Tears and Scars

Ken ran. He ran, ignoring the muscular aches from the march, ignoring the curious looks from other Yokota refugees and soldiers. He threw open random doors, apologized to nurses he almost bowled over, and kept running. His internal "radar," the instinct he’d developed to hunt beasts, now guided him toward something far more important.

Finally, at the end of a long hallway that smelled of antiseptic and old blood, he found an open door marked "Minor Injuries - Sector 4."

Ken stopped in the doorway, panting. The room was full of bunks occupied by wounded from Hachioji. But his eyes went straight to a corner by the window.

There they were. Shinji sat on the edge of a bed, his head wrapped in so many bandages he looked like he was wearing a white turban. Yamato was in a chair beside him, both arms completely bandaged and in slings, struggling to adjust his glasses using only his fingertips.

The sound of Ken’s ragged breathing made them both turn. Time seemed to freeze. Shinji blinked, disbelieving. Yamato’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out. They stared as if seeing a ghost—as if they couldn’t process that the dirtier, taller, wilder-eyed boy in front of them was their friend.

"Ken...?" Shinji whispered, his voice cracking.

Ken said nothing. He stumbled forward a few steps, then broke into a run. He lunged at them. It wasn’t a military salute. It wasn’t a handshake. It was a collision of desperate affection. Ken threw his arms around Shinji’s neck and Yamato’s shoulders in a hug that nearly toppled them from the bed.

"You’re alive!" Ken shouted, burying his face in Shinji’s shoulder. "You damn idiots, you’re alive!"

It took Shinji and Yamato a second to react, but when they did, they clung to him with equal force. And then, the dam broke. All three of them began to cry. It wasn’t a heroic, silent cry. They wept bitterly, with loud, ugly sobs, letting out all the fear, stress, and trauma they’d bottled up for weeks. They cried for their fallen home, for the fear of death, and above all, for the unbearable relief of knowing they weren’t alone at the end of the world.

The nurses and other wounded watched them, but no one interrupted. In times of war, a reunion like this was a sacred miracle.

After a few minutes that felt like hours, the crying subsided, replaced by nervous laughter and sniffles. Ken pulled back, wiping his eyes on his uniform sleeve. "I thought... I thought the same thing that happened to Naomi had happened to you," Ken admitted, his voice trembling. "I thought I was too late..."

Shinji shook his head, smiling beneath the bandages. "Don't worry about us, Ken. We're stronger now. We weren't gonna die that easy."

"The leader shouldn't worry so much about his squad," Yamato added, trying to fix his glasses with his bandaged fingers and failing comically. "We survived hell."

Ken smiled, feeling a weight of a thousand tons lift from his chest. He looked around, hoping to see one more face. "And... Tanimoto?" he asked, searching for the swordsman. "Where's that show-off? He's probably in another room complaining about the food, right?"

Shinji’s smile vanished. Yamato looked down at his bandaged hands. Silence returned to the room, but this time it was cold and heavy.

"Guys?" Ken pressed.

"Squad Leader Tanimoto is missing in action."

The voice didn't come from his friends. It came from behind, near the door. It was a young voice, almost childlike, yet laden with a seriousness that didn't match its tone. Ken felt a chill. He turned slowly.

Leaning against the doorframe was a boy. He couldn't have been more than thirteen. He was short, slender, and wore a Kijin uniform slightly too big for him. His hair was jet black, with streaks dyed electric yellow, and he had a long braid in the back that reached almost to the floor. Strangest of all was his gear: his tactical vest was covered in brightly colored stickers of anime girls and old robots, relics of pre-Calamity pop culture.

Ken frowned. "And who... is this brat?"

Yamato sighed. "Ken, this is Kazuha Nakamuro. He's a member of Squad A, Tanimoto's team. He came with us on the trucks the first day."

Ken searched his memory. He vaguely recalled a small figure getting off the transport with Tanimoto months ago but had always assumed it was someone's kid brother, not a soldier.

The boy, Kazuha, pushed off the wall and walked toward them, fists clenched. "I'm a C-Class Kijin. Specialties: reconnaissance and explosives," the boy said, staring Ken down defiantly.

Ken looked him up and down, skeptical. "Aren't you a little young to be in the organization, kid? Shouldn't you be playing with... I don't know, toys?"

Kazuha's eyes blazed with fury. "I am not a kid!"

Before Ken could react, Kazuha launched a low kick, impacting Ken's shin squarely with the reinforced tip of his boot.

"AAAAH!" Ken yelled, falling to the floor and grabbing his leg. "Damn it! That hurt!"

Kazuha looked down at him with contempt. "Leader Tanimoto is highly competent. He stayed behind so we could escape. He faced the enemy commanders alone. He is not dead. He will return... and when he does, we will avenge our fallen comrades together."

The boy turned on his heel, his long braid whipping through the air, and walked out of the room.

Ken sat on the floor, rubbing his shin. "Damn midget..." he muttered, wincing in pain.

Shinji let out a nervous chuckle. "He's got spirit. Tanimoto was like a big brother to him."

Ken stopped rubbing his leg and looked toward the door where the boy had left. Despite the pain and surprise, he felt a flicker of respect. That blind faith, that rage... it was the same as his own. "He's right," Ken said, getting to his feet with difficulty. "Tanimoto is too stubborn to die. He wouldn't fall that easily."

Ken looked at his friends, and his expression hardened. "Let's get better. Because if Tanimoto is alive, we're going to find him. And if the enemy comes here... we'll be ready."