Prologue:

   A cool breeze swept across the street that night, like any other night, stirring small flakes of snow as it moved across the street, swirling in pretty patterns and flitting randomly about in the air. It was cool, a bit dry even, and though the snow already packed was moist, the newer, falling flakes were like dry flakes of ash, drifting down from the heavens after a raging fire. Whispers of the wind over the usual inhabitants of the street carried with them the intentions of the night, though unintelligible to all who heard them, it sounded like a beautiful, orchestral melody of curiously simple instruments. Interesting, and at the same time ominous, each breeze brought a new message, but fell on deaf ears.
   Following the wisp of snow down the street, the cool night breath pushed through the coat of Nobuyuki Masaki, working late, and headed to the late night bus stop with a dozen flowers in a simple bouquet, all stark and freezing in the miserable cold. They hung like drooping autumn leaves between the attaché handle and a sweaty palm, the other hand free of the bundle. As Nobuyuki reached up to his forehead, wiping the perspiration away, he sighed a lonely sigh, approaching the small shelter beside the late night station, empty, and uninhabited.
   "Just my luck, another night to myself." Nobuyuki sat with some measure of hesitation, not wishing to be alone in his wait. Also, as he found shortly before he jumped to his feet, the hard plastic seats in the small glass house were as cold as the cement beneath his shoes. Taking a sharp breath in, Nobuyuki rubbed his thigh with his hand, cursing softly.
   "I won't do that again," he muttered irritably to the invisible patrons of the empty station, sighing only after remembering why he was out here in the first place. Discarding the attaché and bouquet on the bench, Nobuyuki put his hand against the thin metal rail, and yelped in surprise so soon after forgetting how absolutely freezing it was. As he rubbed both of his palms together, he let his teeth begin to chatter, and hugged his arms close to himself.
   Snowing so hard now, he thought, looking up into the night sky. Simple flake after simple flake fell, soon smearing his vision with white line after white line, wet drop on the cheek after wet drop. The sky was full of them; snowflakes dancing about in the breeze as they switched partners, eventually landing softly on the ground for their final waltz. Some melted more quickly than others, and some did not melt at all, building up a small blanket around Nobuyuki's shoes as his skyward-cast eyes blinked away the tears. For the third time that he could recall, he found himself overwhelmed with memories of Achika.
   The bouquet of flowers, sitting precariously on the edge of the bench, slowly tipped and fell noiselessly to the snow pile below. The midnight station and its patronage watched after Nobuyuki as he started off down the street, holding his arms to his sides, and pulling his jacket in tightly so as not to allow in the breeze of the winter night.
   With every whispering wind came another tear, and with every tear came another memory, and with every memory came a wish, and with every wish came a sob, Nobuyuki finally lowering his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets, unable to think any further and dropping the line of thought completely before he could no longer contain himself.
   The bus rolled past suddenly, its soft red tail lights illuminating Nobuyuki's face for just a moment, breaking his attention from himself and resting it on the machine as his head snapped up to watch it pass. Fading slowly into the fog of winter, Nobuyuki reached after it, swearing he could hear her name once more.
   "Achika." A simple word cried by a simple man into the empty night, and as his hand dropped from the fog to his side, his head hung, a grimace of pain spread across his face. It had been a long time since he last thought of her like that; been so distracted that he almost was entranced. It was unnatural. On any other night, he could keep those thoughts away. Turning back to the bus station, Nobuyuki focused on the dimly fading lights of the last bus.
   'The flowers. That's right,' he thought. 'The flowers, I left them at the station.' Walking slowly back, Nobuyuki rubbed his cheeks and face with the sleeve of his coat. Though he felt guilty for it, he knew that she was gone, and that he should move on with things. The flowers were his intention to move on, now, but dead and frozen on the ground, they did no service to anyone, especially Nobuyuki.
   Leaning his shoulder against the rail, Nobuyuki cast his eyes down at the bundle of violets, morning glories and yellow roses. He knew that these were his secretary's favorites, but for the life of him he could not recall Achika's favorite anymore. For nearly ten minutes, he closed his eyes, letting image after beautiful image of her face roll by in waves, crashing against the breakers, jarring memories and moments from their left-alone spots under the sea of loneliness that had prevailed after her death. Another winter breeze swept past, and a small discarded paper cup rolled past the station, bouncing against the curb as the breeze picked up, and dropping into a sewer grate as it died.
   Nobuyuki took a slow breath in, and as Achika stepped out of his thoughts, he called her back in with renewed urgency. Forget her, how could he? She had been everything; bore Tenchi and so many lovely things to him. High school, the Tokyo Tower, and that last, beautiful winter in the city had been the memories she left him with, willing, yet unwilling to go.
   Outside of the station, the flowers landed in the street, and broke apart, scattering across the roadway where no one would ever pay their beauty any mind. Panting slowly, Nobuyuki, his hand still extended from the throw, stared at the remains of the bouquet in disgust. 'Achika is gone,' he thought. 'Achika is gone, but I still have her.' Raising his left hand to smooth his hair, Nobuyuki sighed, then straightened his glasses.
   Attaché recovered, he began to walk into the swirling, white diamond dust, humming an old tune in a pleasant tone. That night was the last time he brought flowers to work, and somewhat coincidentally, the last time he thought so specifically about his days with Achika.


- A Could-be Romance - ... Chapter One...

   
   Occasionally, a cool breeze stirred the simple beige drapes. Visible from this hillside skyscraper at the edge of the city was a beautiful cityscape, one of the entire downtown an suburban areas, and even a picturesque view of the Merazzano Bay Bridge, and of course, the bay of the same name. Twinkling stars, spilling from their factories on the shore, littered the calm waters of the natural coven area, and on the ridges on the opposite end of the bay.
   In the twilight sky above the city, other stars lifted from the ground, pushed high into the sky until no longer visible. Some floated around the sky, shining their lights down on the city, or even others leaving the planet entirely, disappearing in a flash of Gamma Energy Travel (GET) particles. 
   GETGO, a series of G Class glass-turbine rotary rocket engines, had become the workhorse of the Varian economy in 2520 GST [Galaxy Standard Timeline]. Powered by a unique type of atomic thrust, glass-turbine engines depended on their large size and heavy cooling to remain structurally stable, as their main thruster component was glass. Though weakened by continuous thrust [as their size requires huge amounts of energy to be consumed], these turbines produced huge amounts of torque in conjunction with the basic, yet most energetic fuel available - water - and often were not required once escape velocity was reached, therefore allowing them to cool for use in re-entry. As a side effect, these engines produce 





   On a nearby desk, numerous crystal paperweights were scattered. Some papers had already flitted to the floor, though for the most part they were blank. Crumpled sheets filled the waste basket, smeared liberally with globs of white-out and highlighter pen, as if discarded by an unimpressed author. Even others were stamped and official document paper.
   The expression of the man sitting in the accompanying leather reclining chair a few feet from the desk, his hands crossed under his chin, was one of irritation. Dark blue eyes narrowed over time at the ongoing mess, and became more and more irritated as each breeze stirred the jet-black hair hanging messily over his face.
   Some time passed, and in that time, the man in the chair became more and more agitated. Every few seconds, he tapped a sleek, titanium pen, slung between his index finger and thumb, against his neck, muttering quietly to himself. A few moments passed still, and finally he had become fed up, springing to his feet and hurling the pen at the window.
   Upon contact, the heavy pen drilled straight through the glass, spinning and whirling precariously on a seventy-story drop to the sidewalk below. The night doorman, surprised by the small pock-like explosion on the cement directly in front of him, didn't have time to react before he was struck in the face by shrapnel. A tiny pebble broken from the cement, moving at such a high velocity is dangerous regardless of its size. Doubling over with hands on his face, the doorman cried out for attention to an empty night street.
   Back upstairs, nearly at the top of the commercial gigatower, the man was bustling about the suite-sized room, tearing drawers from their desks and emptying closets of their articles of clothing. With each set that hit the ground, it became evident that these were obviously no ordinary clothes. Some of them were just latex bags with large, metal fastens. Stamped on each one was some kind of logo; a Japanese character of some kind and the image of a burning phoenix on a pyre, the symbol of rebirth and rejuvenation. The Japanese character was given a name when the man pulled a jacket from the closet, and slung it over his back. Embroidered on the collar in blue and white was the word, "Mikado."
   Kicking the latex bag over and stripping the ties off, the dark-haired man grimaced. If this was supposed to be some kind of joke, they had done well. The bag spilled open, and a wealth of automatic weapons scattered onto the floor, fixed clips and all. Pleased by this, a satisfied grin came to his face as he gathered each one up, loading and cocking the weapons before slinging them over his shoulders by the straps. All in all, there were two machine pistols, an automatic rifle, and a sub-machine gun. Each had a familiar build, but all had inscribed on their barrels the words "Mikado Corps." 
   Reaching into his back pocket gruffly, the man retrieved his wallet and tossed it out the window before donning black, reflective wrap-around sunglasses, "Mikado" inscribed sans color on each leg. From the wallet as it flew fell an identification card that  whooshed down to the floor, into the pool of water. 

"Agent # S49-040-9A. "

*	*	*

   The click of the lock sent a short echo down the hallway, and in moments, a band of corporate men were standing within five feet of the door in a semi-circle. Each man had a suit - a black suit - and gold tie, dark sunglasses, and hair to shame Don Johnson. All had raised their submachine guns level with the door, not shuddering a single moment or hesitating in the slightest. They had been expecting him; how could they not?
   The tallest man raised his hand to his ear, covering the small two-way transmitter built into the drum. "He's here, in the room sir." A pause, the response being received and digested as the suit assessed tactical options. The Commander finished, and the man smiled. "Absolutely, sir. We remember." The others turned towards him. They remembered too.
   Inside the room, 'Agent 49' smiled as well. The good Commander was ready this time. He liked that, especially after the last disappointing episode in espionage. He remembered, too; no one could forget something that hurts so much. "The Commander thinks that what they've gone through was hell... but they have no idea this time," Agent growled, then smiling to himself. "It's all about family matters in this business, and why shouldn't it be?" Cocking both machine pistols, the dark smile erased itself from his features. Time for business.
   "We're ready to move in, sir." The tallest man tightened his fingers around the barrel of his gun. The other men followed suit.
   The next transmission was clear, free of the usual static. "You Agents know what to do. Don't let him out of that room." The soft voice of the Commander was serious and slow. "You're the best we have. We spent a lot of money on your program, and I won't have word out that you aren't worth the budget. Do you understand me?"
   "Yes, sir. He won't make it out in less than five pieces." A dark grin painted his face, and raising his gun to the door, his hand released the barrel and moved towards the doorknob slowly.
   The Commander lowered the microphone, and sighed deeply. Though the special agents seemed confident, the Commander knew what was to be the outcome. "Even the MECH soldiers can't stop him. ..." Both eyes darkened, and were cast at the closest video monitor. "... Shikujiru. You will not make it out of there alive." The Commander raised a hand to their hair, and brushed it from their face to reveal sparkling, passionate brown eyes. "I won't let you. ... and neither will Sharin."