Mars Bus - Space
Imagawa sat alone in the VIP section of the Marsbus as it tore through the cold velvet of space. He had done it. Retired. Handed over his badge, his access, his ghosts. No fussy goodbyes, no heartfelt send-offs. He feared such things. He always had. That was never who he was.
With a slow hand, he rubbed the scar across his jaw—ritual more than remedy. It wasn't the skin he was trying to wipe clean. It was the past. His service, his sacrifices… his sins. But they never came off. They clung like smoke to a war-torn uniform.
He had been as bad as they came. Maybe worse. Retirement wasn't redemption. It was just silence. Still, over thirty sleepless, freezing years, he'd told himself the same thing—"It was for the greater good." If not him, someone worse would have done it. He had chosen to be the lesser evil.
Let Bineth rot in the corporate crypt. He was done.
Mars promised something. Not peace—he didn't believe in that—but maybe a way out. A quiet place to fade, to live out the remains of a haunted life in some forgotten crater colony. He wouldn't die peacefully, of course. People like him didn't. Skeletons buried shallow always clawed their way back up.
The comms crackled.
"Approaching Mars orbit. Estimated arrival: forty-five minutes."
He exhaled slowly, a heavy breath from lungs that had carried too many regrets too long. More than ever, his past clawed at the walls of his mind—faces, decisions, blood. One in particular, Isamu Katashi, haunted him most. He would have understood, wouldn't he? Why Imagawa did what he did. Why he walked a path no man should walk. There was no forgiveness in this galaxy wide enough for him. And yet... he wouldn't change a thing.
He caught his reflection in the window, cast over the slow swirl of stars. That man—young, proud, deadly—was gone. What remained was something else entirely. Time had taught him well, carved wisdom into the bones of his face.
The doors slid open with a polite hiss. A hostess glided in with her chrome-plated service bot, offering refreshments. Across from him, a woman and her son giggled over a holographic display, locked in their own moment of light and warmth. He scoffed softly.
Mars. The once-promised prize of the corpos. A new gold rush turned rusted dream. They came, drilled, mined—and found nothing worth staying for. Now, the remnants had been handed over to private hands, off-grid collectives, and those like him—people who wanted to be forgotten.
That was the draw. Less technology. Less surveillance. Less noise. A chance to live like the ancients. Simple. Honest. Alone.
"Excuse me, sir," the hostess smiled, holding a tray of crystal tumblers. "Would you like anything else?"
He glanced at his half-filled glass of whisky, then shook his head. He was content. For now.
The Marsbus dropped out of lightspeed. The view snapped into focus—and there it was. Mars. The red giant. Always breathtaking. Always distant. Even now, it looked like a dream waiting to be woken from.
He turned back toward the hostess to thank her.
And froze.
So did she.
The woman. Her son. The bot. The cabin lights. Everything stopped—like time had been gutted mid-motion. Then came the glitch. A flicker, subtle at first.
Then the hostess's smile twisted—too wide, too knowing. Her pupils shimmered black. An expression more synthetic than service.
Imagawa smiled back.
Calm.
Tired.
Resolved.
"If you're going to do it," he said softly, raising his glass, "just do it. I've got no regrets left."
From the Mars Control Tower, the explosion was recorded as a flare—brief, white-hot, blinding.
A bloom of light against the crimson sky.
The Marsbus ignited mid-descent. Debris and flame scattered like petals in orbit.
No survivors.
Just silence.
And the red planet, waiting—still, and indifferent.