The war that wasn't named
The war didn’t start with a bang. It started with whispers. Whispers of dwindling resources, of forests turned to ash, of geniuses silenced before their inventions could save us. By the time the first bombs fell, it was too late. The world was already burning.
It wasn’t called World War III. No one dared to give it a name. But we all knew what it was. Countries turned on each other like starving wolves, fighting over scraps of oil, water, and land. And then they came—the company. A weapons manufacturer so powerful, so ruthless, it bought an entire nation just to join the war. They called themselves Prometheus, but they were no bringers of fire. They were the ones who snuffed it out.
Prometheus didn’t just win the war. They ended it. By cutting off weapons supplies to every other nation and funneling them into their own, they crushed the world under their heel. And when the dust settled, their CEO declared himself king. A dictator. But no one called him that. To the public, he was a savior. A visionary. A man who promised paradise.
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The Announcement
I was ten when the new rule was announced. Mom and I sat on the couch, the TV casting a flickering glow across the room. The CEO’s voice filled the air, smooth and reassuring.
“The world is overpopulated. To ensure a brighter future, we must make sacrifices. Starting today, all citizens over the age of forty will be relocated to Mars or distant islands. There, they will live in peace, free from the burdens of work and responsibility. This rule applies to everyone—no exceptions.”
I looked up at Mom, my brow furrowed. “How old are you?”
She smiled, ruffling my hair. “Old enough to stay with you for at least another twenty years.”
I believed her. I didn’t know she was lying. She was thirty-five. She only had five years left with me, but she wanted to make them count.
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The Day They Took Her
Five years later, the officers came. I was in the living room, tinkering with a broken radio, when the doorbell rang. Mom was in the kitchen, humming softly as she washed dishes. I answered the door.
Two men in black uniforms stood there, their faces stern. “Is this the residence of Rika Nishi?” one of them asked.
Mom appeared behind me, her hands still wet. “Yes?” she said, her voice hesitant.
The officer handed her a piece of paper.
“You’ve been selected for relocation. Please pack your belongings. You have one hour.”
I stared at them, my heart pounding.
“What? No! You can’t take her!”
Mom knelt in front of me, her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were calm, but I could see the fear in them.
“Shinra, listen to me. You’ll be okay. Uncle Shizumori will take care of you. Be good for him, alright?”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No! You said you had twenty years! You promised!”
She pulled me into a tight hug, her voice trembling.
“I’m sorry, Shinra. I’m so sorry.”
Life with Uncle Shizumori
After Mom was taken, Uncle Shizumori moved in. He was the cool uncle everyone wanted—brilliant, kind, and endlessly patient. A genius scientist and engineer, he didn’t work for anyone. Instead, he worked in secret, tinkering away in a hidden lab he’d built beneath our house. He’d relocated it there after moving in, saying it was safer. I didn’t ask questions. I was just glad he was there.
He taught me everything—how to fix broken radios, how to solve complex equations, even how to build small machines. But he never talked about Mom. Not until the footage.
The Footage
Five years after that, I sat on the same couch, in front of the same TV. Uncle Shizumori sat beside me, his face pale but composed. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across the room. I leaned closer, my breath catching in my throat. The video was grainy, shaky, as if filmed in secret. But there was no mistaking what it showed.
Rows of people—hundreds of them—strapped to metal chairs. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow. Tubes snaked from their arms to machines that beeped rhythmically, like a morbid lullaby. And then, the screaming started.
I flinched, my fingers digging into the edge of the desk. The camera panned to a man in a white coat...
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The room was sterile, lit by flickering fluorescents that cast long shadows over the steel tables. Rika Nishi lay strapped to one, her wrists and ankles bound by leather cuffs.
The woman’s face filled the frame. Her hair was matted, her lips cracked, but her eyes—her eyes were the same. Kind. Gentle.
She'd stopped screaming hours ago. Now, she just stared at the ceiling, her breath shallow, her lips cracked and bleeding.
The man in the white coat adjusted his gloves, his face obscured by a surgical mask. Beside him, a machine hummed softly, its screen flashing numbers in bright red:
PAIN LEVEL: 8.2.
"Subject 90475," he said, his voice detached.
"Prepare for Phase Three."
Rika turned her head slightly, her eyes dull but defiant. The door creaked open, and two more figures entered—one holding a serrated blade, the other a blowtorch.
"Please," she whispered, her voice raw.
"My son..."
The man in the coat ignored her, nodding to the others.
“No,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “No, no, no.”
They grabbed her left hand, stretching it taut over the edge of the table. The blade came down in a single, efficient motion, severing her pinky finger.
Rika's body jerked, a guttural scream tearing from her throat.
The machine beeped frantically -PAIN LEVEL: 9.8. The man in the coat watched the screen, scribbling notes.
"Fascinating. The spike is sharper than previous subjects."
The second figure pressed the blowtorch to the bleeding stump. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and sweet.
Rika's scream died to a whimper, her vision blurring. They repeated the process with each finger, one by one, until her hand was a mangled, charred ruin.
"Hemostasis achieved," the man said.
"Proceed."
They repeated the process with her right hand. This time, she didn’t scream. She bit down on her tongue until copper flooded her mouth, her eyes locked on the ceiling.
For a moment, her mind drifted. She saw Shinra’s face—his bright, curious eyes, his mischievous smile. She remembered the day he’d built his first radio, how proud he’d been when it crackled to life. She wished she could see him one last time, tell him how much she loved him.
Shinra, she thought. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
When the session ended, they dumped her in a concrete cell. The floor was slick with waste, the air thick with the stench of decay. Around her, bodies lay piled like broken dolls—some missing limbs, others with scorched skin, all silent.
The texture of the corpses was gritty, their skin cold and rubbery to the touch, like wet clay left to rot in the sun.
A grate in the floor rattled open. Two guards dragged her to the edge, their grips bruising.
Below, a river of black sludge churned, carrying skeletal remains into the depths of the sewage system.
"Rot with the rest," one muttered, shoving a grenade in her mouth and pulling the pin, then pushing her down the river of corpses.
Rika hit the sludge with a splash, the cold biting into her wounds. She clawed at the walls, her severed arms leaving streaks of red in the filth. But the current was too strong. It pulled her under, filling her lungs with poison. But she didn’t have the dignity of dying from it, her head exploded before the poison could harm her.
“Mom…”
The word tore from my throat, raw and desperate. She was supposed to be on Mars. In paradise. Not here. Not like this.
The video cut to another scene. A man in a suit stood at the front of the room, his face obscured by shadows. His voice was calm, almost soothing, as he spoke.
“Pain is the answer,”
he said.
“Through pain, we evolve. Through pain, we conquer. And through pain, we will build a new world.”
The screen went black. I sat there, frozen, my heart pounding in my ears. The room felt smaller, suffocating. I reached for the pendant around my neck—a small, silver locket she’d given me before they took her. Inside was a faded photo of us, smiling on a beach I barely remembered. It felt heavier now, as if it carried the weight of her absence.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, clutching the locket. “I’m so sorry…”
Uncle Shizumori placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip steady. “We’ll fix this,” he said quietly.
“I promise...”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. The weight of it all crashed down on me, and I broke. Tears streamed down my face as I buried my head in my hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Uncle Shizumori didn’t say anything. He just pulled me into his arms and held me as I cried.
I don’t know how long it lasted. All I remember is the sound of my own sobs and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and everything faded to black.
The Next Morning
When I woke, I was in my bed. The blanket Mom had knitted years ago was draped over me, its familiar weight a small comfort. Sunlight streamed through the window, but it did little to lift the heaviness in my chest. The light that once brought me joy now made me remember the horrors I saw last night.
Uncle Shizumori sat at the foot of the bed, his face tired but determined. When he saw I was awake, he spoke softly.
“I told you I’d fix this,” he said.
“I’ll keep my word.”
He stood and walked to the corner of the room, opening a hidden panel in the wall. Behind it was a staircase leading down into a vast, dimly lit lab. He returned with a battered notebook and a stack of blueprints.
“This is how we’ll fix it,” he said, handing them to me.
“A way to go back.”
I opened the notebook, my hands trembling. Pages of equations, diagrams, and notes filled it—a blueprint for a time machine. My eyes scanned the calculations, my mind racing. Differential equations. Quantum mechanics. Molecular vibration. It was brilliant. Insane. Impossible.
But not for me.
I looked up at Uncle Shizumori, my heart pounding. “You’ve been working on this?”
He nodded. “For years. But I can’t finish it alone. I need your help.”
I stared at him, my mind reeling. “Why me?”
“Because you’re a prodigy, Shinra,” he said simply. “You were solving differential equations at six. You created your own formulas for quantum physics at eleven. If anyone can build this, it’s you.”
I flipped through the notebook, my fingers tracing the diagrams. The plan was audacious. The machine would vibrate the body’s molecules until they broke down into subatomic particles, small enough to enter a quantum dimension—a realm where space and time were fluid. There, the particles could travel at the speed of light without destroying the planet, crossing the fabric of spacetime itself.
It was like something out of a sci-fi movie. But it made sense. Every equation, every calculation—it was flawless.
“I can do this,” I said, my voice steady now. “But you can’t come with me.”
Uncle Shizumori was shocked. “What? Why not?”
“Because if something goes wrong, you’re the only one who can fix it,” I said. “You’re the only one who understands the machine, you're the genius who thought of this. If I get stuck in the past—or worse—you’re the only one who can bring me back.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “You’re right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I managed a small smile. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded.
“Alright. Let’s get to work.”
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**End of Chapter 1**
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