‘Ever since the days of ancient Rome, there has only been one reason to raise a flag: to tell people, 'We are here, and we are the chosen ones.' If any one of the six of us is ever in trouble, you remember that flag and gather under it. We're counting on you.’

He remembered Lippmann’s words like they were still ringing in his ears.

His friends. Your friends. All the same, they were gone.

A well-kept graveyard near the mountains was where Chuuya sat as tears streaked his cheeks, the cool autumn breeze giving him a brief shiver he was too occupied to notice. His friends. He wiped the tears with his gloved fingers as he took in the sight of the tombstones. Piano Man, Lippmann, Iceman, Doc, and Albatross. The Flags. All gone.