MADOKA – PSIA FIELD AGENT, NORTH AMERICA
Under the fluorescent lights of a small office in Washington D.C., Madoka rubbed his tired eyes and glanced at the clock. 3:47 AM. His makeshift desk at the Japanese embassy was strewn with analysis reports, satellite images, and half-empty coffee cups. He had spent the last week liaising with American intelligence, chasing any hint of the rogue PSIA cabal that had vanished after the Pokémon lab heist. It was meticulous, draining work – the kind Madoka excelled at but despised all the same.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his stiff neck. On the wall, the flags of Japan and the U.S. hung side by side – a reminder that he was far from home. Madoka's fingers hovered over his keyboard as he prepared to draft yet another encrypted update to Tokyo. Despite the hour, his nerves wouldn't let him rest; too much was at stake.
A soft chime from his secure laptop snapped him out of his trance. A new message had popped up on the screen, marked ULTRA-HIGH PRIORITY. Frowning, Madoka clicked it. As he read the content, his heart thudded painfully in his chest.
Effective immediately – Operation Homecoming. All PSIA agents, report back to Tokyo HQ at once. Travel arrangements in progress. Destroy all local intel caches. Code Black.
Madoka pushed his chair back, the wheels squeaking on the tiled floor. He read it again, hand shaking slightly on the mouse. Code Black. They had practiced for doomsday scenarios, but he never imagined he'd see one executed. A full recall, every agent off the grid – it meant only one thing: the final confrontation was imminent, and the old intelligence channels were potentially compromised or no longer needed.
"Jesus," he whispered, lapsing into English in shock. Immediately he stood and began gathering sensitive documents off the desk. Years of caution propelled him into action. If the directive said destroy intel caches, he would not question it. Madoka methodically fed papers into a nearby shredder, then pulled out a lighter for the most sensitive ones (no time for a burn bag outside – he set them aflame right in a metal trash bin, watching the edges curl to black).
He removed a flash drive from his laptop – containing weeks of painstaking analysis – and hesitated only a second before placing it under the lighter's flame as well. The plastic bubbled and charred, data irretrievable. A pang of futility hit him as he dropped the molten remains into the bin. So much work, wiped out in seconds. But such was the order.
Within minutes, the room was clear of anything classified. Madoka grabbed his go-bag from under the desk – it was always packed for emergency exfil. He caught a glimpse of himself in the darkened window: slightly disheveled suit, loosened tie, a haunted look behind his glasses. He allowed himself a bitter chuckle. "I really thought I'd left this madness behind once," he murmured.
He remembered the day he almost resigned – after his team was massacred in that coordinated hit (the day he handed Makima his letter and walked away, in another life). Yet here he was, drawn back in. Maybe he simply couldn't abandon his colleagues when things fell apart. Or maybe Makima had convinced him, in her calm, persuasive way, that he was still needed. Either way, there was no turning back now.
As Madoka powered down and wiped his laptop, a deep sense of dread settled in his stomach. If Hiroshi was back and Makima was issuing Code Black, Tokyo would become the eye of the storm. He'd be walking straight into whatever nightmare was unfolding.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and left the office, locking it behind him. The embassy's corridor was silent, almost eerily so. At this hour, only a few security personnel roamed, and they paid him no mind as he made his way out to the cool night.
Under the streetlights on Massachusetts Avenue, Madoka pulled out his phone to send the required acknowledgment. His thumb hesitated. A memory flickered – a rooftop in Tokyo, not long after the betrayal, where he confessed to Makima his fear of dying pointlessly. She had looked at him with an understanding he didn't expect and said, "Then let's make sure none of our deaths are pointless, Madoka."
He inhaled sharply and tapped out his reply: "Madoka – Acknowledged. Returning to Tokyo."
Almost instantly, a response pinged with flight details. They'd booked him on a military transport leaving Andrews Air Force Base at dawn. Of course they had – Makima's efficiency never failed.
Madoka pocketed the phone and flagged down a black embassy sedan already idling by the curb (they'd anticipated his departure to be immediate). As he slid into the back seat, he allowed a moment of introspection. He was scared – only a fool wouldn't be – but also curious, in spite of himself, about how it would all play out. Would this recall be the start of Japan clawing back what was lost? Or the prelude to something even worse?
The driver cast him a questioning glance through the rearview mirror. "Where to, sir?"
"Andrews base," Madoka said quietly. "I have a flight." He felt the finality of those words. This was really happening.
As the car glided through the sparse early-morning traffic, Madoka relaxed his head against the headrest. The neon glow of 24-hour diners and the occasional honk of a taxi gradually gave way to the quiet, wide roads toward the airfield.
He found himself thinking of the team – the ragtag group of eccentric, brave fools he'd be rejoining. Denji, Power… those two would surely cause a scene the moment they all assembled. The thought actually made Madoka smile. Aki would try to corral them, Himeno would crack a joke to ease the tension, Kobeni might cry from relief (or stress, or both). Angel would probably wander off to find a quiet corner, and Kishibe… well, Kishibe would likely break out a flask and mutter about "damn kids."
Madoka realized with a faint sense of surprise that he was looking forward to seeing them. Whatever terror lay ahead, he wouldn't face it alone. Perhaps that was why he'd returned after all – not just duty, but a quiet loyalty to those who had bled alongside him in the dark.
The sedan turned onto the tarmac where a hulking C-130 transport plane waited under floodlights. The driver handed Madoka his passport and a set of papers. "Safe journey, Mr. Madoka," he offered.
Madoka stepped out, the cool predawn breeze carrying the smell of jet fuel. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "Thanks," he replied, then added softly as he gazed at the aircraft, "See you on the other side."
Clutching his bag, Madoka walked toward the plane's lowered ramp. Each step felt weighty with the knowledge that he was marching toward whatever endgame fate had in store. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of something beyond fear – resolve, and maybe even hope.
Homeward bound, he thought as he ascended into the belly of the plane. No matter what awaited in Tokyo, they would face it together. And for Makima, for Hiroshi, for all of them – Madoka would do everything in his power to ensure that, this time, no one's death (including his own) would be in vain.
He settled into a canvas seat amidst a handful of other operatives and buckled in. As the engines roared to life, Madoka closed his eyes and let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Here we go," he whispered into the trembling air, bracing himself for the journey back to where he belonged.
TOKYO – PSIA HEADQUARTERS, DAWN
In Tokyo, dawn's first light crept through the skyline as Makima stood in the lofty PSIA command center, eyes fixed on a digital world map glowing on the wall. One by one, green indicators – each representing a recalled field agent – blinked on from every corner of the globe. Europe, Asia, Africa, the Americas… they were all coming home.
She clasped her hands behind her back, maintaining a composed silhouette in the quiet hum of the control room. Inside, Makima's heart swelled with a mix of apprehension and steely resolve. This was the moment she had been preparing for ever since the betrayal shattered their ranks. Now, with Hiroshi returned at her side and her loyal team converging on Tokyo, the real fight could begin.
Behind her, the command room doors slid open softly. Makima didn't need to turn to know who it was – the familiar calm of Hiroshi Kobayashi stepped up beside her, his reflection appearing in the glass. He followed her gaze to the world map as the last few lights winked on.
"They're on their way," Makima said quietly, her voice almost reverent in the stillness.
Hiroshi nodded, his young face composed but eyes blazing with determination. "All of them," he affirmed. In the reflection, Makima saw the slightest of smiles tug at his lips – hope, in spite of the darkness ahead.
For a brief moment, neither spoke. The sun was rising over Tokyo Bay, bathing the city in a pale golden glow. It illuminated the two figures standing united against the coming storm.
Makima allowed herself a small breath of relief. They had recalled every last agent – pulled all her pieces back to the board. Whatever came next, she would face it with the only people in the world she truly trusted.
She finally turned to Hiroshi, a resolute spark in her amber eyes. "It's time."
Hiroshi met her gaze and replied with the certainty of someone who had walked through fire and come out tempered. "Let's end this," he said.
High above the waking city, Makima and Hiroshi stood shoulder to shoulder as Tokyo dawned anew. Far below, the first hints of a new day's bustle began, unaware of the quiet war council convening in the sky.