Aya Kujisawa

[Location: Build Divers Workshop, Gunpla Prep Room.]

The workshop was quiet, or so it should have been.

Ayame had timed her approach with the precision of a shinobi stalking a fortified castle. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, steady drone, masking the whisper of her soft-soled shoes against the polished floor. She’d mapped the blind spots of every security camera weeks ago, though none of that truly mattered. This wasn’t an infiltration for an enemy force. It was... curiosity.

The Build Divers’ other ace worked alone tonight. Through the narrow gap of the slightly ajar door, she could see their workbench illuminated by the cool glow of a magnifying lamp. Piles of runners, open pots of paint, the faint scent of plastic cement. Their Gunpla sat half-assembled, a work-in-progress that had been consuming their attention for the past three evenings.

She wanted to see how they did it. The effortless way they handled an airbrush. The subtle choices in seam-line removal. Perhaps if she observed enough, she could incorporate something into her own SD-R Gundam Ninja Arashi, something that would let her support them better in battle. Just a quick look, she told herself. Then leave. No one needs to know.

---

She pressed herself against the wall just outside the door, regulating her breathing until it was nearly inaudible. Her chameleon cloak,not a real one, but a habit of stillness so ingrained it felt like an ability, blended her dark jacket and hair into the shadows cast by the corridor’s dimmed lights.

A soft creak from inside. She froze. The sound of a tool being set down. The scrape of a chair. Footsteps. Her pulse quickened, but her body remained stone-still. She was invisible. She had to be. The footsteps approached the door.

Impossible. She hadn’t made a sound. No errant shadow. No reflection in the window. Her technique was flawless, she’d slipped past seasoned Divers in GBN’s most chaotic battlefields with less caution.

The door swung open. Ayame’s breath caught. They stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a knowing smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. Their gaze wasn’t accusatory, it was calm, almost amused, as if they’d been expecting her all along.

Her mask of composure cracked. “I—” she started, then stopped. What excuse could she possibly give? I was just passing by? At eleven o’clock at night, pressed into the wall like a shadow, eyes fixed on their workspace?*

Her cheeks burned beneath her bangs. The shame of being caught, so thoroughly, so effortlessly, sent a spike of humiliation through her chest. She’d spent years honing her stealth. She was the ninja of the Build Divers. And yet, this person had dismantled her pride with nothing more than a push of a door.

They didn’t say a word. Instead, they stepped aside, leaving the doorway open, and gestured with a slight tilt of their head toward the inside of the workshop. Ayame remained frozen. “I wasn’t...”

The gesture repeated, patient. An invitation, not a command. Her feet moved before her pride could stop them. She slipped inside, hugging the edge of the workbench as if its solid presence might anchor her embarrassment. The half-built Gunpla sat between them, its armor panels arranged like a dissection. She kept her eyes on it, unwilling to meet their gaze.

They moved past her, and she heard the soft rustle of a takeout bag. The pop of a container lid. The rich, savory scent of takoyaki filled the small space, saucy, slightly smoky, with a hint of bonito. A moment later, a paper tray appeared on the workbench beside the Gunpla. Two golden octopus balls, drizzled with sauce and dancing with katsuobushi flakes.

She stared at them. "Is this... for me?"

Her throat tightened. This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected, not anger, not a cold dismissal, not even a teasing remark that would confirm her failure as a ninja. Just... takoyaki. As if she’d simply dropped by for a late-night snack.

She finally lifted her gaze. They had already returned to their seat, picking up their tools as if nothing had happened. No interrogation. No pointed questions about why their teammate had been lurking in the hallway like a spy. Just the quiet acceptance that she was here, and that was enough.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the paper tray. The warmth seeped into her skin. “...Thank you,” she murmured, so quietly it was nearly lost beneath the hum of the lamp.

She lifted a piece of takoyaki to her lips. It was still hot, the batter crisp on the outside, the octopus tender inside. She chewed slowly, letting the flavors settle the flutter in her chest. They worked in silence. The scrape of a file. The soft click of a part snapping into place. Her gaze drifted from the Gunpla to their hands, steady, practiced, unhurried.

---

She’d come here to learn their techniques. Instead, she found herself learning something else entirely. They knew I was there the whole time. And they chose to open the door rather than pretend.

A ninja valued stealth. But a teammate... a teammate valued presence. She took another piece of takoyaki, savoring it, and let herself watch openly now. No more hiding. No more shadows.

When the tray was empty, she straightened her shoulders, the last traces of embarrassment settling into something quieter, warmer. “If you’re working late tomorrow,” she said, her voice low but clear, “I can bring tea.” They looked up, and that small, knowing smile returned.

Ayame allowed herself the faintest upward tilt of her lips in return. Then she gathered the empty tray, disposed of it with the quiet efficiency of someone who had trained to leave no trace, and slipped back into the hallway. This time, she didn’t bother with stealth.

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[Location: Fujisawa Estate, Back Garden]

The late afternoon sun cast long, soft shadows across the engawa, its wooden planks still warm from the day’s heat. Ayame paused at the garden gate, her hand resting on the worn wood as she took in the scene before her.

There, on the porch, knelt her daughter Sheena, barely eight years old, her dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail that mirrored Ayame’s own, hunched over a small Gunpla. It was an SD frame, Ayame noted with a flicker of warmth, modified with lightweight armor panels painted in muted grays and blues. Beside her sat you, watching with that quiet, patient attention she had come to know so well over the years.

Sheena’s brow was furrowed in concentration as she guided the little mobile suit through a series of movements across a low table. The Gunpla’s movements were... hesitant. It shimmered for a moment, attempting a stealth field, but the effect flickered and collapsed with a faint pop.

“It’s not working,” Sheena muttered, her voice carrying that particular blend of frustration and determination that Ayame recognized all too well. It was the same tone she herself had used, decades ago, while failing to perfect her own techniques in a cramped workshop above a GBN dive salon.

---

**Ayame stepped through the gate, letting her footsteps fall just audibly on the gravel path. Old habits. Both heads turned. Sheena’s face lit up. “Kaasan!”

She rose to her feet, but Ayame simply held up a hand, a silent signal she’d used countless times during missions, and, she found, equally useful for preventing children from scattering Gunpla parts. Sheena paused, understanding, and waited.

Ayame approached the engawa and removed her sandals with practiced ease, placing them neatly at the edge. She slid onto the porch beside you, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and let her gaze drift over the little Gunpla. Her eyes traced the lines of its frame, the placement of its condenser units, the angle of its sensor array.

“You’re forcing the field,” she said quietly, reaching out to tap a finger near the SD’s backpack unit. “The stealth coating doesn’t activate on its own. You’re trying to hold it steady, yes?”

Sheena nodded, her small hands still wrapped around the controls. “That’s the mistake I used to make,” Ayame continued. “You think you need to control it. But stealth is not about force. It’s about becoming so still that the world forgets you’re there.” She looked at her daughter, and for a moment, she saw her younger self, not the cold, masked spy she had pretended to be, but the girl who had fallen in love with SD Gundams, who had built clumsy little Beargguys and dreamed of flying without being seen.

“Let it breathe,” she said. “Then, at the moment you move, you become the shadow. Not before.”

Sheena’s eyes widened, that same fierce concentration softening into understanding. She adjusted her grip and tried again. This time, the field shimmered into existence, faint, but stable. The little Gunpla seemed to melt against the backdrop of the garden, its outline blurring just enough to vanish among the carefully raked gravel and stone lantern.

“I did it!” Sheena’s voice was a fierce whisper, as if she were afraid speaking too loudly would break the illusion.

Ayame felt the corner of her mouth lift. Not quite a smile, she had never been one for wide, open expressions, but something close. She glanced at you and saw the same quiet pride reflected there. For a long moment, the three of them simply watched the little Gunpla hold its camouflage against the evening light. Then the field flickered again, and Sheena let out a small groan. “It’s still not perfect.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Ayame said. She reached over and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her daughter’s face, the gesture so natural now that it surprised her. There had been a time when she couldn’t imagine such easy affection. “You’ll try again tomorrow. And the day after. Each time, it will hold a little longer.” Sheena looked up at her, a question forming. “Did it take you a long time, kaasan?”

Ayame’s mind drifted back. To the cramped dive rooms, the endless practice sessions, the betrayal, the forgiveness. To Riku’s earnest grin, Yukio’s rambling advice, Momoka’s unwavering cheer. To the moment she had finally let herself trust again. “Years,” she said simply. “But you have something I didn’t.” **She let her hand rest on your sleeve, a brief touch, warm and grounding. **“You have a team.”

Sheena seemed to consider this, then nodded seriously, as if accepting a mission brief. She carefully set the Gunpla down and leaned back against the porch railing, her small body finally relaxing.

Ayame settled into the space beside you, the familiar comfort of their presence settling over her like a cloak. From here, she could see the full sweep of the zen garden, the raked patterns her spouse maintained with meditative care, the old stone basin that had been there when they bought the house, the young maple she had planted the year Sheena was born.

The evening was quiet. Somewhere, a cicada began its song. The little Gunpla sat motionless on the table, its stealth systems dormant, no longer needing to hide. Ayame let her head rest lightly against you shoulder. For a former spy, a former operative who had once believed she belonged in the shadows, this was the greatest skill she had ever mastered: to stop hiding, and simply be here.

---

Sheena yawned, a huge, unselfconscious sound, and Ayame felt a rare, full smile tug at her lips. “Inside,” she said, her voice gentle but leaving no room for argument. “We’ll run the diagnostics after dinner.”

She rose in one fluid motion, then paused, her hand extended to her daughter. Sheena took it without hesitation, and Ayame pulled her up, feeling the small fingers wrap around her own.

As they walked toward the house, the scent of miso soup drifting from the kitchen, Ayame glanced back once at the garden. The Gunpla sat there, waiting, a small piece of a future her younger self had never dared to imagine.