The wind tore right through the thin cloth of Genma's shirt and he folded his arms up, shoulders hunched, hands tucked protectively close to his chest. "Damn," he said and at first it wasn't clear whether it was the impressive celestial display or the bitter cold he was commenting on. "Damn, Rai. That's just... Damn."

Beautiful sunsets were things poets wrote about. Things for haiku and uta kurata cards and long, saccharine-sweet odes from civilian schoolgirls. You wouldn't think a pair of soldiers would stand stalled on the stairs in front of a building full of their comrades and stare awestruck as the colors shifted and faded, deepening and darkening and growing gloomier and more contused over the course of nearly ten minutes. It took another icy gust of wind to finally draw Genma's attention away from the sky and to his own shivering.

"Damn. I think it's not really spring yet," he said, and wished he'd thought to grab a jacket.