
Yuji followed her into the house, closing the door behind him. As soon as his presence was heard, two kids came rushing out to meet him. A nine-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl. Riku and Miyu.
"Dad! Did you shoot any aliens today?" Riku asked, eyes wide with excitement.
Yuji laughed and shook his head. "Eh? Aliens? You mean those wild four-legged things? Here I thought they were just weird-looking dogs."
Natsuki smiled as she dished up a bowl of rice for Yuji. The food was simple, but precious. Every grain hard-earned.
Yuji looked over at his wife, still smiling, but not as much.
"We're expecting a pretty severe portal storm again today. They're getting good at predicting them now, I think. But I think we should go to a shelter," Yuji said.
Natsuki hesitated slightly before responding. "I don't trust people these days. They're desperate, and we have to look after the kids."
Yuji sighed and bowed his head. The weight of responsibility pressed on his shoulders like armor he couldn’t take off.
"You know, I really do think we should this time..." he began.
Before the conversation could continue, a shockwave ruptured through the house, shaking the ground and the foundations. Plates clattered. The sound followed shortly after—a thunderous explosion, bigger than anything they had ever heard.
Yuji stumbled. The kids screamed. Natsuki panicked, rushing to shield them. Yuji sprinted to the window and looked outside. A huge fireball, bigger than anything imaginable, loomed in the distance. But it had a strange glow to it—violet and blue, crackling with energy. Not just fire. Something else. Something wrong.
"Car, now." Yuji yelled, adrenaline flooding his veins.
The family rushed out. Yuji grabbed the emergency bags they'd kept by the door—pre-packed for weeks, just in case. His heart pounded in his chest as he trailed behind his wife and children, urging them forward with a sharp, urgent tone. The sky had turned a violent shade of purple. The air buzzed with static. Every instinct screamed at him to move faster.
He opened the back door of the car, helping Riku in first and then lifting Miyu quickly into her seat. Their eyes were wide, shimmering with tears, too stunned to even cry yet. He slammed the door shut and ran around the vehicle, throwing open the passenger side so Natsuki could slide in. Her hands were trembling, clutching the strap of one of the bags like it was a lifeline.
Once they were in, Yuji sprinted toward the driver’s side. That’s when he saw it.
He paused, door still open, frozen in place. A shadow loomed overhead, silent at first. Then came the low, resonant hum—a sound that didn’t belong in the natural world. Above him hovered a flying machine, but the longer he stared, the more it distorted. Not a vehicle. Not a craft. A thing. The lines of it bent unnaturally, flowing like liquid metal and bone. Its surface indistinguishable between mechanical plating and organic skin. His mouth went dry.
Without warning, the creature-machine fired. A volley of tracer rounds lit the sky and slammed into a house two doors down, the explosion reducing it to rubble in an instant. Screams echoed down the street. Dust, debris, and fire painted the night.
Yuji snapped into motion, dropping into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. His fingers fumbled for the keys, heart hammering as the engine turned over with a strained growl.
Natsuki screamed. The kids sobbed now, full-throated terror erupting from them. Yuji clenched his jaw and shoved the gearstick into reverse. He pulled a tight j-turn out of the driveway, tires screeching against the asphalt. The vehicle fishtailed before catching traction, speeding down the street as gunfire echoed behind them.
He aimed for the shelter, the municipal parking structure retrofitted into a crude refuge. Reinforced walls. Guards. It was the best hope they had—or so he prayed.
He flicked on the police sirens, red and blue strobing wildly against the surrounding chaos. It didn’t matter if they drew attention now. They had to get through. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, the engine howling as they tore down the broken streets of Kyoto, death on their heels.
Soldiers swarmed the rooftops, launching missiles and firing machine guns at the flying creatures that glided with eerie precision through the smoke-filled sky. Muzzle flashes and rocket trails lit the skyline in violent bursts, painting the buildings in flickering orange light. But the air was filled with more than the roar of explosions—there was that deep, alien droning hum that never ceased.
Then came the walkers. Tall, spindly three-legged machines, towering over the battlefield like monstrous giants. They reached the height of three-story buildings, moving with unnatural grace despite their size. Mounted beneath their segmented chassis were heavy cannons that glowed with a pulsing blue light, charging with menace.
Yuji swerved, narrowly missing a group of retreating JSDF soldiers. One of the walkers fired, its cannon lighting up the night sky with a searing blast of energy. The round struck a tank ahead, turning it into a fireball of molten steel and shrapnel. Bodies flew like ragdolls in the shockwave.
Before Yuji could process it, another cannon blast ripped through the street just behind the vehicle. The explosion lifted the car from the ground, shattering every window. Yuji fought for control, but the vehicle rolled—once, twice, then again and again. Metal screamed. Glass rained inside like razors.
They rolled five or six times before landing upright in the middle of a destroyed intersection. The car hissed and groaned as smoke rose from the crumpled hood.
Yuji was dazed. His ears rang. Blood trickled down his forehead. He had no idea what had happened. Then he heard the scream. A scream that tore straight through him. His wife.
The sound was blood-curdling.
He looked over. She was covered in blood, not all of it hers, hands braced on the back seat. She was screaming at something. Not him. Behind him.
Yuji turned. His daughter, Miyu, was there, crying, bruised and bleeding, but alive. Her face twisted in pain, one arm dangling limp at her side. But next to her—Riku. His son. His small frame was slumped. Blood soaked the seat. He wasn’t moving.
Panic overtook Yuji. He unbuckled and forced the door open, stumbling out and rushing to the back. He tore the door open and pulled Riku into his arms, holding him tight. The boy's face was pale. Yuji pressed his ear to the small chest.
A breath.
Faint, but there.
Yuji gasped, overwhelmed with relief and terror. "Let's go, we need to go!" he begged, voice cracking.
Natsuki clambered out, limping. She took hold of Miyu, who could barely stand. They didn’t speak—they just moved.
Yuji led the way, sprinting toward an alley, his son clutched against his chest like a lifeline. The world burned behind them, but all that mattered was forward.
Halfway through the alley, Yuji saw movement—a creature crawling from the shadows. It was dog-like, but alien, its limbs too long, its body covered in slick, armor-like flesh. Hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny eyes blinked across its face and shoulders. It snarled.
Yuji froze. Then he turned and passed Riku into Natsuki’s arms. "Take him," he said, urgently.
She took the boy without hesitation. Yuji drew his service pistol, hands shaking, and raised it toward the creature. It shrieked, a sound that pierced the brain more than the ears. Yuji didn’t wait. He fired.
The shots echoed in the narrow alley. One. Two. Five. The creature staggered. It shrieked again, lurching forward.
Yuji emptied the magazine into it. The creature collapsed, twitching once before going still. Smoke curled from its wounds.
He reloaded quickly, fingers slick with sweat and blood, then turned to Natsuki. "We're almost there!" he shouted, eyes wide with desperation.
He crossed the street, waving them forward.
His wife ran with Riku in her arms. Miyu clung to her. Feet pounded the pavement. They were almost to him.
Then everything went quiet. A silence so complete it felt wrong.
A beam of bright blue light cut horizontally across the street, soundless and precise. In one instant, they were there.
In the next, they were gone.
His wife. His son. His daughter. Vaporized.
Yuji screamed. A sound torn from the core of his soul. He ran forward, arms out, as if he could still catch them. But there was only ash.
Then a burst of heat. A thunderclap. And blackness.
July, 2006 - City 8
Yuji jolted awake, heart pounding, the final echoes of a scream still fading from his ears. Disoriented, he blinked rapidly, adjusting to the cold artificial light of the train carriage. Around him, misery painted the faces of everyone he looked at—hollow cheeks, vacant eyes, expressions weathered by grief and exhaustion. No one spoke. No one comforted. They all sat like statues carved from suffering.
The carriage lurched as it pulled into the station, brakes hissing and groaning. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting momentary shadows across the filmy windows. The train slowed to a crawl, and with a final jolt, came to a halt.
The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss. Cold air rushed inside, mingling with the staleness of recycled breath. People stood—slowly, stiffly—grabbing what few belongings they had. Some carried bags. Others carried nothing. No words were exchanged as they stepped off, one after another, into the subdued light of City 8’s arrival platform.
Yuji stood up, knees stiff from hours of tension. He stumbled slightly, catching himself against the seat. His whole body ached, not from any one injury, but from the weight of memory. He grabbed the overhead rail for balance, took a breath, and stepped into the tide of humanity shuffling onto the platform.
The ceiling overhead loomed oppressively low. Fluorescent lights buzzed. The walls were lined with dull gray paneling and intercom speakers that crackled but said nothing. Armed guards watched from catwalks above, their masks gleaming under the lights. A loudspeaker issued a garbled announcement—inaudible, irrelevant.
Yuji wiped a stray tear from his cheek, not bothering to hide it. The cold bit at his face. He adjusted his jacket, then lowered his eyes and began walking, one foot in front of the other.