Sudan—a country in Africa trembling under the weight of prolonged military conflict. What began as internal disputes within the army has shredded the land into fragmented zones of power. On one side, the official military still fights to uphold central authority. On the other, defectors carve out their own territories, casting shadows of uncertainty.
One city caught in this turmoil is Mandirinani—a small desert-edge town once famed for its spice trade, now a ghostly ruin. Streets pockmarked by explosions, half-collapsed buildings stand like skeletal reminders, electricity dead, clean water a rare luxury. Residents cling to prayers... or gear up to flee.
For months, this place has been a blazing hell. But those in the know whisper that the real nightmare is yet to come. In the days ahead, something silent, something merciless, something precise will arrive—not in the shape of humans, but machines.
Above Sudan’s vast, arid expanse, a small civilian airplane cuts through wispy clouds, gliding over an endless desert. The hot wind causes faint mirages on the horizon, while the orange sky hints at an early dusk.
"You sure know how to fly this thing, Fujisawa-san!" Ren calls from the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the control panel handled by the man at the stick.
Fujisawa shoots him a sideways glance, one hand steady on the throttle. "Well, I have a license. I used to fly F-15 Hornets back when I was active."
Ren’s jaw drops. "Seriously? You’re not kidding?"
Fujisawa smirks. "What’s the point in lying about something like that? The world’s huge, kid. I’ve seen a good chunk of it."
Ren can only whisper in awe, "The world really is big..."
Soon, the plane leaves the desert behind and descends toward a dry woodland area—about thirty kilometers from Mandirinani, their destination. Amidst dense trees lies an open clearing. Fujisawa pulls the lever and the plane gently thuds into the dust below.
"Haah... finally," Ren stretches, finally disembarking one of their gear bags. "Three refuel stops, half the globe... and we land now."
"Yeah. Lucky I still remember some old routes we used to run logistics through," Fujisawa replies, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Alright, kid. Rest up. Our camp’s over on the west side."
Ren nods and reaches for his gear—then his phone suddenly vibrates violently in his jacket pocket. He yanks it out, startled by the name on the screen: Kiriya Asano.
"Oh, Kiriya..." he mutters before answering.
[WHAT WAS THE FIRST WORD YOU SAY AFTER SENDING THAT MESSAGE, HAH!?] Kiriya’s voice blasts like a sound grenade, prompting Ren to immediately lower the phone.
Ren frowns, speaking calmly. "Whoa, chill, Kiriya. This is serious."
["You think you’re serious?! You go to Sudan with zero explanation, and the only message I get is ’I’m going to Sudan for a bit ✌️’!? Are you insane?!"]
Ren gives a wry smile. "Yup. Because this is massive. Remember Ultron from the Avengers?"
["Bro, seriously? Now you’re going to joke about evil Hollywood robots?!"]
"I’m not joking. There’s a military AI controlling autonomous combat units here. Prototype called Ultro. They’re launching a full-scale extermination test in Mandirinani. Official target: rebels. But civilians... they’re collateral."
["That’s an international military operation, Ren! If you get involved, the consequences could be insane!"]
Before Ren could respond, Fujisawa—who had just finished checking the backup fuel—turned, walked up to him, grabbed the phone out of Ren’s hand, and switched it to speaker.
"I’ll explain directly," he said briskly.
["Who is this?!"] Kiriya shouted, cautious.
["Ossan!?"] Kiriya’s voice rose. ["You’re the one who brought him to Sudan!?"]
"I hear the accusation in that ’Ossan,’" Fujisawa replied with a hint of complaint. "Yes—I brought your friend. And I know it breaks every adult moral code. But listen: when I found out he’d built an armor suit from scrap with tactical systems on par with military spec... he became my only realistic option."
[..."You saw his Techno Armor?"]
Fujisawa narrowed his eyes. "You know about that too?"
[..."Of course! I designed its appearance! Fundamentally, he’s the brains—I’m the one who made it look cool. He insisted on metallic gray."]
"Oh... so you’re a Gunpla builder?"
[..."Yeah—I’ve got a Barbatos RX‑78 and Dynames in my closet. But we’re way off topic. The point is, you’re really sure only he can help?"]
Ren gently took the phone back from Fujisawa. On the other end, Kiriya’s tone had shifted—less anger, more worry.
"Don’t blame Fujisawa. This is my decision," Ren spoke quietly, but with firm resolve. "I understand the risks. And I know what I have to do."
[..."Ren, this is crazy. This isn’t a video game. This is the real world. A battlefield, not a simulation!"]
Ren paused. Only the whisper of the desert wind answered his silence. Then, softly but intimately, he said:
"Do you remember what I told you when I first made this armor?"
[..."Something about... the most awesome, craziest armor ever built by a middle schooler?"] Kiriya replied, half teasing, half exasperated.
"That isn’t it!" Ren cut in. "Haah... what came next. The real reason I created it."
[..."Ren... I... Damn. So you’re really sure? Sure about ’acting’ like a hero?"]
Ren stared at the parched earth under his boots. "Yes... But it’s not just about playing hero. I didn’t build this to show off power. I built it for those who can’t save themselves. Didn’t you remember that line?"
[..."Haah... ’Don’t turn from misfortune.’ I remember now... Damn, Ren, why did you have to get so serious about this? But... I get it."]
Kiriya was silent for a moment. Then his tone steadied. [..."Okay. What can I do from there?"]
"Actually... you’re still at the mansion, right?"
[..."Yeah. The underground base. I’m talking to you now staring at a cinema-size monitor. My computer’s now like SpaceX’s. And I’m not even exaggerating."]
"Great. From now on, you’re my operator," Ren said. "I synchronized the old SpaceX satellite network I found when testing the armor in Earth orbit last month."
"That satellite was originally a failed project, but I fixed it on the spot and linked it to your system."
Behind Ren, Fujisawa—who’d been inspecting their gear again—froze. He stared at Ren like he’d just seen an alien.
"Wait... you said you own a satellite?" he asked incredulously.
Ren shrugged casually. "Yep. When I tested the armor in orbit to measure its tolerance against space environments—long story short—I ran into the derelict SpaceX satellite. And I thought... why not fix it?"
Fujisawa was speechless. Even for a battle-hardened veteran who’d seen gunfire in the Middle East, shootouts in the Balkans, and sabotages at the Russian border, this teenage kid claiming to fix a space satellite was jaw-dropping.
["Alright, syncing systems now. Activate your wireless earphones. I’ll stay connected from here."] Kiriya’s voice came through clarity and calm.
"Ready," Ren responded concisely.
He ended the call, pulled sleek wireless earbuds from his jacket, and slipped them in. A soft digital chime confirmed connection, then Kiriya’s calm tone came through directly in Ren’s ear. Ren turned to Fujisawa, who still stood rooted.
"...Ossan?" he called hesitantly.
Fujisawa looked at him like a scientific anomaly yet to be documented. After a long breath, he finally sighed.
"I don’t even understand kids these days," the man muttered, then walked away toward the old building path ahead.
Not long after, the two of them arrived at a modest wooden cabin tucked away behind bushes and small trees. The building looked old—its walls were cracked, and the door looked like it was hanging on by a thread. As soon as it creaked open, the stale scent of dust and damp wood hit them instantly.
Ren waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the swirling dust. "Ugh... Looks place hasn’t seen life in years."
Fujisawa nodded as he dropped his gear bag onto the floor. "Yeah. Last time I used this place was during a mission in the African highlands. That was... about three years ago."
Ren glanced around the cabin’s interior: a single fold-up cot, a half-rotted nightstand, and a wooden table with an old, dust-covered map of Africa still lying on it. It wasn’t exactly a command center, but it was enough—for rest, and for planning their next move.
He sat on the edge of the cot, which let out a soft creak beneath him. "Honestly... I’ve been wondering. How long have you been in this whole mercenary business?"
Fujisawa paused, drawing a slow breath as he gazed out the small window layered with cobwebs. "I don’t know... Since I graduated high school, I guess."
Ren turned sharply, staring at him in disbelief. "You’ve got to be kidding," he said quietly, the shock unmistakable in his voice.
Fujisawa let out a low chuckle. "Unfortunately, no. Back then, I just wanted to travel the world without being tied down. And well... the world welcomed me with bullets and contracts."
Ren shook his head slowly. In his mind, the adult world always seemed complex. But looking at Fujisawa now—sitting calmly, cleaning his weapon—he realized something: sometimes people don’t choose their path. Sometimes... the path chooses them.