always started with fire.

Cannons roared like beasts. Smoke curled through the alleys of Liberio, rising over cracked rooftops and mangled bodies. The air was thick with heat and blood — the kind of chaos that made soldiers run or snap.

But not you.

You were already moving.

The Cart Titan — your Titan — cut through the broken streets like a war chariot.

Four legs pounding, metal plating rattling, the twin-mounted turrets locked and loaded on your back. Your head stayed low, ears scanning every direction. You weren’t graceful — you were lethal.

A scout team ducked behind sandbags.

You didn’t pause.

One click — one shot — gone.

But then you felt it.

A gust. A ripple in the dirt. A scream that was too close.

You looked left — and there he was.

Porco.

The Jaw Titan sprinted into view like a wrecking ball carved from muscle and rage. He crashed through an enemy tank, claws shredding steel like bark. Then he roared — not just at the soldiers, but at the world.

Reckless. Furious. Predictable.

You gritted your Titan teeth. “Porco, fall back. You’re too exposed.”

“Shut up,” his voice hissed through the comms. “I’ve got it handled.”

You sighed through your nose. Inside your Titan’s cockpit, you rolled your eyes.

“You say that before every dumb decision.”

“And you never stop watching me do it,” he growled.

The silence between you snapped — something deeper than annoyance sparking through the link.

And still — you didn’t look away.

⸻

Later.

The dust had thinned.

Explosions faded. The battlefield quieted just enough to hear the wind. Your Cart Titan crouched low beside a crumbled bunker. Steam hissed off your armor.

Porco’s Titan paced just beyond the rubble. Slow. Guarding. Breathing hard.

He looked worse for wear — jaw cracked, left claw dripping with blood. But he stood.

He always did.

“I saw you take that hit,” you said, voice low through the comms.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not a high bar,” you muttered, shifting your Titan’s weight.

He grunted. “Still standing.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Your Titan’s gaze turned toward him — toward the way he’d thrown himself in front of an enemy barrage earlier, teeth bared, claws forward.

Toward the fact that even at your worst — he never let you fall alone.

“You shouldn’t be so reckless,” you said softly.

His Titan finally stilled.

Then, slowly, he turned toward you.

“Not when you’re still out here.”

You froze.

Inside your cockpit, your hands clenched around the controls.

He didn’t say more.

Didn’t need to.

Because Porco didn’t do soft words or clean timing. But that sentence—raw and unguarded—carried more weight than anything else said that day.

You shifted.

Not to walk away.

But to move closer.

Just a few paces.

Two Titans — war-torn, scorched, steaming in the dusk — standing shoulder to shoulder amid the ruin.

And for once, nothing chased you.

No bullets. No orders.

Just breath and stillness and knowing.