The Southeast Asian night was heavy with heat, the jungle beyond the base humming with insects. Inside the hangar, the floodlights cast long shadows across machines battered by the recent skirmish. A GM Variant stood half-stripped, panels open, coolant hissing faintly as a mechanic knelt with tools in hand. Beside him, seated on a crate, a young officer watched in silence — his uniform Federation-issue, but his presence just slightly out of place.
The GM had barely survived the encounter with Zeon's hidden defenders. Its armor was scorched, the left arm nearly torn free, the chestplate punctured in three places. And yet, the pilot who had walked out of its cockpit had done so with calm steps, his eyes carrying a gravity that unnerved even hardened veterans. In the battle, he had downed two Zaku suits outright, crippling three more before retreat had been called. For the Federation, it was a miracle. For him, it was simply survival.
Athrun Zala sat quietly, his gloved hands resting on his knees. To the mechanics and officers around him, he was a promising young ace who had appeared almost from nowhere, his skills unmatched. But inside, he carried a different truth: he was not of this world, not of this war. He did not belong to the Earth Federation, nor to Zeon. He belonged to another timeline, another conflict — and he was desperately searching for a way back.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the mission he carried. A being beyond comprehension had dragged him into this universe, stripping him from his own and giving him one simple directive: kill Tanya von Zehrtfeld and Lelouch von Zehrtfeld. Athrun clenched his fists as he recalled the words. The being had not offered choice, only a bargain. In exchange, it granted him a strange new sense — the ability to feel the presence of those two whenever they drew near. Like a faint pull in the soul, a reminder of his purpose.
But beneath that mission lay his true desire. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his comrades again, even if it was only in the fractured chaos of war. His heart ached with the memory of Nicol, his friend who had died in a flash of light during the battle at the Antarctic Sea. The image returned to him now, sharper than any scar. Nicol's eyes wide in shock, his mobile suit torn apart by Kira Yamato's strike.
The memory replayed as if etched into his very blood. The cold white wasteland of Antarctica, beams crisscrossing the storm, explosions lighting the ice. His desperate shout for Nicol to retreat. And then — Kira's strike, the Gundam's blade cleaving through. Athrun's scream of loss as he watched his friend's life extinguished in an instant. That was the moment the bond between comrades shattered, replaced with the bitter truth of war.
Even here, in this different world, the wound remained raw. He bowed his head, eyes closing against the burn of remembered grief. The being's promise whispered like poison in his mind: Complete the mission, and you may return. He did not trust it. And yet, what else could he do but cling to that faint chance?
"Wait for me," he whispered under his breath, so softly the mechanic beside him did not hear. "I will return." His words were not for Tanya or Lelouch, nor for the strange war he now found himself in. They were for Nicol, for Kira, for the friends and rivals left behind in the timeline he still called home.
The mechanic snapped a panel shut, jolting Athrun from his reverie. The GM's chestplate gleamed faintly under the lights, its scars a reminder of both his skill and his burden. Somewhere out there, Tanya and Lelouch lived, their names already whispered across this battlefield. And Athrun Zala — a stranger in a foreign war — would soon be forced to walk the line between his mission, his grief, and the desperate hope of going home.
The mechanic name Ansu wiped the grease from his hands with a rag, giving the young officer a sidelong glance. The kid looked like a statue carved out of iron, his jaw set, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the hangar wall. For a pilot who had just survived a meat grinder and come out with kills to his name, he carried himself like someone at a funeral. Ansu had seen men come back from battles shaking, laughing, or swearing, but rarely this kind of silence. It unsettled him more than a scream would.
"You know," the mechanic said, voice rough with the rasp of too many cigarettes, "you sit like that too long and people will think you're trying to brood yourself into an early grave." He tightened a bolt with a grunt, the clang echoing through the bay. "War's already got enough ghosts, don't invite more in by acting like one."
Athrun blinked, dragging himself back from memory. His green eyes settled on Ansu, studying the man's weathered face. For a moment, he thought about brushing off the words, letting the silence swallow them. But something in the mechanic's tone—half concern, half annoyance—cut through his walls. "I'm fine," Athrun said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Ansu snorted. "That's what every pilot says before they crack. 'I'm fine.' Sure. Until your hands start shaking when you grab the controls. Until you start seeing faces in the scope that ain't there. Kid, I've been patching up suits longer than you've probably been flying. You don't fool me."
The young officer lowered his gaze, the weight of the mechanic's words pressing harder than expected. He wanted to say that he'd already cracked, long ago in another war, another world. That his ghosts weren't from this battlefield but followed him across realities. But he couldn't. To reveal too much would only bring questions he couldn't answer. "I just… don't have the luxury of being careless," Athrun murmured instead.
"That right?" Ansu leaned back, crossing his arms. His coveralls were stained with oil, his hands calloused, but his eyes were sharp. "You think carrying the world on your shoulders makes you stronger? Nah. It just breaks your back faster. You fight, you survive, you laugh when you can. That's how you keep going. Not by sitting around like the dead already claimed you."
Athrun looked at him, surprised at the blunt honesty. Few around here dared speak to him so directly. Most saw only the young ace, the miracle pilot. Ansu saw something else. Maybe that was why the words struck deeper than expected. His lips parted, as if to reply, but nothing came.
The mechanic softened slightly, his voice lowering. "Listen, kid. You've got skills, no doubt. The way you handled those Zakus—hell, people are still talking about it out there. But skill don't mean a damn thing if your head's already halfway in the grave. You wanna get home someday? Then stop letting the past eat you alive. Focus on the next sortie, the next breath. That's all you can do."
For the first time, Athrun let out a small breath that wasn't quite a sigh, but close. He turned his gaze back to the GM, its patched armor gleaming under the lights. Maybe Ansu was right. Maybe he couldn't carry everything and still survive. But the thought of letting go—of Nicol's face, of the promise burning in his chest—felt like betrayal. Still, he found himself nodding, just once, if only to acknowledge the mechanic's intent.
Ansu gave a faint grin, more tired than cheerful, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. That's a start. Now, how about you grab some sleep before I have to drag your sorry ass there myself? You'll need steady hands tomorrow, and trust me—these crates aren't fixing themselves."