Char's voice broke the quiet again.
"Then tell me," he said, "do you have a candidate to chain to that position? Someone to bear the weight of what you're describing?"
Lelouch did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the distant battlefield, the light of explosions reflecting faintly across the viewport.
"…No," he said at last. "I don't."
Char raised an eyebrow behind the mask.
"I don't seek a ruler," Lelouch continued. "I want peace. But as long as the Federation's corruption survives—whether untouched or merely repainted—the outcome is the same. Earth will continue to exploit the colonies. Spacenoids will remain expendable. And Newtypes will never be allowed to develop beyond being weapons."
Char turned toward him. "You speak of Newtypes as if they matter beyond the battlefield. Why do you care?"
Lelouch met his gaze directly.
"Because Newtypes are not miracles or prophets," he said. "They are the result of normal human evolution under extreme conditions. Adaptation. If humanity is to leave this star system—truly leave it, not just orbit Earth endlessly—it will need that adaptability. Newtypes are a bridge: faster cognition, deeper perception, better coordination. Combined with technology, they accelerate progress exponentially."
He paused.
"Without that, humanity will rot here. One star. One gravity well. Forever fighting over the same dirt."
Char was silent.
Then he asked, "So what is your ideal system? Democracy? A republic? Another federation? An empire? Feudal rule?"
Lelouch shook his head slightly.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Not at the beginning."
He looked back at Char.
"So I'll ask you instead. If humanity were preparing to step into the galaxy, what would you choose to start a new era?"
Char considered it carefully.
"…A dictatorship," he said. "A competent one. Centralized power. Swift decisions. Then—after two or three generations—return it to the people."
Lelouch smiled, but there was no humor in it.
"You're naïve," he said flatly.
Char stiffened slightly.
"Power is addictive," Lelouch continued. "A man slays the evil dragon, becomes a hero… and then slowly becomes the next dragon. History doesn't forget that pattern. It repeats it."
Char did not argue. After a moment, he simply replied,
"…Maybe."
The word hung between them—uncertain, unresolved—much like the future they were discussing.
Grievous entered without ceremony, metal limbs clicking softly against the deck.
"So," he said bluntly, "when do we go kill more people?"
Char and Lelouch turned toward him at the same time.
"When the time comes," Lelouch replied evenly.
Then he paused. He studied Grievous more carefully than before—the four arms, the inhuman posture, the voice that was neither fully mechanical nor fully organic. Not quite human. Not quite machine. Something forged by war.
Lelouch spoke again.
"Assume this war ends. Assume peace. Assume the Federation collapses… and Zeon with it. What kind of government do you think should rule humanity as it moves into the galaxy?"
Char said nothing. He waited.
Grievous was silent at first, clearly uninterested. Then something shifted. Old memories—foreign, not of this universe—surfaced.
"…Anything but a republic," Grievous said at last.
Lelouch raised an eyebrow.
"Republics rot from the inside," Grievous continued. "Votes are manipulated by those with money. Influence replaces merit. The rich grow richer; the weak are fed to wars they never chose."
He folded two arms, the others hanging loosely.
"Trade-based nations are no better. They worship profit. Life—human or otherwise—is just another asset to sell. Councils?" A dry, mechanical scoff. "Too slow. By the time they agree, the crisis has already killed millions."
He looked straight at Lelouch.
"Democracy is an illusion. When war comes, the poor become cannon fodder. Always."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Lelouch was genuinely surprised. He glanced toward Char. Even behind the mask, it was obvious—Char was, too. Neither of them had expected political clarity from someone they knew only as a weapon of war.
"…Do you have a candidate, then?" Lelouch asked carefully.
Grievous shrugged.
"I don't care who rules," he said. "As long as there is war to fight—or a galaxy to explore. New worlds. New species. Endless battle or endless discovery. Either is acceptable."
Then he added, almost casually,
"Why not one of you?"
Char stiffened. Lelouch blinked.
"Gihren had some of the qualities," Grievous continued. "But he was a fool. Obsessed with securing power rather than using it. You," he said, pointing at Char, "are war and strategy. Nothing more."
Then his gaze shifted to Lelouch.
"You have led a nation before."
Lelouch frowned. "How would you know that?"
Grievous' yellow eyes narrowed slightly.
"I have lived long enough to recognize leaders," he said simply.
Char turned sharply toward Lelouch. "What is he talking about?"
Lelouch did not answer. For a moment, he couldn't.
Fragments clicked together in his mind—Grievous' fractured memories, dreams of republics, generals, robed warriors with blades of light. A brain full of someone else's war.
He exhaled slowly. "Even in another life, leadership seems to chase me."
Char studied him in silence.
Then Char spoke, quieter than before.
"Why do you only want peace?" he asked. "Most people want power. An emperor would have the authority to end all this. And if that's what it takes… I'll serve as your general. Five years. After that, I retire."
Lelouch turned to him.
"You retire," he said dryly, "and I spend the rest of my life cleaning up the mess left by Zeon and Federation politics."
Grievous let out a low, rasping sound that might have been laughter.
"Leadership," he said, "always looks better from the battlefield."
Lelouch sighed, rubbing his temple.
"…I really didn't plan on becoming an emperor in any life."
Jason Arkadi pushed himself past anything resembling a normal limit.
For a full month in Side 3, he barely slept—living between schematics, half-assembled hull sections, and prototype reactors. What he was building was not merely a ship; it was an exit strategy for humanity. A vessel capable of sustained interplanetary travel to Mars, equipped with magnetic sail augmentation and an experimental drive optimized for efficiency rather than speed. Not elegant. Not pretty. But functional.
More importantly, he finished the first phase of the terraforming package.
Atmospheric processors, soil-seeding nanostructures, pressure stabilization towers—still incomplete, still risky, but theoretically sound. Jason was confident. Not in a blind way, but in the quiet certainty of someone who already knew every failure point and had solutions queued before they happened. By the time the ship reached Mars, the technology would be ready to deploy.
One ship.
That was the problem.
He stood alone in the hangar, looking up at the modified hull. Cargo bays converted into habitation blocks. Structural reinforcements to support long-duration stress. And, at Lelouch's insistence, a mobile suit hangar integrated into the spine—capacity: thirty large-class mobile suits. L-size. No compromises.
Jason folded his arms.
The technical problems were solved. The strategic ones were not.
"Who leads them?" he muttered.
He already knew the obvious answer.
Tanya Degurechaff or Von Zehrtfeld for this life.
She was disciplined. Ruthlessly efficient. A person who followed rules to the letter—until she found the loophole that allowed her to win without technically breaking them. Not reckless. Not idealistic. A commander who could keep five thousand refugees alive without letting emotion fracture the chain of command.
But would she accept?
Jason knew her nature too well. Tanya did not seek leadership for its own sake. She accepted command when ordered—or when circumstances forced her hand. Responsibility was a burden to her, not a prize.
Footsteps echoed across the hangar.
Jason did not turn.
"You finished?" Liam asked.
"Yes," Jason replied simply. "Ship is operational. Terraforming tech is still in development, but it will be complete before Mars orbit insertion."
Liam nodded, satisfied. "Good. Refugee count is finalizing."
Jason turned now. "How many?"
"Five thousand," Liam said. "That's the number we can move without collapsing logistics or raising too many flags."
Jason exhaled, a long breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Good," he said. "Better than ten thousand staying here to die."
Liam tilted his head slightly. "The commander will be Tanya."
Jason studied him. "She agreed?"
"She didn't refuse," Liam replied. "That's the same thing for her."
Jason allowed himself a thin, tired smile.
"Figures."
Liam continued, "You'll have militia volunteers, former Zeon personnel, and civilians. Mixed composition. She's the only one who can hold that together."
Jason looked back at the ship.
Five thousand lives. One vessel. A red planet waiting to be reshaped.
"This isn't just an evacuation," Jason said quietly. "It's a founding."
Liam nodded. "Then build it like one."
Jason straightened.
"Tell Tanya," he said, "the ship is ready. And once she leaves orbit… there's no going back."
Liam turned to leave, already relaying orders.
Jason remained where he was, staring at the hull—at the hangar doors that would soon open, at the mobile suits that would guard a future no one had ever planned for.
Mars was no longer a dream.
It was a deadline.