Nagisa

The cold spray of Waterfall City’s central cascade tasted of stone and distance. Nagisa stood perfectly still, a stark contrast to the lightspeed suit humming faintly on their frame. The scroll in their hand was from Roketto, sealed with a symbol they had designed together on a planet now orbited by three artificial suns. The directive was simple: deliver it to the temple. But the weight of the parchment felt wrong. The ink smelled faintly of ozone, a private code for messages sent under duress. This was not a request; it was a plea trapped in the shape of an order. Years of running had taught them speed. The wisdom in their long, graying hair had taught them when not to use it. They broke the seal.