#alternative timeline

1. The whole environment deal

2. “Ai art”

I honestly think that had they just waited on generated images they could have gotten a lot less hate. Without the advent of AI art I think Ai would have actually become liked much more universally going up from kids and down from employers. Over the it would have just become a staple of life then when images came around there wouldn’t be as much hatred because AI was just a part of life and it would exist in the same state that the internet does where there are many problems and it’s pretty evil but how would you even go about not using it and the worst parts are avoidable.

Instead we live in a dystopian society where AI has taken over the world in all but name

In which everyone started treating the lovesick fiancé of Third divisions Vice captain.

GET READY FOR A ROLLER COASTER

After fighting Kaiju no. 9 and saving Director Shinomiya (I REMEMBERED HIS NAME not sure of the spelling tho lmaoo

Previous one

Fun fact: Did you know this was originally going to be angst??

The infirmary of Tachikawa Base had never seen so much foot traffic, so many flowers, or so many high-ranking Defense Force officers fighting over a teapot.

Aliela Sevaiska, still pale and wrapped in a standard-issue medical gown (her beloved oversized hoodie had been tragically cut to ribbons in the ER, a fact she still mourned), sat propped up against approximately fourteen pillows that Kikoru had personally fluffed while threatening Nurse Yuki with grievous bodily harm if a single pillow was “sub-optimally plush.” She had a cup of Haruichi’s finest gyokuro tea in her left hand, a hand-knitted blanket in the Third Division’s colors draped over her lap (courtesy of Aoi, who had apparently taken up knitting in his spare time and refused to make eye contact about it), and a small mountain of homemade snacks within arm’s reach that Iharu had been replenishing every two hours.

She tried to lift her right hand to reach for a rice cracker.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Reno materialized at her bedside like a stern, bespectacled guardian angel, gently but firmly pushing her hand back down onto the blanket. “You have three fractured ribs, a perforated lung that just re-inflated, a stabbed shoulder, and severe frostbite on your fingertips. I will get the rice cracker for you.”

“Reno-kun, it’s a rice cracker. It weighs four grams.”

“Four grams too many for someone who—and I cannot stress this enough—threw herself onto a kaiju blade twice. Twice, Sevaiska-san. I counted. The audio logs are burned into my brain.” He picked up the cracker with the delicacy of someone handling an explosive ordinance and held it to her lips. “Open up.”

From the corner, Kafka let out a wet, emotional sob. “He’s such a good underclassman, Reno! Taking care of our queen like that!”

“Shut up, Kafka, you’re going to start crying again and then I’m going to cry and Kikoru is going to get violent,” Iharu grumbled, but his eyes were red-rimmed too. He shoved a newly heated meat bun into Kafka’s hands. “Eat this and contain yourself.”

Aliela chewed her cracker slowly, acutely aware of the seven pairs of eyes watching her as if her mastication was a riveting spectator sport. “Everyone… you really don’t have to do all this. I’m a logistics officer. I’m supposed to be in the background. This is excessive.”

“Excessive?” Captain Ashiro Mina’s voice cut through the room from the doorway, where she leaned with her arms crossed. She had a new thermos in her hand, one she’d commissioned herself. It was engraved with the words: World’s Most Indispensable Logistics Officer. Do Not Stab Again. “Sevaiska, you modified a panic room into a cryo-containment cell on your own initiative, predicted a top-tier kaiju’s strategy in real-time, saved the Director General, and locked yourself in a freezer with a monster while bleeding out. I have filed a formal request to have ‘Excessive’ be your new middle name. It’s being processed.”

Narumi Gen, who had absolutely no business being in the Third Division’s infirmary but had shown up anyway with a giant fruit basket and an insufferable smirk, jabbed a thumb in Hoshina’s direction. “Yeah, Ashiro, process it faster. I want my division to send her a fruit basket without your vice-captain intercepting it for ‘security screening.’ He ate the persimmons, Aliela. All of them. Said they weren’t up to your dietary standards.”

Hoshina, who had been silently stationed in the chair directly to Aliela’s left for the past three days, seven hours, and twenty-two minutes, did not rise to the bait. He was too busy staring at the gentle rise and fall of her chest under the blanket, counting her breaths, memorizing the exact shade of pink returning to her cheeks. He had a small notebook open on his knee—Aliela Recovery Log, the cover read in his tidy calligraphy—and he was jotting down the time of her latest cracker intake.

“Sōshirō,” Aliela said softly, turning her head to look at him. “Are you… logging my snacks?”

He looked up, and his smile was still there, that lazy Hoshina smile, but underneath it was a quiet, burning intensity that hadn’t dimmed since she woke up. “Gotta make sure yer gettin’ enough calories, Aliela-chan. The doctors said yer body’s healin’ fast, but it needs fuel. Yer a miracle, but even miracles need proper nutrition.” He reached over and gently tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders, his fingers brushing the very edge of a scar that peeked out from the collar of her gown. He didn’t flinch. He just traced it, feather-light, like it was a sacred thing. “Also, Narumi, I’ll eat every persimmon on this base if it means she gets the best ones. Fight me.”

Narumi held up his hands, grin widening. “No fight. I’m just glad your jawline isn’t a ‘workplace hazard’ to her anymore. Though, looking at you now, I think it’s a hazard in a different way. You’re gonna make her tooth-rottingly spoiled.”

“Good,” Hoshina said, utterly serious.

The room fell into a beat of stunned silence before Iharu loudly whispered to Reno, “Did Vice-Captain Hoshina just… agree to being sappy? Out loud? In front of witnesses?”

“I’m documenting it,” Reno whispered back, his phone already out.

The Rotation of Royal Attendants

The Third Division, without any formal discussion, had instituted a twenty-four-hour Aliela Care Rotation Schedule. It was taped to the infirmary door, written in multiple colors of marker, and had been edited so many times it looked like a tactical deployment map.

Morning shift: Haruichi and Aoi. Haruichi provided the tea ceremony and calming presence. Aoi provided the clean blankets, the precisely arranged get-well cards, and the quiet, steady reassurance that someone was handling all the paperwork Aliela was forbidden from touching. “You are on medical leave, Sevaiska-san. Mandated by Captain Ashiro and seconded by Director General Shinomiya himself. The kaiju can wait. Your stitches cannot.”

Midday shift: Iharu and Reno. Iharu was in charge of “loud, distracting entertainment,” which mostly meant retelling squad gossip with exaggerated impressions until Aliela laughed and then immediately winced because her ribs still hurt, at which point Reno would smack Iharu with a rolled-up magazine and lecture him on abdominal injury protocols. Reno was also in charge of reading aloud any messages from the other divisions (fan mail, mostly, from officers who had heard The Scream and were now treating Aliela like a folk hero).

Afternoon shift: Kikoru. Kikoru had declared herself Aliela’s personal bodyguard and emotional support prodigy. She would sit with perfect posture and read combat reports aloud, asking Aliela’s opinion on tactical formations, her sharp eyes watching for any sign of fatigue. “You’re the only person who can critique my father’s old strategies without making me want to throw something. Do you need more tea? You look slightly less pink. I’m not a medic, but I think that’s concerning. I’m calling the nurse. NURSE—”

“Kikoru-chan, I’m fine, really. The color is returning.”

“That’s exactly what someone who is hiding a secondary hemorrhage would say. NURSE YUKI!”

Evening shift: Kafka and Mina. Kafka would bring a board game or a silly video to watch, his uncomplicated, boisterous warmth filling the room. He’d hold back tears every time Aliela made a small joke, and then inevitably cry anyway, and she’d pat his big, dumb head while he sniffled about how she was “the bravest person he’d ever met, and he was a literal kaiju.” Mina would simply sit in the corner, her presence a silent fortress. Sometimes she’d read. Sometimes she’d do paperwork. Once, she looked up and said, “I withdrew your transfer denial, by the way. You’re permanently attached to the Third Division’s logistics now. If you ever try to leave, I’ll be very annoyed.” It was the most romantic professional threat Aliela had ever received.

Night shift: Hoshina. He was there for all the other shifts too, frankly, but night was when everyone else was forcibly ejected by the nurses. He’d pull his chair right up to her bedside, take her scarred hand in his, and just… be there. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he was silent. He told her about his training, his worries about Kafka’s new techniques, his thoughts on the latest blade modifications. He’d update his little logbook. He’d gently wipe her forehead with a cool cloth if she had a nightmare.

He’d whisper, “I’m here. Not going anywhere, Aliela. Yer stuck with me.”

And she’d whisper back, “Your curry bread….”

“Don’t,” he’d say, his voice cracking just a little. “I’ll get curry bread for you. Every day. For the rest of my life. You don’t ever have to say sorry for that again.”

The Official (Unofficial) Adoption

Director General Isao Shinomiya visited on the fourth day of her recovery. He walked into the infirmary with a stack of documents, a stern expression, and a very awkward-looking Kikoru trailing behind him.

“Father, I told you she’s still resting. You can’t just barge in and—”

“I am the Director General. I can barge.” He stopped at the foot of Aliela’s bed, his gaze sweeping over her. She instinctively tried to sit up straighter, but he held up a hand. “At ease. Don’t you dare strain yourself.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat and placed it on her lap. “This is a certificate of honorary familial recognition. It has no legal standing because I made it myself on my personal computer, but as far as everyone in this base is concerned, you are now a Shinomiya.”

Aliela blinked. “I’m… sorry?”

“You told me my daughter needed me. You put yourself between me and an S-class threat. You called it ‘logistics.’” His voice was gruff, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. “I see a foolish, self-sacrificing child with blonde hair and a death wish. The resemblance to my late wife is distressing. The resemblance to my current daughter is infuriating. Therefore, you are now my problem. Call me ‘Uncle Isao’ or ‘Sir Father’ or whatever you like. You will have access to the Shinomiya estate. You will attend family dinners. You will allow Kikoru to teach you basic self-defense so you never have to improvise a stabbing again.”

Kikoru made a strangled noise. “Father, you can’t just announce an adoption like a military directive!”

“I just did.” Isao crossed his arms. “Sevaiska. Do you accept?”

Aliela looked at the certificate. It was printed on nice paper, with a little clip-art kaiju in the corner that someone had helpfully crossed out. Her lips trembled. “I… I don’t have a good history with family. Sir.”

“Neither do I, anymore. But I am excellent at protective custody. This is essentially protective custody. With birthday presents. Say yes.”

Hoshina, from his eternal chair, leaned over and whispered, “If ya don’t say yes, he’s just gonna keep standin’ there. He’s very stubborn. I know from experience. He once made me do a thousand practice swings for ‘disrespectin’ a morning greeting.’”

Aliela let out a small, hiccupping laugh that turned into a wince. She pressed a hand to her bandaged ribs. “Yes. Yes, Sir Father. Uncle Isao. I accept.”

Kikoru threw her hands up in the air. “Now I have a sister. A sister who gets stabbed! This is the worst. The absolute worst. I need a parfait.” She stomped out, but her voice cracked, and Aliela could have sworn she saw her scrub at her eyes.

Isao nodded once, sharply, and then did something astonishing. He reached down and, very gently, patted Aliela on the head. “Good. Heal quickly. The Defense Force needs its queen.”

And then he marched out, leaving the entire room in stunned silence.

Reno broke it. “Did the Director General just call her a queen?”

“I have it on video,” Iharu whispered reverently. “This is going in the group chat.”

“You have a group chat?” Aoi asked, horrified.

“Of course we have a group chat. It’s called ‘Aliela’s Royal Court.’ I made it yesterday.”

"You got to be kidding me... Did you add me already?"

The hardest part of recovery, for Aliela, wasn’t the wounds. It wasn’t the physical therapy. It wasn’t even the recurring nightmares of the cold, the dark, the sound of her own bones snapping.

It was being cared for.

She had spent her entire life being the giver. The cook. The quiet, sunshine presence who asked for nothing and expected even less. Love, to her, was an offering given from a safe distance, measured in two-minute conversations and carefully curated heart emojis. Being the center of someone’s devotion—let alone an entire division’s—felt like standing in a spotlight without the oversized hoodie to hide in.

She fidgeted when Haruichi poured her tea. She tried to get up to help Aoi organize the cards. She apologized every time Kikoru fluffed her pillows. She attempted, on day five, to sneak out of bed to use the bathroom by herself and nearly collapsed, only to be caught by a white-faced Hoshina who had been returning with a fresh box of chestnut Mont Blanc cakes.

“Aliela.” His voice was terrifyingly calm. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing (she did weigh nothing, he realized, and filed that away under Things to Fix with Aggressive Snack Scheduling). “Ya can ask for help. Ya haven’t asked for help once. Not once. And I know why.” He set her back on the bed, his arms still around her, his forehead dropping gently to hers. “I read the file. I know what they did to you. I know ya had to survive alone. But yer not alone now. I’m here. The squad’s here. And we’re all very, very annoying, and we will not stop being annoying until you learn that yer worth being fussed over.”

She stared up at him, her eyes glistening. “I don’t know how.”

“Then learn,” he murmured. “Start small. Ask me to get you water.”

Her throat worked. “Sōshirō… would you… would you get me some water? Please?”

His smile was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Absolutely, yer majesty.”

He returned with the water, and also a small plush kaiju (a No. 8 one, Kafka had apparently commissioned them and was selling them at a loss out of pure joy), a new oversized cardigan in soft lavender wool, and a promise to teach her basic sword forms once she was healed so she’d never, ever feel helpless again.

The Curry Bread Vow

On the day she was finally cleared to leave the infirmary, the entire Third Division assembled in the hallway like a weird honor guard. There were balloons (Iharu), a banner that said Welcome Home Queen Aliela (Reno had done the calligraphy, Aoi had supplied the materials), and a small table absolutely groaning with food.

In the center of the table was a plate of curry bread. Perfectly golden, still steaming. Hoshina stood behind it, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of pride and nervousness.

“Made ‘em myself,” he said as she approached, leaning heavily on a cane and wrapped in the new lavender cardigan. “Burnt the first three batches. Kafka ate ‘em anyway. Said they were ‘delicious with tears.’ But this batch? This batch is for you. I’m not gonna deflect anymore, Aliela. No more pattin’ yer head and walkin’ away. I’m gonna bring you curry bread every week. I’m gonna walk you home every night. I’m gonna be the one sendin’ you forty-seven heart emojis.” He picked up a bread roll and held it out to her. “If you’ll still have this oblivious jerk as yer fiancé. The real one. Not the one who hid behind jokes.”

Aliela took the bread with trembling hands. She bit into it. It was slightly unevenly cooked, the curry a little too spicy, and absolutely, undeniably perfect.

She chewed. Swallowed. Then she looked at him, her smile no longer the practiced, bubbly mask she’d worn for years, but something softer, shyer, and entirely real.

“I always thought my love was a logistical problem,” she said quietly, loud enough for only him to hear. “Something to manage. To contain. To deliver in small packages so you wouldn’t get overwhelmed and leave. I didn’t think I could have… this.” She gestured at the bread, at the squad cheering and crying behind them, at the ridiculous banner and the man before her. “What do I do now?”

Hoshina stepped forward and pulled her into the gentlest embrace he could manage, mindful of her healing ribs. “You just let us love you back, Aliela-chan. That’s the only order ya have to follow from now on.”

From the back of the crowd, Kafka wailed, “THIS IS BEAUTIFUL! I’M GOING TO TRANSFORM FROM EMOTION!”

“Kafka, no!” half the squad shouted.

Aliela laughed, a real laugh that bubbled up from her stomach and made her eyes water, and Hoshina held her through it, grinning into her hair, knowing he was the luckiest starving man who had ever been fed.

73 Yards is an episode of television that confuses me to no end. And no, I’m not referring to the obvious ambiguity perched at the heart of this story, but rather my subjective opinions toward the script itself. Whenever asked whether I like this one, I can’t quite land on a definitive or confident answer. I’m caught between shifting thoughts that alter depending on what part of the episode I’m…