Title: Seventy-Two Hours
Author: jordannamorgan
Fandom: Kabaneri of the Iron Fortress
Characters: Ikoma and Takumi.
Setting: Pre-canon.
Rating: Mild PG.
Length: 3,364 words.
Summary: Some small part of him wondered if he was even going to survive the next three days.



It was only a tiny cut.

Little more than an inch long and barely deep enough to bleed, Ikoma barely felt it. Had the protruding gear that scraped him not caught his sleeve as well, he might not even have realized the damage it dealt. Nevertheless, the wound now glared out from his left forearm as if to mock him… while some small part of him wondered if he was even going to survive the next three days.

That stupidly careless moment and the resulting cut were an accident that could happen to any steamsmith—and probably did, much more often than anyone would admit. Ikoma knew very well that some of his peers would have just kept quiet and gone about their day, unwilling to face the bushi and endure the mandated ordeal of quarantine. After all, unless actual Kabane blood was observed on or near the surface that caused the injury, the risk of infection was statistically almost nil. No one could even remember any cases of it happening this way; they’d only heard frightening secondhand accounts from other stations. Ikoma himself would be the first to say that Aragane’s quarantine laws could be overzealously pursued.

Yet even so… when he remembered the sight of red sparks first flickering in lifeless eyes, he just couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

So he found the nearest bushi, and dutifully self-reported the cut—and the man barely glanced at it before seizing his arm and hauling him off to the quarantine cells. He was much more rough than he needed to be when Ikoma was in no way resisting. The bruise created by his grip ached more than the cut itself.

Seventy-two hours. That was how long Ikoma had to wait now, in a small bare cell that was largely open to the elements, to see whether he would show any signs of infection. At least winter’s cold had already given way to spring, or the nights to follow would have been very uncomfortable.

Ikoma wished it had occurred to him to tell Takumi before he reported to the bushi. As far as he knew, no other steamsmiths had noticed the incident, so no one would be able to let his friend know where he was. Takumi was going to worry… but then, no doubt, he would doggedly track Ikoma down somehow to lecture and then console him. That was just the kind of guy he was. He’d be more anxious and upset than Ikoma was over it all.

…Because of course, Ikoma would be fine. The odds were entirely in his favor.

Yet even so, when he closed his eyes, those red sparks burned much brighter than usual in his memory.



Seven hours.

Ikoma was just scratching the mark of another hour’s passage into the dirt, measured by the hands of his dented old pocketwatch, when he heard familiar breaths puffing heavily toward him. He turned to see Takumi stumble up to the wooden bars of the cell, huffing like a locomotive engine.

“Ikoma! What happened?”

Right on schedule. Smiling wanly at his friend’s fully expected arrival, Ikoma shrugged. “Oh, it was just a little accident. I cut myself while I was under the train.” He lifted his left sleeve to display the small red line on his arm… and felt a pang when Takumi flinched back half a step at the first glimpse.

Of all the things Takumi could be flighty about, the sight of blood was surprisingly not one of them. After all, if he couldn’t have handled seeing the red gore trains were smeared with after an encounter with a Kabane horde on the tracks, he never would have made it as a steamsmith. This meant it was not Ikoma’s tiny wound itself that had unnerved him; it was the very thought of the taint that could have entered through it. Even if the reaction was fleeting, it was somehow disheartening to see.

Despite that initial hesitation, Takumi grimaced and drew a breath, leaning closer to the bars once more.

“Well… it looks normal? The color’s not changing like we were taught to watch for.” He raised his eyes to study Ikoma’s face intently. “You feel okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt.” Ikoma forced his smile to broaden. “I don’t think there’s really any danger. All I’m going to suffer from is just having to sit here for three days.”

Takumi did not smile in return. “You’ve heard the stories. It doesn’t always happen right away, so… it’s just better to be safe.” He knew enough of Ikoma’s frustration with the bushi and their strict safeguards to look guilty as he said it. “I mean, at least it’s more time for you to spend building your piercing gun prototype in your head, right?”

“And less time I can spend actually working on it.” Ikoma gave vent to a sigh. “But still… I’ve seen what it’s like, Takumi. That’s why I couldn’t take chances with this.”

The bigger steamsmith winced at the allusion to hellish memories Ikoma had recounted to him. “You’ll be okay, Ikoma. No doubt about it. Just try to be more careful when you’re working, will ya?”

“Can’t argue with that.—So how did you find out where I was?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been running around town for hours trying to find you. It finally just occurred to me to check here.”

The account confirmed exactly what Ikoma had predicted his friend would do. He ducked his head, cheeks dusted with pink. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just glad nothing has really happened…” For a brief moment, an unspoken yet hung painfully in the air. “Is there anything I can get you while you’re waiting this out?”

“My notebook,” Ikoma replied with a nod. “If I can actually focus enough through this to have any good ideas, I want to be able to write them down.”

“Sure thing. I’ll bring you that and some food, too. I’ve heard stories about the bushi not even remembering to feed people the whole time they’re in quarantine.” Takumi scowled as if personally offended by the thought. “Just sit tight until I get back, okay?”

Watching him scamper off on his errand, Ikoma could only be grateful beyond measure.



Twelve hours.

In a surprisingly short amount of time, Takumi had returned with the notebook and a scrounged-up meal for two. They’d eaten together, and afterward, Takumi continued to sit outside the cell and keep Ikoma company well into the evening. He only reluctantly left when Ikoma insisted he should go home and rest, having work to do early in the morning.

With his friend’s departure, the night suddenly seemed much darker and more chilled. Ikoma took off the steamsmith jacket that had always hung large on his thin frame, wrapping it around himself like a blanket instead. He opened his notebook and tried to go over some of his most recent research… but as he reread his scrawled theories about Kabane biology, it only made his mind stray to wonderings of what might be happening inside his own body. Nothing felt abnormal, but if the accounts of delayed symptoms were true, he couldn’t begin to rest easy until at least the end of the second day.

I should write down everything I feel, he realized at length. If something does happen to me, any record I can leave behind might help further people’s understanding of the Kabane infection.

There was little to document, but Ikoma did his best anyway. Each hour he measured his pulse, tried to check himself for signs of fever, and noted the appearance of the cut—which seemed unchanged and still utterly insignificant. If the information was unhelpful, jotting it down was at least something to do, for his mind was otherwise too fretfully occupied to be useful for anything else.

At some point he dozed off without realizing it; but the sleep was less than merciful, for hours later he awakened with a sharp cry, his heart racing and his body painfully tense.

Those red sparks that haunted him had been there in the dark. She had been there, inside his cell, small hands stretched out with glee as she beckoned to him… and he had reached for her in turn.

A nightmare, Ikoma realized hazily, still trembling as he gulped in deep breaths of night-chilled air.

Fingers groped for his pocketwatch. Seventeen hours. He shook his head and took stock of himself, but his information was tainted by the lingering effects of fear. His pounding heart, the sweat on his brow, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach could only mask any real changes he needed to know about. Was he still alright, or was he changing and unable to tell? He looked at the cut on his arm: was the skin around it a little pinker, or was it only a trick of faint lantern light and his own imagination?

Calm down… just calm down.

Screwing his eyes shut, he drew slow, deliberate breaths, and focused his concentration on willing his pulse to slow. It was hardly a skill he was practiced in, but eventually, it did seem to work. The deceptive throb in his veins faded, his heart began to feel less painfully tight, and the physical heat of anxiety in his body cooled.

You’re okay.

…At least for now.

Sitting cross-legged with hands clenched on his knees, Ikoma felt a surge of anger disrupt his newly recovered calm. He couldn’t die like this. To have shared Hatsune’s fate back then, to have died trying to protect her, was one thing; but years later, after struggling for so long to find ways to save others, he just couldn’t die from a tiny damn scratch and some potential microscopic drop of a dead Kabane’s blood. To end that way with nothing of his goals achieved would complete the utter failure of his life.

Yet if it was going to happen, it was beyond his control now—precisely because he hadn’t found a way to stop it.

He hadn’t worked hard enough. He hadn’t learned enough. He hadn’t spent enough long, late nights trying and failing and trying again.

If he lived to walk out of that cell, he vowed to himself that he would do even more.

In the meantime, if there was still anything else he could leave behind should the worst happen…

He threw himself into his notebook and wracked his brain, scrounging up every half-formed thought he could remember about his research and designs, every passing inspiration that came up in conversation with Takumi. Anything he had not already committed to paper, he proceeded to scribble down furiously, no matter how vague or random. Even if he would never be able to use it himself, perhaps someday someone else could.

Takumi would know what to do with his notebook, if necessary. Even if he didn’t care to invest himself in the work Ikoma had devoted his life to, he respected its meaning to his friend well enough to see that it lived on. He would find someone capable and committed to entrust Ikoma’s meager legacy to.

It won’t come to that, Ikoma reminded himself fiercely.

Nevertheless, he urgently continued to write.



Eventually sleep claimed Ikoma again, and this time he was too exhausted to dream. In the late morning, he was finally awakened by the sound of a bushi—the same one who had “escorted” him to the cell—shoving a bowl of gruel in between the bars with a clatter. The man muttered something about lazy steamsmiths before skulking away.

Ikoma nearly let out an unsteady laugh. If you only knew what my night was like…

He checked the time: twenty-three hours. Then he examined himself, finding nothing new to report except the faintest beginnings of normal and healthy scabbing along his cut. At last he turned to the bowl of what could only be called food if one was being very generous. It was cold and slimy and rather on the dirt-flavored side of tasteless… but really, it wasn’t that much worse than the meals Ikoma usually made for himself, at least by the time he remembered to tear himself away from his work and eat.

Footsteps approached a few minutes later, and Takumi appeared, carrying a small wrapped bundle. His round face fell as he saw the empty bowl in Ikoma’s hands. “You already ate?”

“If you want to call it that.” Ikoma set the bowl aside, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t need to come check on me.”

“You kidding? I’ve been so worried, Master Yuji yelled at me for not getting anything done all morning. I came to look in on you before work too, but you were out cold then, so I… I didn’t want to bother you.” From the way Takumi’s eyes darted down guiltily, Ikoma could guess he might have also been just slightly afraid of waking up something that wasn’t him. “…Anyway, I got some pickled vegetables left over from my lunch if you’re still hungry.”

A habitually light eater, Ikoma was not all that hungry anymore, but he accepted the food—partly because Takumi would have been disappointed if he didn’t, and partly because it had to be more nutritious than the bushi’s slop. After all, he wouldn’t be able to gauge and record his condition accurately if a lack of nourishment affected him.

“Takumi,” he began earnestly after he finished eating. “If it’s alright… I want to ask you to promise me something.”

“To make sure your work gets into the right hands if anything happens to you?” The bigger steamsmith smirked. “Yeah, I know. That’s always been the plan—’cause it’s not like this is the first time you’ve risked killing yourself.”

Ikoma blushed, wondering exactly when it was that he had allowed someone to know him so completely; to anticipate him so well. “Thank you. And I’m sorry for making you worry.” A hesitant pause as his own gaze dropped. “I still don’t understand why you ever wanted to be my friend.”

“I guess it’s because being crazy makes you interesting.” His mouth full of food, Takumi grinned as Ikoma glanced up at him in surprise. “Hey, all I do is work, eat, and sleep. It’d be a pretty boring life without you getting in trouble all the time.”

The red in Ikoma’s face only flamed deeper. “I thought someone as normal as you would like things a little more boring.”

“Well, someday when you’ve done what you need to do, we’ll both get to be bored together.” The smile Takumi offered then was gentle and perfectly sincere. “Right, buddy?”

“…Right,” Ikoma agreed fiercely, unable to resist a smile in turn.



Thirty-three hours… Forty-nine hours… Fifty-seven hours.

As time continued to crawl past within the quarantine cell, Ikoma’s quiet undercurrent of anxiety slowly ebbed. The more time passed with no sign of change in him, the more likely it was that he hadn’t been infected at all. He wasn’t in the clear just yet, but at least he was starting to feel confident enough to focus his mind on other things. Going through his frantic idea dump from the first night even gave him some new inspirations to lose himself in, letting the time pass more easily.

The bushi only brought gruel in the mornings, it seemed. Ikoma no longer ate it after the first day anyway, relying instead on the proper food Takumi brought him. After a few meals, he realized he was eating better in that cell than he bothered to at home—which made him feel just a little bit guilty. He would have to return that favor to his friend later on. Perhaps with a gift of something expensive and delicious imported from another station.

Another nightmare awaited him on the second night, but he was able to put it to rest without the panic that had followed the previous one. He merely lay still in the dark and talked to Hatsune for a while; and somehow that made him feel better, in a way it hadn’t before. Maybe her spirit was glad this bleak experience had strengthened her big brother’s resolve to help others.

A rainstorm swept in on the third night. Ikoma wrapped his notebook in his jacket to protect it, and endured a soaking himself from the chilly blowing rain. It was miserable, but it was bearable, because he knew his confinement would soon be over.

Early the last morning, on a whim, he climbed the bars and inked the word HOPE high up on the rafters of the cell. He could imagine now that quarantine was even more frightening and lonely for people who had less scientific understanding of the Kabane virus than he did. If that small message he left behind could help reassure someone that they were most likely to be okay… then maybe going through it himself this once was worthwhile.



Sixty-nine hours.

When the bushi delivered the morning ration of gruel, Ikoma raised an eyebrow at him from the rear corner of the cell. “Don’t forget to come unlock that door three hours from now.”

The bushi grunted dismissively and stalked away. Ikoma scowled after him, and thoughtfully fingered the piece of sturdy wire in his pocket.

Of course, he never would have revealed that he could pick the lock on the door and leave any time he wanted. He’d stayed by his own choice; not because he cared for following the rules the authorities made, but because ensuring that he wouldn’t become a danger to others was the right thing to do. By this point, he could already know for certain that he was not infected. His only reason for sticking out those final few hours was to avoid trouble with the bushi. …Not that he cared much how they felt about that either, but he didn’t want to bring anything else down on Takumi by association.

His best friend arrived soon after, bearing a breakfast of fruit and a cheerful smile.

“Not long now! Yesterday I asked Master Yuji if I could hold off coming to the depot until you get out of here. He said I might as well, ’cause I’d be useless until then.” Takumi grinned. “If you feel up to it, he says you can come with me and get right to work too.”

“I’m glad he’s so understanding,” Ikoma replied with a pale smile.

“Well, yeah. You were just looking out for everybody else by making sure you weren’t infected. He appreciates that.”

“Not everyone will, though. Some of the others are only going to talk about me more after this. …Don’t try to defend me when they do, Takumi.”

“I’ll say what I want to those jerks,” Takumi retorted. “I know for a fact that some of ’em are definitely less careful than you are, so the only reason they’ve never had to do this too is because they didn’t report getting exposed. They can’t go acting like there’s something wrong with you just because you did what everyone is supposed to.”

Ikoma’s smile warmed. He still couldn’t imagine the reason for Takumi’s loyalty to him, but it was one of the few things left in the world that truly made him feel happy.

For the next few hours, they simply sat and talked. Ikoma confessed to Takumi his anxieties of the first night, and showed him the thoughts and ideas he’d subsequently rushed to chronicle. Takumi responded with suggestions of his own about them; and soon, the two were lost in engineering minutiae. In fact, it was more than a little bit past the seventy-two hour mark when they remembered it was time for Ikoma’s release, and Takumi hurried to fetch the bushi with his keys.

As he waited, Ikoma thoughtfully rubbed out the marks on the floor that counted off the hours of his quarantine. He had survived his precautionary ordeal, and gained a few new ideas and perspectives in the bargain. Other than being a bit sleep-deprived and stiff from the harsh confines, he felt perfectly healthy, and he would be grateful to get back to work.

…He just needed to be a little more careful from now on.

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2023 Jordanna Morgan