The White Base hangar was a controlled storm—sparks, shouted diagnostics, the metallic whine of tools biting into damaged armor.
Gary Lin stood with his arms folded, jaw tight, eyes burning as he watched the Strike Gundam suspended in its maintenance frame. One arm was gone, armor scorched, frame warped from a suicide Zaku impact.
"Fix it," he said flatly. "I don't care how. I want it combat-capable. Now."
The mechanic swallowed and nodded. "We're bypassing nonessential systems. Mobility first. Weapons second. We're pushing the tolerances."
"Good," Gary replied. "Push harder."
He turned away, fists clenched, breathing slow. He was angry—furious, really—but losing control here would help no one. Anger was noise. He needed signal.
"System," he said quietly. "Is it possible to deploy an army of active mobile suits? Anything—reinforcements, autonomous units, reserves?"
The response came immediately, dry and unhelpful as ever.
"Negative. This is a science-fiction support system, not a kingdom-building framework. I do not summon soldiers at will, across any location, at any time."
Gary snorted. "Figures."
He paced once, then stopped. "Then explain this. How did the Federation—how did I—get outplayed this badly?"
"Zeon prepared for Solar System-class weapons and the A Baoa Qu defense grid," the system replied. "Federation high command underestimated Zeon's capacity for rapid system deployment and psychological baiting."
Gary's eyes narrowed. "Don't talk like I forgot those."
"You did not forget," the system answered. "You discounted them."
Gary exhaled sharply. "Because at Solomon, none of it appeared. No satellite. No rapid-fire system. I assumed the butterfly effect kicked in—that the Newtype weapon program stalled, that the satellite never got completed."
Silence, then: "Incorrect assumption."
Gary clicked his tongue. "Yeah. I know that now."
The Strike's frame shifted as the mechanics locked a temporary joint in place. Not pretty—but it would move.
"Current probability of defeat," the system continued, "has reached sixty-seven percent. Recommendation: disengage fully and regroup with General Revil's main fleet. Conduct counterattack under consolidated command."
Gary let out a humorless laugh. "Counterattack sounds great. Step one is not dying."
He leaned against a crate, staring at the half-repaired Gundam.
"…This reeks of Lelouch," he muttered.
The system did not interrupt.
"He comes from a world where strategy is a weapon," Gary went on. "Political coups, psychological warfare, turning an empire against itself. I get that. But this—space warfare, Minovsky physics, Newtype variables, orbital geometry—this isn't his home turf."
His jaw tightened. "And yet this feels exactly like him. Layered deception. Bait. Timing. Making the enemy defeat themselves."
He straightened. "System. If I were to summon someone on Lelouch's level—best possible human mind for sci-fi warfare—would it change the situation?"
"Recommendation: hold summoning," the system replied. "Marginal strategic impact at this moment. Priority should be survival, not optimization."
Gary considered that for a long second.
"…Yeah," he said at last. "You're right."
He watched the mechanics finish securing the Strike's temporary arm mount.
"Survive first," Gary said quietly. "Then we can talk about winning."
The hangar lights flickered as another distant explosion reverberated through White Base's hull.
Outside, the battle raged on.
Inside, Gary Lin made his decision clear—to live through this trap, no matter the cost.
Lelouch stood on the observation deck of the Zeon rear command vessel, hands clasped behind his back, violet eyes fixed on the distant chaos unfolding behind the Federation lines.
The battlefield was beautiful—in the cruel, mathematical sense.
Federation formations were breaking apart. Signals overlapped, then vanished. Ships turned too late. Mobile suits clustered where they should have dispersed, dispersed where they should have concentrated. Confusion propagated faster than any Minovsky particle ever could.
Lelouch laughed softly.
"So confident," he said. "So utterly blind."
They had convinced themselves that Solomon was the end. That Zeon, once broken, would never rise again. That Gundams and numbers alone were enough to crush an enemy that had survived on desperation and innovation for years.
Fools.
Still, Lelouch's smile faded as his thoughts sharpened.
Solomon had hurt Zeon—badly. He knew the numbers. He had demanded them. Veteran pilots, hardened aces, crews who had survived months of attritional warfare—gone. Eighty-five percent losses among battle-ready mobile suit pilots. The survivors? Scattered. Exhausted. Some broken beyond recovery.
What remained now at A Baoa Qu were volunteers, cadets, military academy students. Boys and girls who had memorized tactics but never smelled plasma-burned metal until today.
"One more defeat," Lelouch murmured, "and Zeon ends."
That was the truth. No rhetoric. No ideology. Just arithmetic.
And yet—
"And then what?" he asked the empty room.
He knew the Federation well enough now. He had studied their political structure, their committees, their admirals turned senators. Victory would not cleanse them. It never did. Power never rewarded wisdom—only loyalty and short-term thinking.
They would win, and then rot.
Their leaders obsessed over Earth as if it were the only prize worth holding. Gravity-bound thinking. Ancient thinking. Clutching soil while standing atop the stars.
"Why Earth alone?" Lelouch scoffed. "When the universe is open?"
This world already lived in space. Colonies, Lagrange points, orbital industry. And yet their imagination stopped at atmosphere. No urgency to develop true interplanetary travel. No serious push for rapid deep-space exploration. No vision beyond defending or taxing what already existed.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to a name.
Jason Arkadi.
A man who mind that impossible to think the impossible—yet did. A singular outlier. The kind of mind that bent technological timelines by sheer force of intellect. Lelouch understood then why the Federation stagnated.
Because people like Jason Arkadi are rare.
Without such catalysts, institutions chose the easiest path: squeeze the colonies harder, protect Earth tighter, postpone the future indefinitely.
Lelouch's gaze shifted, as if he could see past the battlefield—past Earth itself.
He missed Earth.
Its oceans. Its clouds. The absurd beauty of a planet that needed no artificial walls to survive. In his previous life, he too had believed Earth was everything.
But this world had taught him otherwise.
"The stars are not an escape," he said quietly. "They are the next step."
His fingers tightened slightly behind his back.
If Jason Arkadi could be guided—nudged—toward developing faster ships… or mobile suits capable of interplanetary transit without carrier dependency…
Not conquest.
Exploration.
Independence from gravity wells. From political chokeholds. From the eternal Earth–colony imbalance.
Lelouch smiled again, this time without humor.
"Very well," he whispered. "Survive this chaos, Federation. Win your war."
His eyes gleamed with intent.
"The real game begins after."
Char Aznable had been standing just behind Lelouch when those words left his mouth.
The real game begins after.
For a moment, only the distant hum of engines and the muted tremor of weapons fire filled the command deck. Then Char spoke, his voice calm, measured—dangerously so.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked. "To say such a thing, here and now."
Lelouch turned his head slowly, studying the red-clad ace for several seconds. Not the mask. Not the uniform. The man beneath the symbols.
"Before I answer," Lelouch said evenly, "tell me something. What do you think of this war?"
Char did not hesitate.
"This war is for the Spacenoids," he said. "For those crushed under Earth's gravity and its arrogance."
Lelouch laughed—short, sharp, and utterly without warmth.
"You really think that line still works on me?" he said. "You can speak freely. There are no Kycilia agents here. No listening devices. I already made sure of that."
The silence that followed was heavier than any accusation.
Char's tone changed.
"I fight this war to kill the Zabi family."
Lelouch said nothing. He merely watched.
After a moment, he spoke again, softly.
"Then you intend to finish what you started… and walk away afterward?"
A pause.
"Because if I am not mistaken, you are Casval Rem Deikun. Son of Zeon Zum Deikun."
Char did not react outwardly. The mask hid his eyes, but not the stillness of his body. Slowly, he turned toward the viewport, gazing at the distant glow of battle.
"…So you know," Char said at last.
"I do," Lelouch replied.
Char exhaled, the sound barely audible. "Yes. Revenge is my purpose. Once it is done, this war, this politics—none of it will be my concern."
Lelouch leaned back into his seat, fingers interlaced, voice calm but cutting.
"When you step into war, Casval, it never truly leaves you. It will follow you long after the last shot is fired."
Char glanced back slightly. "Then what do you suggest?"
"Lead," Lelouch said. "But not Zeon as it exists now."
Char turned fully toward him. "For what? Another Spacenoid state? Independence from the Federation?"
Lelouch shook his head.
"No. A nation that does not cling to Earth or orbit it like a parasite. A civilization that travels space. An interplanetary—eventually interstellar—human polity. Newtype or not. No chosen bloodlines. No gravity-bound hierarchy."
Char was silent for a long moment.
Then he asked, simply, "Why not you?"
Lelouch smiled faintly.
"I have no interest in ruling forever. Power is a tool, not a home."
Char gave a quiet, almost amused huff.
"…In that, we are the same."
The two men turned back toward the viewport, watching the war burn on—both fully aware that, regardless of who won today, the future they were discussing would demand far more than revenge or victory.
And neither of them truly wanted to be the one chained to it.