Not a Weapon

The door to the recording studio slammed open.

Four men stormed inside, dressed head to toe in pure white. Assault rifles hung from their shoulders, already coming up.

True purists.

Gunfire ripped through the room.

Anti-purists dropped instantly - some diving for cover, others hit and screaming, others never moving again. The attackers were behind schedule. Sloppy. Rushed.

One cameraman - either with balls bigger than Tokyo Tower or just terminally stupid - didn’t run. He swung his bulky camera around and aimed it straight at the intruders.

They didn’t shoot him.

That was when it became clear.

They wanted this filmed.

Braith couldn’t move. His body locked up, breath trapped in his chest.

But Yumie understood immediately.

Blind as she was, she felt the shift, the intent. She surged to her feet, yanking on their linked hands, and threw herself into Braith.

They crashed to the floor together just as gunfire tore through the space where they’d been sitting.

Yumie yelped as a round grazed her back.

That snapped Braith out of it.

He wrapped his arms around her, thought heal, and green wisps bloomed instantly. The pain vanished.

Then another burst slammed into her side.

She screamed.

Braith felt bullets punch through her and bury themselves into his abdomen. He gasped, forced the healing again.

The wounds sealed.

The bullets stayed.

He groaned as the gunmen advanced, boots crunching through shattered glass and bodies. The camera followed them - then swung back, centering on Braith and Yumie tangled together on the floor.

Another burst.

Yumie’s back exploded in red.

She screamed again, but the pain vanished almost as quickly as it came. She sagged against him, gasping.

“Stop…” she whimpered.

Four more shots tore into her.

Her sweater shredded. Blood pooled beneath them, Braith’s seeping through his clothes, dripping onto the floor. She cried out, voice breaking.

“Stop! Stop!”

One of the gunmen sneered.

“Pathetic. You made up all that nonsense about being a weapon. You’re useless.”

He fired again.

Rounds ripped into her, some punching straight through. Braith grunted with every impact, healing surging again and again, never fast enough to spare the pain entirely.

Yumie’s tears splashed onto his cheeks.

“You’re hurting us…” she sobbed.

Another spread of shots.

Her body trembled violently now. Braith’s vision began to blur at the edges.

Her clothes were ruined - fabric torn, soaked, barely clinging together. His were little better. Her back was half exposed, red and slick, yet the sweater somehow still held.

Another man laughed.

“You’d better shoot us soon,” he taunted. “Because eventually we’ll stop aiming at you and go for your boyfriend.”

Another hit.

Yumie cried out, pain erased almost instantly - only to return moments later.

“I’m not a weapon-”

Gunfire.

Again.

Again.

It was torture - being hurt, healed, hurt again. An endless loop. A carefully curated hell.

The men were close now. So close Braith could smell gun oil and sweat.

The camera never looked away.

Across Japan - and far beyond it - the world watched.

But Braith and Yumie knew none of that.

They only knew each other.

Shots punched through both of them now, bodies jerking with every impact. Blood slicked the floor beneath them, soaking their clothes into unrecognizable colors.

Yumie sobbed, helpless and broken.

“I’m not a weapon…”

The men laughed.

One of them emptied the last rounds in his magazine into her, then let the empty clip fall. It skittered across the floor.

He stepped forward and kicked Braith hard in the hip.

Something cracked.

Braith cried out - then felt the damage knit itself back together, pain flashing and fading and flashing again. His chest burned. His stomach throbbed. Healing dulled it for only a heartbeat at a time.

Still, the camera stayed locked on them.

Still, the broadcast continued.

The back of Yumie’s head vanished in a violent spray as a burst of rounds obliterated her skull.

Her mind went dark instantly.

But her soul remained.

Braith’s healing command surged, raw and desperate, and her body obeyed. Bone reformed. Flesh knit. She gasped sharply as consciousness slammed back into her, sobbing as air burned into her lungs.

The men were out of patience.

Ammunition was running low. Time was running out. Sirens were coming - distant, but inevitable.

They had to finish this.

Another burst tore away the last remnants of Yumie’s sweater. As the damage healed, the man who had kicked them crouched beside her. His fingers traced down her blood-covered back, slow and deliberate.

Yumie whimpered, her tail slack between her legs as his hand hooked briefly at her waistband. Her body trembled.

“For a weapon,” he jeered, “you’re awfully cute.”

He leaned closer.

“I wonder what you taste like.”

Yumie shut her eyes - pointless, but instinctive - and bowed her head.

Then she kissed Braith.

Hard.

Braith, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, snapped fully awake. He clutched her desperately as she shook, feeling herself being exposed inch by inch-

-and then he felt it.

A presence.

Braith opened his eyes to see the muzzle of an assault rifle hovering inches above his face.

“Any last words?” the man sneered.

Braith couldn’t answer. Yumie’s lips sealed his, trembling and fierce. He held her tighter, kissed her back, and braced himself.

If this was the end, he would meet it with her.

A gunshot cracked.

The rifle jerked violently, slamming into Braith’s head before clattering to the floor. He broke from the kiss just in time to see the man topple backward, a neat hole punched through his skull.

The other attackers spun instantly.

A man in a black suit lying on the ground leant on his elbow, handgun smoking.

Sunata.

One of the gunmen fired reflexively. Sunata’s head snapped back as the bullet struck, his body collapsing as his weapon slipped from his fingers.

The shooter’s rifle clicked empty. He threw it aside.

Braith barely had time to register what had happened before Yumie was kissing him again - desperate, shaking, tears streaking down her cheeks and across their mouths.

Hands grabbed at her again, feeling closer and closer-

-then the door exploded open.

Military personnel flooded the room, weapons raised. One gunman tried to turn his rifle - not on the soldiers, but on Braith.

A single shot took him through the neck.

He fell.

The remaining attackers were dispatched in seconds, bodies hitting the floor as shouted commands filled the studio. Medics were called. Orders barked. Boots thundered.

The red LIVE light finally went dark.

The last cameraman stepped back, hands shaking.

Yumie broke the kiss and gasped for breath.

Braith felt his strength drain all at once. The pain in his abdomen dragged him under, vision collapsing into darkness.

As Yumie screamed his name, the last thing he hoped - fervently, desperately - was that she wouldn’t stop someone from healing him again.