White Base and the rest of the Vanguard advanced in steady formation, thrusters burning clean and controlled as A Baoa Qu grew larger on the forward screens—an immense, artificial fortress hanging in the void like a clenched fist.
To anyone else, the approach looked almost… empty.
To Amuro Ray, it felt wrong.
He inside Alex Gundam, hands clenched at his sides, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the hull. No debris field. No scattered patrols. No chaotic sensor noise beyond the expected Minovsky interference.
Too clean.
He swallowed, a faint chill crawling up his spine.
"…Something's off," he muttered, more to himself than the crew.
Nearby, inside the Strike Gundam's cockpit feed relayed to the bridge, Gary Lin was frowning as well—but for a different reason. He wasn't reacting to a Newtype intuition. He was reacting to people.
Gihren Zabi is insane, Gary thought. And Lelouch is dangerous when he's quiet.
This didn't look like a desperate last stand. It looked organized. Controlled. As if Zeon was allowing the Federation to come this far.
"Are they really just defending A Baoa Qu like this…?" Gary murmured.
He opened a secure channel.
"Oreki," he said. "You seeing this?"
On the auxiliary command deck, Oreki Houtarou stared at the tactical overlay, one hand propping up his chin. His mind was working overtime—patterns, absences, things not matching expected behavior.
The problem was simple and infuriating.
He didn't know Gihren Zabi.
He didn't know Kycilia's habits, or Zeon's internal command culture well enough to predict their moves with confidence. He could reason from logic, but not from personality—and wars were decided by both.
Gary's message blinked on his console.
Everything's too calm.
Oreki didn't answer.
Because Gary was right.
He glanced up from the display and looked across the command room. Shirogane Miyuki stood at the forward window, posture straight, eyes locked on space beyond the glass. He wasn't speaking. He wasn't issuing unnecessary orders.
He was observing.
Calculating.
Waiting.
Oreki's gaze drifted to White Base, visible through the viewport—scarred, familiar, carrying pilots who had already survived too much.
If this is a trap, Oreki thought, it's not a simple one.
He exhaled quietly.
Please let me be overthinking this.
Outside, A Baoa Qu loomed closer, silent and immense.
And in that silence, the sense of impending catastrophe only grew.
Inside the Alex Gundam's cockpit, Amuro Ray's hands hovered just above the controls. His breathing was steady, trained—but his mind wasn't.
The feeling wouldn't go away.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't hesitation. It was the same sensation he had felt before disaster, before ambushes that logic hadn't warned him about.
"Bright," Amuro said over the open channel, voice tight but controlled. "I can't explain it properly, but… we should stop. Or pull back. Even briefly. This approach feels wrong."
Silence followed. Not the awkward kind—the thinking kind.
On the bridge of White Base, Bright Noa stood rigid, eyes moving between tactical projections and the looming mass of A Baoa Qu. The fortress filled more and more of the forward screen, its angular silhouette dominating space itself.
Bright exhaled slowly.
"All units," he ordered at last. "Hold position. Full stop. Maintain formation."
Thrusters across the Vanguard dimmed in near-unison. Gundams, GMs, and capital ships alike slowed until the fleet hovered in a tense, artificial stillness.
Gary Lin blinked inside the Strike Gundam's cockpit.
"…We're stopping?" he muttered, half surprised, half relieved.
Then his expression darkened.
This is exactly when things go wrong.
He opened a private channel.
"System," Gary said flatly. "Do you have any mission data right now?"
There was a pause—just long enough to irritate him.
"Why are you asking?" the system replied, tone dry to the point of mockery.
Gary clicked his tongue. "Because every time I ignore my instincts, someone like Griveous pulls an Odessa-level surprise. Or worse. You trained me to notice patterns—so talk."
"Well then," the system said lightly, "you're in luck, Host."
A notification flashed across Gary's interface.
MISSION UPDATE: Primary Objective — Survive and escape Lelouch's main-fleet strategy. Operational Conditions — Unknown.
Gary froze.
"…What?"
His pulse spiked. "Escape? Lelouch's strategy? What the hell does that mean?"
"Interpretation is left to the Host," the system replied cheerfully. "The true adventure always lies in the unknown."
Gary's jaw clenched.
"This is a war," he snapped. "In space. With giant robots. People die when 'unknown' goes wrong."
The system offered no immediate response.
Gary leaned back in his seat, staring at A Baoa Qu's silent bulk. Somewhere inside that fortress were Gihren's fanaticism, Kycilia's calculations—and Lelouch's schemes layered beneath them all.
"…What are you planning this time?" he murmured.
Around him, the Federation fleet remained motionless, engines idling, weapons armed, nerves stretched thin.
And for the first time since the war began, the Vanguard had stopped not because of enemy fire—
—but because every instinct screamed that moving forward blindly would be a mistake.
Far behind the Federation vanguard, where the density of ships thinned and the noise of battle preparation faded into a distant hum, a separate force completed a slow, deliberate maneuver.
Lelouch watched the stars rotate across the panoramic display as his fleet finished its long arc. It had taken time—too much time for comfort—but patience was the one resource he still had. The Federation's main fleet was enormous, confident, focused forward. None of them expected a hostile force to settle in their rear at this exact moment.
"Position confirmed," an operator reported quietly. "All ships aligned."
Lelouch did not answer immediately. His eyes traced the tactical map.
Fifteen flagships.
On paper, it was nothing compared to the Federation's mass. In reality, each hull represented elite crews, hardened veterans, and pilots who had survived battles that should have killed them. One hundred sixty-two mobile suits, tightly organized, disciplined, silent.
This was not a force meant to win a war.
It was a force meant to delay fate.
His gaze shifted to the Zeon units under his indirect coordination—units Gihren had thrown together in desperation, unaware of the deeper role they would play.
Char Aznable's unit stood at the center like a blade poised to cut.
The Great Zeong floated with predatory stillness, its massive frame casting long shadows across nearby ships. Char's presence alone distorted the battlefield; Lelouch could almost feel the tension ripple outward, even through cold data.
Beside him moved the Elmeth.
Griveous.
Officially listed as Char's aide—an arrangement that made little sense on paper. Griveous should have commanded his own unit. He had the power, the intuition, the presence. Yet he had chosen this position voluntarily, orbiting Char like a silent moon.
Lelouch narrowed his eyes.
"So even Newtypes choose their gravity," he murmured.
Further out, the unmistakable bulk of the Bigro-class Big Braw loomed into view. Chalia Bull's unit moved with eerie calm, its escorts maintaining perfect spacing. Kycilia's Newtype faction, deployed in full despite internal resistance. Fifteen Gelgoogs accompanied the formation, divided cleanly under three squad leaders.
Tomoya Aki.
Bernard Wiseman.
Daryl Lorenz.
Lelouch studied them one by one.
Tomoya's Gelgoog flew with sharp, almost restrained movements—talent compressed by fear and resolve. A survivor trying to earn the right to live another day.
Bernie's unit stayed close to formation, conservative but steady. A soldier who fought not for ideology, but for the people beside him.
And then there was Daryl.
The Psycho Zaku moved like something alive, its frame bristling with weapons and thrusters far beyond what a normal body could endure. The pilot inside was crippled, broken by war—and yet Gihren had sent him anyway.
Lelouch's expression hardened.
"So desperate that even the wounded are offerings now," he thought. "You really have run out of pieces to sacrifice."
His curiosity returned to Char.
Where had he gathered them? Not through rank. Not through authority. People like this followed something else—conviction, perhaps. Or the quiet promise that battle around him always meant something, even if it ended in ruin.
The Federation's main fleet filled the forward tactical display now, unaware of the shadow settling behind it. Their attention was fixed on A Baoa Qu, on Gihren's fortress, on the illusion of a decisive end.
Perfect.
Lelouch folded his hands behind his back.
"This is not your battlefield," he said softly to the image of the Federation fleet. "Not yet."
He issued no attack orders. No firing solutions.
This force would not annihilate the enemy. It would not seek glory or decisive victory.
Its role was simpler—and far crueler.
To stall.
To hold the Federation in place just long enough for Tanya and the others to disappear from the board entirely. To give Jason time. To give Mars a future that no admiral, no Zabi, no ideology could reach.
Around him, engines idled, pilots waited, and Newtypes felt something tightening in the void—an unseen pressure, like the universe holding its breath.
Lelouch allowed himself a thin, humorless smile.
"Now," he thought, "let's see how long destiny can be delayed."