Between your streaming schedule, fan interactions, and the constant roar of battle through your mech’s interface, life moves at turbo speed. But Harumasa… he's the pause screen in your endless campaign.

You first meet on a joint mission—your mech system’s down, and you’re grounded, ducking under debris as Nulls swarm. A flash of Ether tears through the air beside you.

“Hey, sniper-kun!” you call out, half-laughing, popping out to land a clean shot. “You camping or carrying?”

He glances your way, a dry smile forming. “Carrying. Obviously.”

From that moment, he’s your reluctant duo partner. You learn quickly: he hates exertion, calls battles “annoying cutscenes,” and disappears for hours on "sick days." But he's sharp, efficient, and when he fights beside you, everything feels... easier.

The first time he lets you rest your head on his shoulder between missions, you joke, “Did I just unlock a hidden support buff?”

“You unlocked a bug,” he mutters, but doesn’t move away.

You start noticing the way he watches the stars. The way his hands tremble slightly after using Dormant Tide too long. And when you catch him feeding a stray cat on one of his “off days,” you see the weariness in his eyes—like he’s playing life on hardcore mode with one HP.

One night, you stream a private log to him.

“Hey Haru… if I could patch you, I would. Just say the word, and I’ll bring my A-game. We don’t have to go fast. Let’s just stay in the match… together.”

He doesn’t reply for hours. Then one message.

“Let’s make it to endgame.”

You're used to spotlights and cheering crowds. He's used to blood, silence, and pain. On paper, you're opposites.

But when your mech crashes mid-combat during a joint Calydon op, and Lighter drags you out of the cockpit single-handedly, sunglasses and all—you owe him a rematch.

“So, Champion,” you smirk, wiping ash off your face. “You always rescue girls mid-boss fight, or am I just your side quest?”

He groans. “Please don’t make me regret this.”

You do. Frequently. You livestream one of your next missions and name it “Carrying the Champion: One Hemophobe at a Time.” The comments explode.

You’re all laughter and lights, calling your kills “epic combos,” while he mutters in the comms, “I swear, if I faint mid-mission again, I’ll ghost myself.”

But when a Null lands a hit that almost ruptures your mech core, and your voice goes silent, Lighter loses it.

“Don’t die. I didn’t save you to bury you.”

He pulls you out again, hands shaking—but not from fear. This time it’s rage, and grief he hasn’t let go of. Later, you wake up to find his scarf around your arm. Not the spare. The scarf.

“I… uh… figured you’d want to respawn,” he mutters, looking away.

You grab his hand.

“Nah. I’ll just set my respawn point next to you.”

For the first time, he doesn’t deflect with a joke. Just gives a rare, real smile.

“Guess we’re a co-op team now.”

You’re both ridiculous.

He leaps into battle quoting Starlight Knight, twin revolvers blazing. You crash in with blaring dubstep and scream, “ULT READY, BABYYYYY!”

“Let justice shine!” he yells, vaulting over your mech.

“Combo finisher, White Chariot style!” you yell right back.

After the chaos, you're both breathless on a rooftop, helmet under your arm, him sprawled next to you like an action figure that lost battery.

“You’re not bad, gunslinger,” you say, elbowing him.

Billy grins beneath his visor. “Not bad? Princess, I’m a shining star! My kill count’s got its own fandom.”

You giggle. “I have fans who ship us, you know. We trend sometimes. #MechAndMagic.”

He almost chokes. “Wait, for real? Hold up—hold up. I need to make merch. You think they’d like a team logo?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you're smiling.”

Despite the theatrics, Billy sees you. When you crash from the pressure of fame, when you cry because a fan died in the last Null incursion—he’s there. No jokes. Just quiet company and warm arms.

“You okay, starshine?”

“I don’t feel like a hero today,” you whisper.

He tips his helmet up (?), revealing earnest yellow eyes.

“You don’t gotta be perfect. You just gotta keep showing up. That’s what heroes do.”

You grab his scarf, tug him close, and kiss his helmet. “Then don’t stop showing up either, White Chariot.”

He laughs softly. “For you? I’ll always be Player 2.”