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Wanshi had heard certain sounds before.
The Strike Hawk squad had a peculiar personnel structure: Chrome served as both captain and half a commander, with a private office partitioned off at the far end of the lounge. The hibernation pods, however, sat in the common area outside—soundproof bulkheads did their job well enough, and once the lid sealed shut, no one cared.
Midnight. In a state where, by all rights, nothing should reach the ear, Wanshi suddenly woke. He half-opened his eyes and swept the room. Chrome’s pod was empty; not surprising—their captain might be in a meeting, or simply curled up for a nap in the office. Wanshi rolled to the other side—yet—Kamui’s pod was empty too.
A thin blade of light leaked from beneath the office door. The silence, preserved intact by the pod, still pressed against his ears like a perfectly rounded glass apple, cradling within its fullest calm the possibility of fracture.
In the end, Wanshi eased the pod lid open a crack. The sounds were faint, yet already hot enough to scald his auditory receptors. By some cruel twist, he shut his eyes instead. He caught Kamui’s soothing murmur, the rhythmic thud of the desk being struck, and Chrome’s voice pitched high only to be muffled against something—sobbing as though in agony. Never, no matter how grave the wound, whether on the battlefield or stretched across Wanshi’s repair bench, had Chrome ever made such a sound.
Or rather, never made it for Wanshi.
He never fully closed the pod lid. The sounds drifted in and out, hovering on the edge where possibilities bloomed and collapsed. It seemed neither fierce love nor hatred—just loneliness. Half-dreaming, Wanshi hoped it was only an auditory hallucination born in the Ego Ocean.
Chrome was never harsh to Wanshi. On the surface, it was Kamui—always scolded until he wilted—who should have complained. Yet Wanshi had never imagined this extra layer. When had it begun? While he slept, while he slacked off, while he crouched alone at a sniper nest?
Pointless distractions did slow the draw. It was only a hair’s breadth, only ten extra seconds of life for the beast, only the chance for it to raise its antennae. The dying shockwave hurled them all skyward; mid-flight, consciousness felt nailed in place—likely a mental assault aimed at the Ego Ocean, Wanshi reasoned with effort. Everything went quiet after the heavy crash. He struggled upright. Just a little dizzy, thankfully.
Kamui lay at his feet, eyes vacant, limbs twitching as if trapped in a nightmare hound’s dream. Wanshi stepped over rubble, stumbled, and fell across Kamui—saving himself the trouble of slapping a shoulder. Kamui rasped awake with a single hoarse word: “…Chrome…?”
Well now. Not even “Captain” anymore. Wanshi said nothing, only stood and scanned the ruin. Beneath collapsed rebar he spotted a flash of white. Together they shoved debris aside and hauled Chrome free, but the man’s eyes stayed shut, unresponsive, consciousness link thinning second by second. Kamui’s shoulders visibly sagged.
Wanshi tried every comm channel; all wrecked by the earlier blast.
Suddenly Kamui lifted his head: “…Ground base! That’s the only place we can reach Babylonia—get them to send a chopper…”
Wanshi recalled the mission map he’d skimmed before departure: “But that’s a hundred kilometers away…”
“It’s the only way, isn’t it?” Already Kamui was on his feet, shaking dust from his coat, slinging the greatsword across his back. “I’ll break through. Chrome’s yours, Wanshi. Wait here!”
Yes, after all, he was Support Type. Wanshi traded coordinates with Kamui and watched the man’s retreating back blaze away like a meteor slicing darkness. If he were Chrome, he’d find it hard not to notice either.
Night was falling; the wind carried a chill. Perhaps they owed thanks to the massive infected’s mental attack—within a radius of several kilometers, no infected registered for now. Still, two white Constructs stood out too starkly against the backdrop. Shelter first. Thinking thus, Wanshi scooped Chrome into a bridal carry, planning to duck into the nearby high-rise. He had always known Chrome was light: every shard of him, during disassembly and repair, sharp and brittle. Yet holding the whole man felt different—like he might dissolve into the wind at any moment—
The consciousness link warmed, just a fraction. Chrome stirred in Wanshi’s arms, murmuring something soft, nuzzling his head affectionately against Wanshi’s chest. The mechanical heart stuttered. Wanshi flashed into the building’s shadows and looked down urgently: “Captain, how do you—”
Chrome’s eyes opened slowly; blue irises rippled with frail joy under moonlight. A powerless hand reached out, begging comfort: “Kam…ui…”
Wanshi stared in silence at the hand suspended in mid-air. After a long struggle he spoke: “…I’m Wanshi. That infected’s attack damaged your Ego Ocean and comms. Kamui went southeast to the relay station to call a transport.”
Chrome only tilted his head with childlike innocence, as if the words made no sense—Ego Ocean clearly badly hurt. Wanshi opened his mouth, then decided to repeat only what mattered now: “I’m not Kamui. I’m Wanshi.”
Chrome gave an indulgent, pained smile: “What’s this new game…? You’re clearly Kamui.” He half-closed his eyes and relaxed deeper into Wanshi’s arms: “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do this—I’d never tire of you. Never.”
The bridge of Chrome’s nose pressed distinct against Wanshi’s waist, perhaps the proud brow-bone too. Wrapped in tenderness that should not belong to him, Wanshi felt breath stall. Chrome’s hand still hung expectantly in the air. Special black anti-slip coating, dusted with grit—the look of battle—but the fingers relaxed, graceful. Just a lover’s invitation.
In one instant Wanshi thought of everything, or perhaps nothing. The Ego Ocean surged with abnormal excitement, urging him not to settle, to seize the chance delivered into his palms, to shatter the tepid calm. Evidently Wanshi was poisoned too.
As conclusion, Wanshi took Chrome’s hand.
Chrome was a man, too; the hand Wanshi clasped had nothing to do with fragile fledglings or anything of the sort, yet a surge of pity laced with guilt still flooded Wanshi’s heart. He closed his palm, locking their fingers, and murmured vaguely, “Sorry.” Was the apology for stealing intimacy that belonged to Kamui? Or for playing this pointless little charade as Kamui? The words’ crevices held no answers, and he had no wish to find them.
They leaned together in a brief hush. Into the Ego Ocean drifted only the sensation of Chrome’s palm against his, the hum of the power furnace, the wind threading the ruins—a stolen stillness that only deepened Wanshi’s unease. After a moment he asked, “Where are we now, Cap—Chrome?” Orientation check.
“We’re…” Chrome tilted his head with effort, eyes narrowing as though peering through fog. But the “where” never came; interference spiked the frame’s output, and Wanshi felt a sudden heat in his arms. Chrome’s gaze scattered into twin lightless voids, limbs seizing in spasms, nearly slipping from Wanshi’s hold. Wanshi snatched at Chrome’s waist, heedless of the neck locked stiff as jammed gears. Chrome whipped around and sank teeth into Wanshi’s collarbone, trembling jaws clacking against metal.
Even a Support Type could do nothing for Ego Ocean damage. Wanshi could only soothe the human way—stroking Chrome’s spine as if calming a child. It wasn’t enough. Chrome’s eyes half-lifted, gaze drifting upward: “It… hurts so much…”
“Where?” Wanshi’s mechanical heart pounded; he bent close to Chrome’s ear, voice low and unnecessary, far too magnetic for a clinical question. Chrome’s brows drew together; parted lips brushed Wanshi’s jaw like a heron dipping through shallow water, pure animal instinct.
“Behind… no—inside… Kamui, can you… put it in…”
Wanshi froze, mechanical heart racing for its life. While he stayed still, Chrome had already clung tight, half-dreaming, rubbing against him until every inch of Wanshi’s frame received Chrome’s pleading. Chrome’s thigh kicked feebly, trying to straddle him. Would he soon grip those thighs hard, spread them wide, bare the hidden entrance to the air?
Just metal. Just silicone. Just a creation… A doctor should see beauty as bone, yet that composure melted, dissolved in the thick, silent night. Wanshi buried his face in Chrome’s cool-scented shoulder—hiding the tremor on his own face, or drinking deep of Chrome’s scent. It tickled; Chrome shivered against him but did not pull away. Rising frame output proclaimed the owner’s pleasure.
Wanshi pinned Chrome’s wrists behind his back. Chrome did not struggle, only watched with dazed expectation. “One last chance to take it back. Say no now, and I let go.” Wanshi’s voice scraped. He knew pinning wrists while offering choice rang hollow, but it was the last scrap of reason he owned.
Chrome shook his head wildly, corners of his mouth lifting: “…Come in quick, Kamui.”
Under moonlight the smile was too hazy, and paired with that jarring name it became happiness leaking from someone else’s window—ephemeral light Wanshi clutched anyway. He knew tightening his fingers would not make it his, yet he gripped Chrome’s crossed wrists harder. One-handed, Wanshi snapped open Chrome’s belt—nothing he hadn’t done in maintenance protocols, only this time the tool sliding into Chrome’s body would not be a screwdriver.
One-handed, the doctor teased Chrome into constant soft gasps, birthing in Wanshi a sudden competitive thrill (“Could Kamui do this?”). Chrome sat astride his lap, legs parted, thighs trembling around Wanshi’s own as though the inner cavity already suckled what was to come. Especially that helpless, enduring gaze—Chrome could break the hold with ease, yet willingly folded his wings in Wanshi’s palm. That was the part to savor.
His palm grew slick—secondary circulation fluid seeping from Chrome’s tip. Unnatural flush spread across Chrome’s face; resistance ended. Upper body gone soft, Chrome slumped forward into Wanshi. Their Inver-Devices clinked beside their ears, rippling through the perception system like glasses touching. “Hurry…” Chrome whispered. Wanshi obeyed, sliding liquid-slick fingers to the rear entrance; fingertips, then knuckles, swallowed by warm, high heat. This was Chrome’s interior… He explored, dug, obsessed, as though to map every corner never opened to him—doctor’s study and lover’s claim at once. Chrome hummed satisfaction against his ear, then strained at the wrists, trying to free a hand to cover his mouth.
“Why cover it?” Wanshi soothed, licking Chrome’s auricle.
“…Wanshi will hear…”
Desire doused with cold water, bitter steam rising. Scorching frames pressed together, mechanical hearts beating in sync at point-blank range—yet separated by mountains and seas. None of this happiness was his. Stolen time, thief, taking advantage! As if to flee self-loathing, Wanshi’s hand grew punishingly rough, the force jarring Chrome’s entire torso in pelvic jolts. Soft flesh beneath his fingers nearly rippled, rebounding with stubborn life, enveloping him, answering him. He released the wrists; arms instantly locked around his shoulders and neck, muffling cries into the crook of an elbow.
Ah, yes. This was the sound from that night: Chrome’s voice pitched high, stifled against something, sobbing as though in agony.
—Or perhaps in ecstasy.
“No… stop…” Chrome weakly pawed at Wanshi’s relentless hand, whole frame shuddering. “I… can’t… ahhh, stop! Stop… ngh…”
Wanshi’s motions stayed steady as a scalpel. He dipped his head, expression shadowed, coaxing like a surgeon: “Good medicine tastes bitter. Endure a little, and it’ll feel better. You can do it, can’t you, Chrome?” The words struck true; at the mere mention of endurance, Chrome’s cooling fans spun at a terrifying pitch, announcing their owner’s arousal. He stopped pawing, bit down hard on his lower lip, stifled every struggle, even thrust his hips ruinously to meet Wanshi’s fingers. Blue eyes brimmed with tears as they fixed on him.
So Chrome was this type… Not entirely surprising. Wanshi arched a brow in understanding, pressing further: “Show me how much you can take… for me, all right?”
Golden hair spilled in disarray. Chrome squeezed his eyes shut, a sailor bewitched by sirens, able only to spill broken phrases on instinct.
“Kamui, Kamui… Ka… ngh… I…”
Fingers clenched from every direction; a hot flood soaked Wanshi’s thigh. Chrome collapsed into his arms with a moan as though crushed by something immense, clinging as if to melt back into the forge and fuse as one. Wanshi knew the one Chrome wished to fuse with was not him, yet he still wrapped arms around Chrome—frame drenched in coolant, breath ragged, strength spent—and rained soothing kisses.
“See? I told you it would feel good.”
“Mmm…” Chrome answered low, voice syrupy.
Between their legs the slick was not all Chrome’s; Wanshi’s own tip had long ached rigid. The floor crawled with nameless, ageless debris; Wanshi had no wish to lie down. He lifted the limp Chrome, turned him, and braced him belly-down over the window ledge of the derelict tower. Cheek torn from warm embrace to press cold wall—Chrome shivered—but before the tremor finished, scalding foreign heat nudged the rear entrance. Chrome whipped around in alarm: “Kamui, wait!! Slow—”
Wanshi locked Chrome’s waist from behind, mastering both ends of the thrust. So Kamui liked to hilt in one go. Wanshi grumbled inwardly, deliberately easing the pace, as though to etch every ridge, every stud into Chrome’s memory. The speed perfectly rekindled the channel just come undone—enough to reignite, not overwhelm. Exhaustion in Chrome’s eyes wavered again; his mouth would not close, small pants escaping.
Finally seated to the root. Wanshi held still, wanting time to carve Chrome’s interior into the Ego Ocean. No motion yet, no withdrawal, and already he mourned the loss. He hugged Chrome tight with faint grievance, one palm over Chrome’s heart as if to interrogate its depth. That hand, too, Chrome covered gently; his own palm was slick with coolant.
“Feels good, Kamui…”
Chrome bent to kiss his fingers. Like a waltz unfit for daylight, they swayed flush together, overlapping shadows writhing silent on the floor. At last he had closed this distance with Chrome… Guilt of the lie, joy of wish granted, scalp-tingling pleasure—all tangled, driving Wanshi’s hips faster. Chrome braced one-handed against the wall to stay upright; airy gasps leaked between clenched teeth. Wanshi’s bitterness turned wicked. He breathed scalding against Chrome’s ear, hot tongue spearing the canal as though to bore into the electronic brain, wrenching a high, wanton cry from Chrome.
“That won’t do,” Wanshi murmured low. “What if Wanshi hears?”
Chrome buried his face in the crook of his own elbow to muffle shattered sobs, yet the passage below clenched hard, thighs trembling. Wanshi seized the opening, cinching the waist, working himself through Chrome’s body again and again like a sex toy. So tight, so hot, so perfect—these parts seemed crafted for him alone; pleasure surged in endless currents from tip and flank. When signals overloaded they ricocheted through every limb to the soles of his feet, sparking strange, sweet ache. Still his mouth spared no mercy: “If he saw us like this, if he heard the captain make these sounds… what would he think? How would you explain it to him?”
“Wan… shi…” Chrome’s consciousness blurred, repeating the name mechanically. Hearing his own name in that tone sent a shudder through Wanshi; beneath him Chrome sucked in air: “How… did it get… bigger again…”
Clouds parted then; cold moonlight spilled through grimy glass, coolant glinting lewd on synthetic skin. Wanshi watched Chrome’s eyes roll back under the double assault, arousal peaked by shame. He pointed out the window: “Look—Wanshi’s right there watching.” Chrome’s spine locked again; sweat-soaked white coat clung, outlining exquisite muscle. He cried Kamui’s name, begging silence. This mad night! Pleasure and guilt crested like twin tides; both frames teetered on collapse.
“Or perhaps,”
Wanshi cupped Chrome’s chin, twisting the waist to its limit until they faced each other.
“Perhaps Wanshi is right here.”
At point-blank range Wanshi clearly saw Chrome’s pupils scatter; optic cleaning fluid welled, fracturing moonlight into shards. Wanshi’s own vision blurred. Climax struck like a silent quake; both frames scrabbled wildly for purchase. In the chaos Wanshi’s lips brushed Chrome’s; he crushed them together, sealing tenderness atop bodily union. The splendor of it left no room to blame Kamui or Chrome—this was simply too happy, Wanshi thought dimly.
Wanshi’s own legs trembled, yet he forced himself upright and caught Chrome before bare knees could hit the floorboards. They stayed joined; secondary circulation fluid trickled from their union down thighs, cooled by the draft through the window. Chrome was silent so long Wanshi thought he had slipped into sleep—until a small shift in his arms, the faintest unease in that motion, told the doctor everything. Wordlessly Wanshi loosened his hold, withdrew, gathered Chrome’s trousers, and passed them over. Chrome dressed without turning.
Wanshi turned away too, crossing to the opposite breach in the wall, leaning there at a careful distance while the night wind combed through him. No hint of dawn; no rotor thrum on the horizon.
The floor vibrated beneath his soles. Chrome had come up behind him, close but not touching, weighing words.
“Sorry,” Wanshi said first, arms folded tight, eyes fixed ahead.
Chrome patted his shoulder. After what they had done, the casual teammate gesture nearly jolted Wanshi out of his frame. His voice still rasped: “No… you said you were Wanshi. You told me.”
Wanshi spun, incredulous. “You don’t blame me…? You remember?”
“Like a dream too real to shake off.” Chrome sighed; knees buckled. Before hesitation could form, Wanshi’s arms were around him—ah, the same entwined posture, the origin of every transgression. Numbly he noted it.
Yet the illusion had been too sweet. Wanshi always wore the look of one who cared for nothing, but he too craved those secret bonds—two souls on separate vectors; what cosmic misalignment could make their paths cross?
“You probably heard… Kamui and I…”
“Don’t.”
Awkward silence.
“I… I don’t blame you,” Wanshi stammered. “You deserve this. I should wish you well.”
“I don’t blame you either.” Chrome patted his back. “If you hadn’t done something, I might not have snapped out of it so soon… I don’t hate doing it with you.”
Don’t hate. The answer hung too ambiguous—possibility, refusal, invitation—Wanshi dared not parse it now. Rotor noise swelled from far to near. He released Chrome and pinged Kamui’s terminal with updated coordinates. The helicopter hovered at the breach; Kamui stood in the open door, wind snatching his shout: “Captain—Wanshi—you okay—”
Wanshi pushed Chrome toward Kamui. Kamui hauled him aboard, then Wanshi vaulted in after. The craft lifted, carrying them away; that floor, that window, perhaps the puddle of circulation fluid on the ground—all dwindled, swallowed by the mottled ruins until nothing remained. When the wasteland vanished beneath cloud, Wanshi turned from the porthole.
He did not look at Chrome. He faced Kamui instead, words slurred as if from sheer fatigue: “Your problem now.”
Before either could react, Wanshi pivoted and collapsed into the transport’s corner. Residual heat from coupling with Chrome still glowed beneath his skin, but body and soul were steeped in exhaustion. Amid the storm of sound and phantom sensation, Wanshi begged only for sleep to come.