Shinzaburou

The constant drizzle that slicks the jagged peaks always tasted of ozone and scorched stone. Shinzaburou learned to ignore it. A different atmosphere once filled their lungs: the sterile, recycled air of a colony ship, standing beside Roketto as they sparked life on dead worlds. The Lightspeed Suit they still wear hummed with purpose then, a builder's tool. Now, it just keeps out the damp. They never speak of the final mission, the one where a simple miscalculation led to system-wide failure. The mask they wear isn't for mystique; it is to avoid the gazes of any who might remember the prodigy who fell from the stars. Upon delivering their latest scroll, the recipient squinted. "This is Roketto's seal," they noted. "Are you rejoining the cause?"