The sky over Tokyo pops with a blue flash. That’s when everything breaks. Seiji Morita rushes to the rooftop, phone shaking in his hand as it overloads with strange numbers. Who really expects first contact to show up with poor reception? “This is not a prank,” Aya calls from downstairs, holding the rescued turtle.
Seiji’s not just another student. He lives in Momoi Ward and dreams of reaching deep space after losing his sister on a cold star survey. His room: small, messy, posters of fake planets, the ‘Antares Outreach’ flag. He flips through alien podcasts, low-key trying to hide how much he cares. His best friends—books, Aya, ten years of stargazing and failed signals.
Nobody believed she would ever come, least of all the club. Aya flips a static TV to NHK—there’s an emergency update. A chain of deep-space signals has altered global weather patterns—and crashed AI across Japan. “Last time anything glitched this bad was Tanabata Crescent Night, four years ago.” You think announcements lie?
One hour later, the club gathers. Ken is twitchy, fixing data tabs open on the council tablet. “Don’t say this is aliens. We’re gonna look nuts,” he shouts, but Mieko rolls her eyes: “Weather clusters don’t copy song lyrics unless it’s pirated pop.” Seiji and Aya know someone has to take a closer look before panic grows.
The group’s stargazing agenda—canceled for code red—becomes an emergency connection hunt. They head for an abandoned radio site, crossing streets under navy umbrellas. City air chills as signals press on eardrums and sparks fly through scanner laptops (“It’s whispering,” Aya says, “like…thin silk strips in your head”).
A voice speaks. Not human: digital, too precise, echoing with odd inflection. “HELLO. Our name: Ajax. Seeking artifacts. Trade for memories.” Do you trust them if they know your words before you say them?
Seiji’s fear—losing others to the silent dark—fights with hope. He answers. “Show us you mean no harm. What do you seek?” Ajax sends fractal-geometry visuals, as if art became a virus in compressed code. Sada, new transfer to the club, finds hidden words. “This is someone learning our dreams.” The signals fire twice as hard outside Metadata Park, flowing from the red tower. 
Split debate: Is this for peace or conquest? Ken doesn’t want trouble. Mieko writes out a reply by hand, challenging Ajax to prove intentions. Memory trade? They hazard the risk—for truth or possibly disaster.
The handoff crashes all screens. Light bends, trees flicker, and in one gasp, every member recalls a feeling from childhood—but sharper. It’s like time bent a bit, or they were each shown some old sorrow through another’s eyes for half a second. “They know too much,” Ken mutters.
All Tokyo waits for a response. Traffic flashes freeze camera nets as Ajax weaves info webs overhead. Radio silence hangs. A data ghost—maybe the lost sister herself—echoes in Seiji’s mail app: “Come below Antares. Can you still hear me?” Then the Ajax signal shoots toward Antarctica, and every power grid hums loud enough to drive dogs mad.
People run to windows. Aya, not scared for once, clutches Seiji. The arc twists into new fear: Has Tokyo drawn a hostile map for invaders? The club claws at answers as new encrypted messages pour in across the globe.
Cliffhanger—Seiji gets a single blurred photo on his old Nokia: his sister’s star, right behind a looming alien craft hidden in the city fog. One night left before Ajax emerges. Where do you look for peace when an answer brings this much risk? Think Tokyo can survive a night of memories it never lived?
