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Chapter Text

.....

Chapter 1 Amate Yuzuriha, a high school student, begins experiencing vivid dreams of a mysterious man—Casval Rem Deikun. After a strange encounter in the subway, she discovers an Installer Key linked to a mobile suit and is drawn into the world of illegal Clan Battles.

.....

Amate wakes murmuring, the remnants of her dream lingering in her mind. An attractive man had bowed and offered his hand, inviting her to dance. It’s a moment that rarely happens in her life, and her usual shyness had taken over. Yet now, awake, she wishes she had boldly replied, "Hell, yeah!"

High school doesn’t give her many opportunities to interact with older, but not too much older, men, especially someone as strikingly handsome as the one in her dream. Now, she finds herself longing for the chance to have been more daring. Her body hums with the thrill of being singled out to dance, even though the room was full of more conventionally beautiful women.

She exhales, her thoughts drifting back to the dream. If she’s lucky enough to experience a dream like that again, she vows to seize the moment. She’ll embrace the chance to be held and gracefully guided across the dance floor. Hopefully, her clumsiness stays confined to reality and doesn’t follow her into her dreams.

......

The subway isn’t as crowded as usual as Amate prepares to disembark at her station. A notification chimes on her phone, and she glances down to read the message.

“Let’s get the Beginning,” the text reads.

“Who is this?” she mutters under her breath. “What is this? A prank?”

Unbidden, the image of a handsome stranger surfaces in her mind. Amate smiles, grateful she hasn’t forgotten the dream she awoke from this morning—especially the striking features of her would-be dance partner.

Yes, she thinks. It’s our beginning. A pleasure to see you again. She allows herself a small smile and adds silently, If only...

The train’s chime signals its arrival at the station. Amate hurries toward the exit. Around her, commuters bustle through the platform, each lost in their own routines. She makes her way toward another gate when a sharp voice calls out behind her.

“Hey, you! Stop right there!”

Amate halts, turning instinctively. Perhaps the call is directed at her.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, pausing at the gate to observe as police officers pursue a girl through the station.

The girl leaps over the gate without paying and collides into Amate with unexpected force. Both tumble to the ground, Amate’s phone flying from her grasp and skidding across the floor.

For a moment, they lock eyes, neither seriously injured, but equally startled.

Then, the girl bolts. One of the officers in pursuit accidentally steps on Amate’s fallen phone, the sound of cracking glass making her wince as the chase continues.

.....

Amate washes her hands in the subway station sink, her gaze fixed on her reflection. She looks surprisingly composed, considering the collision at the gate earlier. As she lowers her eyes to rinse the soap from her hands, a strange sensation washes over her, a gentle movement of her hair, followed by warm breath on her neck, as though someone is leaning in to kiss her.

She inhales deeply, closing her eyes for a moment before glancing back at the mirror. Her reflection stares back, alone and unremarkable, yet the feeling was so vivid she could swear someone had been there.

This day keeps getting stranger, she thinks, squaring her shoulders. The shift in weight from her pack catches her attention. Curious, she unzips it and pulls out a small device from a paper bag, its appearance reminiscent of a computer hard drive.

“What is this? Please tell me it’s not a bomb. It’s not, right?” she mutters aloud, her voice echoing faintly in the empty restroom.

The sensation returns, stronger this time. A faint trace of cologne fills the air, and she feels comforting hands kneading her shoulders, his breath warm against her hair. It’s as if he’s standing behind her, both of them staring down at the device in her hands.

Amate closes her eyes, savouring the electric thrill coursing through her at his touch. Reluctantly, she opens them again and looks into the mirror. Still, no one is there.

What was I doing again? she wonders, catching herself lost in thoughts of the man from her dreams.

She turns the device over in her hands, noticing a barcode and serial number etched into its surface. Pulling out her phone, she enters the serial number into a search app and reads the results.

“Something called an ‘Installer Key.’ For a mobile suit’s... battle computer?” she whispers, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“That can only mean it’s contraband,” she says with a resigned sigh.

She feels so strongly that he wouldn't want her to lose the device, that she stashes the Installer Key on her person rather than back in her pack. As she replaces the device in the paper bag with another item, she glances around as if expecting her dream man to respond. But of course, there’s nothing.

What was I expecting? He’s imaginary, she reminds herself, though a part of her silently hopes he’ll return. The thrill of his presence lingers, leaving her yearning for more.

......

Amate stands among the crowd of pedestrians, her attention fixed on her phone display as she waits for the light to turn green.

Wait for it, a voice whispers in her head, foreign and unfamiliar.

Before she can process the thought, she’s shoved from behind, stumbling forward as her pack is ripped away by an unseen assailant. Instead of crossing with the others, Amate turns sharply, spotting the thief bolting down the street with her stolen belongings.

Go! the voice commands, firm and authoritative, leaving no room for defiance.

You could’ve warned me I was about to be knocked over, Amate thinks bitterly, but she doesn’t expect a response. Instead, she hears a low chuckle—a sound that’s more disconcerting than the theft itself. There’s no time to dwell on it, though, as she races after the culprit, adrenaline propelling her forward.

She quickly recognises the thief, the girl from the subway station, the very one who collided with her earlier. The realisation sharpens her determination, and she presses on, driven by instinct and the lingering echo of that mysterious voice.

.....

Amate scans the rooftop, her eyes locking on her discarded pack lying a few steps ahead. The thief had clearly rummaged through it, pulling out a plain paper bag and inspecting its contents.

“What is this?” the thief mutters, her confusion audible. It’s obvious the bag isn’t holding whatever she was expecting.

Amate chooses that moment to announce her presence. Stepping forward with the Installer Key in her hand, she feels a flash of irritation at being a victim of this girl yet again.

“So, this thing allows even a civilian mobile suit to use weapons, huh? Sounds awfully dangerous,” Amate says coolly. She glances down at the key, but as she does, the thief disappears from view.

Her annoyance sharpens. “Anyway, don’t you think you owe me an apology?” she calls out. Silence. “Fine,” she says, her tone edged with exasperation. “Then don’t. I guess I’ll just have to...” She trails off, tossing the Installer Key lightly into the air.

The thief darts out of hiding, reaching to catch it—but Amate intercepts the key with ease, snatching it midflight. The action surprises even her; calculating its trajectory had come instinctively.

“So, what’s your deal? Some kind of terrorist?” Amate demands, fixing her gaze on the thief.

“N-No! It’s just... It’s for Clan-Bat... nothing else,” the thief stammers, her voice shaking.

Amate narrows her eyes. She’s heard of Clan Battles, illegal but popular mobile suit fights for prize money.

“I hear it’s a big thing,” Amate says, raising an eyebrow. “Also pretty illegal.”

Before the conversation can go further, a brief scuffle ensues. Amate rubs her head as the thief ends up on the ground once again, spilling out her explanation of a side job that requires her to deliver the Installer Key.

“Okay, then,” Amate says, holding up her phone and displaying the shattered screen. “You can start by paying for the repair.” She hopes whatever the thief gets paid for this “job” will cover the cost.

......

Amate and the thief leave the subway station, their steps following the quiet flow of the canal beside them. They pass beneath a bridge adorned with colourful graffiti, the thief casually explaining her job as a courier.

Dressed as a student, the thief mentions she uses the disguise to evade the police, whose primary mission is tracking down refugees. Amate quickly realises the girl isn’t from Side 6, though she doesn’t comment.

After some time, their path leads to a crowded but dingy street, a stark contrast to the clean, orderly neighbourhood Amate calls home. They stop at an entrance hidden in a shadowy alley.

“So, this is where they hang out?” Amate asks, her tone laced with surprise. The place is unsettlingly dark, with warning signs, exposed wires, and mysterious knobs scattered across the walls. The air feels thick with secrecy.

The thief raises her hand toward a CCTV camera in a deliberate signal, though Amate’s intuition tells her the nearby button is a simple doorbell.

“Hello, are you in a hurry?” the thief says into the void, her words sounding like some kind of code. Moments later, a click echoes through the alley, signalling the door has been unlocked. With a gentle nudge, Amate urges the thief forward, and they step inside.

The stairs creak underfoot as they ascend to a rooftop apartment. At the top, the thief peers cautiously into the space.

“Uh, hey, is anyone home?” she calls out hesitantly.

An arm waves them forward from the dimly lit interior.

“Hmm,” Amate murmurs, her thoughts swirling.

.....

Amate and the thief step through a doorway marked with a sign that reads, Good Action Leads to Good Results.

Without proper introductions, Amate quickly nicknames the four people inside the "Clan Battle" room: Yellow-hair, Red-hair, Dark-hair, and Glasses. A small, round robotic unit scoots about, its cheerful chirping giving the tense space a surprising touch of warmth.

Glasses is the first to make an impression—loud, rude, and quick to yell at the thief, basically calling her reckless and incompetent. Amate notices the thief’s apologetic expression, but her remorse does little to temper Glasses' fury. Amate feels her annoyance building as she watches.

"Annqi, this is her," Dark-hair says, addressing the red-haired woman. "The one the police were chasing at the station." Filing the name away, Amate labels the red-haired woman as Annqi in her mind.

"She’s just a kid," Yellow-hair remarks, his tone more forgiving.

The thief's shoulders slump further, and Amate’s irritation deepens.

"Good couriers don’t get spotted by the cops," Glasses snaps, his tone dripping with condescension.

"Not to mention, you’re not supposed to come to us directly," Dark-hair adds, his voice oddly soothing despite the reprimand. Amate feels a phantom tug on her ear, as though she herself is being chastised. For what? Noticing his voice?

"Yeah, but wasn’t there a request to deliver it today?" Amate interjects, trying to shift the conversation.

"There sure was," Yellow-hair confirms. "We paid in advance."

"Oh," Amate murmurs, realising her hopes of being reimbursed for her shattered phone are dwindling. Meanwhile, the thief rummages through her courier pack, finally pulling out the package.

"And just who the hell are you, girl?" Glasses demands, his sharp gaze fixed on Amate.

"A tagalong, I guess," Amate replies with a shrug. "Or, I might be a Mav," she adds, echoing the suggestion whispered to her by the ever-present voice.

"A Mav?" Annqi repeats, sighing as if the term is all too familiar.

"Here," the thief says, bowing politely as she hands over the Installer Key. Glasses snatches it with an impatience that grates on Amate’s nerves.

"Now that I’ve got this, I can finally battle," Glasses declares triumphantly, plugging the unit into a console as Dark-hair watches.

"I’m going to assume you two aren’t friends," Annqi remarks, before turning to the thief. "And that uniform? It’s fake, isn’t it?" Her attention then shifts to Amate. "So, are you interested in Clan Battle?"

"You shouldn’t be talking to a kid about this stuff," Dark-hair interjects, his voice serious.

As the conversation swirls, Amate drifts toward a window, curious. Her movement earns another reprimand from Dark-hair, but she brushes it off.

"Do you guys feel free out in space?" she muses aloud. The small robotic unit bounces up to her, chirping enthusiastically, Free! Free!

Amate peers outside, her gaze locking on a large green mobile suit when the building suddenly shudders.

"Hey! Mobile suits!" Yellow-hair shouts, rushing in from the rooftop. "They’re coming from below!" Everyone leaves to follow.

Amate freezes, her eyes wide as a white mobile suit and a red mobile suit burst through the surface, locked in a ferocious battle. Their deafening clash sending shockwaves that rattle and an eerie light that illuminates their surroundings.

Before she can react, strong arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back just as the vibrations threaten to throw her off balance. Her pulse races as warm lips brush against her hair, the scent of cologne stirring a mix of shock and exhilaration.

Fascinating, isn’t it? a deep voice murmurs close to her ear, low and steady amidst the uproar. For a moment, everything blurs—the raging battle outside, the frantic voices behind her.

"Gundams," Amate breathes, her voice trembling with awe as she realizes the battle has drawn him back to her, and all she can feel is the strength of his presence, electrifying and undeniable.

Her gaze locks on the Gundams as sparks fly from their weapons, illuminating the turmoil in brilliant flashes.

In this chaos, there is an undeniable certainty, she'll accept the chance to move across whatever battlefield or dance floor fate has chosen for her, with him. The thought comes to her so suddenly that it takes her breath away.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

"What the hell are you doing? Do you have a death wish?" Glasses shouts at the thief and Amate as they stand on the rooftop while chaos rages around them.

Go! The voice commands, and the "bit" that had come so close to them rushes off.

Amate has no idea why the thief is frozen. As for her, she's still trying to figure out how to help the presence, anything to quit hearing it's voice in her head. Its corporeal calmness and flagrant touching are distracting.

Her "luck" in avoiding collateral damage holds as the red mobile suit's shield crashes onto the rooftop, narrowly missing her and the thief. The red mobile suit lands nearby and straightens.

02 Gundam, not half bad, the voice remarks, it's tone pleased.

Amate locks eyes with the Gundam, and the red mobile suit seems to stare back.

She sees no identifying markers on the combatant, yet the voice knows. How? she wonders.

That's not the one we want, the voice states.

It isn't?

No. You need to find the other one.

Before she can process that, the MPs swarm into the area. The white mobile suit fires off a yellow flare, creating a dense smoke screen that obscures everything.

.....

The MPs scour the rooftops for the hidden combatants, recklessly tearing through structures in their search. The needless destruction grates on Amate.

"This is horrible," she mutters.

"Even though Zeon won the war, we spacenoids will never be free. Our suffering has no end in sight," Annqi replies.

Amate considers Annqi’s words and the voice in her head. This isn’t why Zeon won the war.

"Go hide the Zaku, now," Annqi commands Glasses.

Glasses hesitates, unsure where to conceal such a massive mobile suit with the MPs dismantling everything around them.

As Glasses dashes off, Amate turns to Annqi. "But aren’t you going to fight?"

Annqi scoffs. The idea is foolish, apparently. Besides, there is no battle, the key the thief provided is broken, rendering their Zaku useless, adds Dark-hair.

Go! the voice urges her.

Amate obeys, sprinting back into the Clan Battle room. She snatches the Installer Key from the console where Glasses had left it. The hidden presence radiates smugness that she's following his instructions precisely.

.....

Amate finds Glasses at the Zaku’s helm, still muttering about Annqi’s impossible expectations.

The round robotic unit follows her as she forcefully enters the cockpit, startling both Glasses and herself.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Glasses blurts, stunned.

"Where is it?" Amate demands, addressing the voice in her head.

"What?" Glasses looks at her, baffled, as the garage door slides open and the Zaku crawls out.

Panic flickers across Glasses’s face. Their chances of a quick escape are dwindling, and if the MPs find the Zaku here, the Clan Battlers' hideout will be exposed.

"Where does this go?" Amate asks.

"Under the handle," the round robotic unit replies.

She doesn’t hesitate. Crawling between Glasses's legs, she searches for the slot.

"What’s the big idea?!" Glasses protests, clearly confused to find a schoolgirl maneuvering at such an awkward angle.

Amate ignores him. She slots the Installer Key into place.

"I’m going to kick their asses," she declares as the helm’s console flares to life. The Zaku hums to readiness.

......

Unfortunately, the Zaku mono-eye gleams for only a moment before it's spotted. An MP in a Zaku takes a shot, striking the unit with full force. The damaged Zaku falls backward, and slides down a chute that leads to a maintenance tunnel.

Amate and Glasses tumbling together within.

.....

They recover swiftly.

"Dammit," Glasses swears.

"There’s no way we can win with this piece of junk," Amate mutters.

The voice agrees. That tone grates on her nerves, but if listening means beating back the MPs, she’ll do it.

That’s the one you want, the voice tells her.

Amate looks at the monitor, spotting the white mobile suit from earlier.

"Huh?" she murmurs, but before the voice can elaborate, she makes her own assessment. "That one looks a lot stronger."

Glasses has no clue what she’s on about, but the little round robotic unit is thrilled, bouncing as it chants, "Strong! Strong!"

Amate reboots the Zaku, forcing it to lunge at the MP mobile suit that followed them down the chute. The impact sends the enemy unit toppling. Without hesitation, she leaps from the Zaku, using its extended fingers as a springboard to propel herself toward the white mobile suit’s cockpit.

Her timing is flawless. She expects some acknowledgment from the voice, but none comes, it simply assumed she would be this graceful. She scoffs inwardly.

She senses the presence smirking at the white mobile suit’s pilot, who is surveying the battlefield from the ground. Her dance partner is full of himself, Amate is sure of that.

.....

"Now what do I do with this?" Amate asks.

The voice sighs. You're stopping the MP.

I know that! But, how? she replies, soundlessly.

Give it a second, it replies, mocking her for even asking, it was obvious.

I really don’t like you, she thinks.

The presence bristles.

I doubt that. I’m intriguing.

Amate scoffs inwardly.

"Mobile Suit Unlocking," the round robotic unit chirps.

"Unlocking?" she murmurs.

Her screen flashes: Activation Success – Unlock Complete. As various systems within the white mobile suit activate, her focus shifts to the handheld controls.

Let’s go! the voice urges.

How?

Use the controls, it replies, tone dripping with condescension.

"Do I place my palms on these?"

What do you think? it retorts, as if she’s an idiot.

Amate presses her hands onto the controls, shaped like computer mice, and the white mobile suit’s hand flexes in response.

.....

The auto-balancers work the same as the Zaku's. Stand up for me. the voice says, his tone low.

Amate didn't quite catch that, but clearly heard "Stand up..." A great idea, she muses.

Soon, the white Gundam stands tall with its armaments deployed.

"It’s on its feet, at least," Amate says, relieved.

Finally, the voice drawls, its condescending tone grating on her nerves.

Before she can snap back, an MP Zaku raises its weapon and fires. Amate flinches.

If the voice had a physical form, she’s certain it would be standing there with crossed arms, tapping its foot at her reaction.

That helps no one, it remarks dryly.

She shakes off the momentary shock as Omega Psyc Active flashes on her screen.

Fascinating, the voice muses. Now defend yourself, or shoot back.

"Weapons! I need weapons!" Amate demands, a hint of panic in her voice.

Any weapons for close combat? the voice queries.

Her screen flares to life. The Gundam’s schematic appears, identifying its side-arm: Identified Weapon – Heat Hawk.

Let's find out if it works. the voice says.

"Just give it up!" the MP’s Zaku pilot shouts before charging at the white Gundam.

As if she were the one under attack, unarmoured, exposed, Amate moves with a dancer’s grace. She leaps over the MP’s Zaku, drawing the Heat Hawk, its flaming blade slicing through the air.

Nicely done, the voice remarks.

She doesn’t have time to consider why she feels so much pride at being acknowledged by him, of all things, before the MP lunges again.

"Dumb kid!" the pilot yells.

Amate swings. The Heat Hawk cleaves through the MP’s Zaku like a hot knife through butter.

A shout. "Crap!" The Zaku stalls and drops.

But before she can catch her breath, another MP arrives, another Zaku.

.....

The second MP Zaku fires at the white Gundam, forcing Amate into a corner.

"Damn you! Nobody takes down my Mav!" the MP shouts, firing again, but only managing to damage some controls.

Behind her, the airlock begins to disengage. A hiss fills the maintenance tunnel as the pressure drops.

Then, the airlock fully opens.

Amate panics, realizing she has no control over what happens next.

The white Gundam bumps against the airlock’s edge and spins out of control into space.

"I can’t stop!" she cries.

Relax, the voice whispers.

I can’t, she replies soundlessly.

Trust me. Relax, it urges, more gently this time.

So this happens to you often, huh? she scoffs inwardly, trying to steady herself despite the dizziness.

"You little amateur. Resistance is futile," the MP Zaku pilot sneers, pursuing her through the airlock.

"I’ll finish you off!" he shouts, opening fire.

The shots barely miss, and Amate screams.

Then, something strange, she feels a cool, soothing touch on her temples, gentle swirls through her hair. She exhales, tension melting.

You can do this, the voice murmurs. You’ve got this.

And, just like that, he's back to being the gentleman on the dance floor.

It’s kill or be killed, he adds, more ruthless.

"It’s kill or be killed," Amate repeats.

At those words, something miraculous happens. A thrill runs through her, and dazzling lights burst forth, like a prism reflecting in the void.

She and the white Gundam are drawn toward the shimmering mirage.

.....

Amate stares, mesmerized by its colours, its hidden meaning.

"What is that? It’s shining like Kira-Kira…," she murmurs.

I’m not familiar with Kira-Kira, the voice replies.

She scans the sparkling expanse ahead, another Gundam floats within.

"Who’s that?" she wonders, before realizing. "It’s the red one… from before!"

It seems you've managed to make another new friend, the voice murmurs.

Something steadies within her. "I don’t know why, but for some reason, I feel like I got this."

The voice stays quiet. Again, she feels its silent approval.

Her Gundam stops spinning, and the sparkles vanish. Testing her limits, she executes somersaults around the suspension wires supporting the solar panel arrays surrounding Side 6.

The MP Zaku spots her and fires.

Amate rushes forward. "Take this!" she shouts, brandishing the Gundam’s Heat Hawk. The scythe weapon cleaves through the Zaku, its flaming blade slicing clean. The unit crashes through the solar panels, shards of glass scattering in all directions.

This wasn't a historic first, second, or third for mobile suit combat. It's proven to be rather anticlimactic. the voice drawls.

"I actually beat him," she says, grinning with pride. She doesn’t need the voice in her head telling her she did great. Or didn't!

Amate's heart is still beating rapidly. She can't help but feel like that one moment of inspiration to climb into the white Gundam changed everything.

She glances back, the red Gundam is flying off.

"Who was that before?" she asks.

No answer.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Amate follows the Red Gundam, but he quickly vanishes, leaving her stranded with no idea how to get back to the Clan Battle headquarters.

"Are you there?" she asks, hoping the Clan Battlers can hear her. "I need directions."

"Get back here before you get caught," Glasses replies as the navigation system displays the necessary route via the round mechanical unit.

Impressive foresight, you managed to ask for directions.

Amate grits her teeth. The presence and its unsolicited remarks need to go.

"Why are you always so condescending?" she snaps.

"Why can't you just follow instructions?" Glasses interjects, unaware the question wasn't meant for him. The presence chuckles, clearly amused.

Amate shuts up, unwilling to engage with either of them. The white Gundam effortlessly re-enters Side 6 and heads toward the Clan Battle HQ.

.....

From the gangway, Amate watches the team fuss over the white Gundam, poking at its inner workings like mechanics with a new toy. The team consists of Jeezi, who she had nicknamed Glasses, Nabu, formerly Dark-hair, and Kaine a.k.a. Yellow-hair, and the adorable little round unit is Haro. All reporting to Annqi.

She also learns that the Clan Battlers are, in fact, called the Pomeranians, named after Jeezi’s absurdly overfed Pomeranian. Truly, an intimidating legacy.

"Excuse me! Can I go home now?" she calls, thoroughly unimpressed with being ignored. It’s late, and she doesn’t fancy a lecture from her mother.

If you survived that skirmish, I think you can handle a little parental disappointment.

She clenches her teeth. If he keeps yapping, she’ll need a dentist. And speaking of dental work...

"This thing has teeth," perpetually grumpy Nabu mutters. He’s still rambling about the Gundam’s fancy tech while Kaine types away on the computer. There are so many displays on that dashboard, Amate wonders what it all means.

Redundant systems, the voice replies without being asked.

Redundant like the extra letter 'u's in the Gundam's name, she muses. Amate has personally decided that she'll abbreviate GQuuuuuuX gMS-Omega to GQuX. "No offense, Gundam," she murmurs.

As if in response, the displays shift from amber to red warnings. Kaine stops tinkering, suddenly concerned about accidental self-destruction. Predictably, Nabu wants the suit gone, claiming it’s too much trouble if they can't get it to work.

Ye of little faith, the voice sighs, unimpressed. Amate agrees, for once.

As she turns to leave, Annqi catches her off guard. "You did well for a first-timer."

Didn’t realize you were being graded.

Amate is inwardly thrilled because Annqi's opinion suddenly matters to her.

"It just moved the way I wanted it to," she admits, though she has no clue how.

I can tell you how, the voice jumps in, eager to educate. She ignores him.

"Not even Jeezi could pilot it, so how the hell did you?" Nabu demands.

Being surrounded by mobile suits and still managing to remain astonishingly uninformed is truly impressive in its own way.

In response to Nabu, she shrugs. Who knows?

I know, the voice insists.

Then Annqi throws her another curveball. "Hey, kid, you wanna try Clan Battle?"

She gapes. Kaine sees opportunities, but Jeezi and Nabu object immediately.

The audacity, the voice remarks, his tone sharp with annoyance at the two dissenters. Amate agrees—once again.

She doesn't reply to Annqi, however, because between school, cram school, and studying, where would she even find the time?

"I gotta feeling. We’ll see you again," Annqi says dryly, as Amate heads out the door.

......

Emerging from the shadowed side street, Amate steps onto the narrow canal path.

She finally speaks, breaking the silence. “Um, what’s your name?”

The presence beside her barely reacts, his tone clipped and impatient. I am Casval. A soldier.

“A soldier?”

Of Zeon.

"Of Zeon," she repeats instinctively.

He exhales, unimpressed. You can stop parroting everything I say.

“Sorry." A small chuckle escapes her, more nervous than amused. "How old are you, Cas?”

Casval sighs, not bothering to correct the shortened name. Predictably, his reply drips condescension. How old do you imagine me to be?

She considers him. He feels ancient, like he’s existed longer than she can comprehend. “I can’t even guess,” she admits. In her dreams, her dance partner looks barely twenty, but this hovering presence carries the confidence of someone far older.

I was born in U.C. 0059.

She frowns, calculating. “Hmm. You're not much older, but you sound older.”

I am twenty, he corrects, tone sharp enough to slice through the chilled air. I’ll always be twenty. Just because someone’s older doesn’t mean they know more. Time doesn’t make you, battle does.

“Oh,” she mutters, then under her breath, “...I wouldn’t know.”

Casval, as expected, remains unbothered. I sympathize with your upbringing. Or, I’m attempting to.

Ahead, the canal path broadens, leading to the subway entrance, bright signs directing passengers.

Her curiosity sparks. “Did you participate in the One Year War?”

His laugh is hollow, soaked in scorn. You don’t just participate in a war like it’s some kind of event, it’s something you live in, something that shapes you. I didn’t just fight; I was made by it.

Amate steps onto the subway platform, where the hum of conversation fills the space, a stark contrast to the silence of their walk. She shifts the conversation, unwilling to linger in his bitterness. “I like your name,” she offers, more polite than sincere. “Cas. I could be friends with someone named Cas.”

Casval merely hums, indifferent.

Amate wonders what led him to the war, why he speaks like a cynic, and why his phantom touch instantly soothed her.

.....

Later, submerged in warm bathwater, Amate’s thoughts drift to Clan Battle. The MPs had nearly caught her. A mugshot flashes through her mind, her face half-redacted. She should feel relieved to be out of it, yet the thrill gnaws at her.

“I want to see those Kira-Kira sparklies again,” she murmurs, longing threading through her voice.

Since leaving the subway, Cas has been eerily silent. It unsettles her. She should appreciate the privacy, especially in the bath, but he floats in and out of her awareness like a jellyfish on the tide.

Outside, her mother’s voice cuts through. “What? There better be a good explanation for this!”

Amate stiffens. Has today’s escapade been discovered? No, her mother simply announces she’s needed at the office. Moments later, the lock clicks as she departs.

Still lounging in the tub, Amate hears sirens, louder than usual. Rising, she cranes her neck to peer out the window. A massive ship looms in the sky.

Zeon forces, Cas drawls, his voice rich with indifference.

Amate shrieks.

The lack of Minovsky particles suggests this isn’t a combat situation, he continues, unbothered.

“Go away!” she snaps, fumbling for a towel.

You’re safe from me, he assures her, his voice trailing off. Not before she feels the phantom weight of a patronizing pat on her head.

.....

The perfume of your hair is nothing short of mesmerizing, Cas remarks, his voice closer than expected. Amate is curled up in her bed, watching her phone, half-wondering when he’d reappear. Boundaries need addressing.

"Why are you here?" she demands.

Why do you see the sparklies? The Kira-Kira? he counters, answering a question with a question, an infuriating habit.

"I don’t know," she huffs. "Once again, I’m asking you. Why are you here?"

A pause. I don’t know, he admits. I’ll confess, this attraction confounds me.

"Attraction?" The word catches her off guard, heat creeping into her cheeks.

Not in the usual boy-meets-girl way, he clarifies. Something broader. Like the universe is dropping hints.

"Um," she manages.

There’s something I need to do. I haven’t figured out what yet. But I’m certain, I need you.

"Ah!" A slow grin spreads across her face. "So that’s why you’re occasionally nice. You remembered you need me."

Silence.

"You need me!" she urges, still grinning.

Yes, I need you. Now be quiet about it.

A quiet laugh escapes her. "It's nice to be needed," she muses.

Jellyfish, he mutters, smirking. Her wall art amuses him apparently.

Amate sets her phone aside, and Cas eases in behind her, a phantom arm curling around her waist with something approaching tenderness. His presence, once intrusive, settles against her like second nature. As she drifts into sleep, she wonders, not for the first time, who needs whom more. They can discuss boundaries tomorrow.

.....

Amate listens as the girls in class chatter about the Sodon floating over Izuma Colony that morning. Thanks to Cas, she knows the name of the Zeon military ship and its commander, Challia Bull.

Cas can’t explain how he knows them, only that he does. There’s significance to them, he insists, yet his memory fails him.

"Maybe it's because you're as translucent as a jellyfish," Amate mutters, getting the attention of nearby students. She flushes, pretending she said nothing.

You and your jellyfish, Cas remarks, unbothered. So, bereft of a brain, I am devoid of memory, explains why I forgot to be offended.

Amate chuckles inwardly. Her classmates continue to chatter while staring out the classroom windows.

He goes on, ever superior. An excellent choice of metaphor, incidentally. Jellyfish are often associated with intuition—though you wouldn’t want to be caught swimming beside one.

"If I were a jellyfish, I’d sting you first," Amate retorts, smirking. She double-checks that no one can hear her, while running through her assignment.

Ouch, Cas replies, feigning injury.

His presence vanishes just as she circles back to the looming question of participating in a Clan Battle.

"I don’t know what to do," she groans. "When I’m with that red guy, I don’t feel scared at all."

Amate pulls out her phone and searches RX-78, discovering it was once piloted by the infamous "Red Comet."

"Char? Weird looking mask," she murmurs, but before she can read further, shimmering sparkles flash across her vision. Recognition dawns. She’s seen them before, twice, beside the canal, under a bridge.

Without hesitation, she bolts from her seat, then pops her head back into the classroom. "Leaving early. Gotta go."

Her classmate calls after her, reminding Amate she forgot her bag. She ignores them, already halfway out the door.

......

Amate rushes to the bridge spanning the canal, where she spotted the graffiti yesterday. Catching her breath, she surveys the artwork, a vibrant explosion of colour with a bold, red humanoid symbol to the top left.

"Ah...! It's the Kira-Kira!" she exclaims, just as a gloved hand grips her head. Someone leans in, inhaling the scent of her hair. The sensation is startling, more tangible than Cas’s touch, and without the familiar aftershave.

"Wh—what the...?!" She jerks back, startled by the presence of a ragged older teen standing beside her.

"So, you've seen the other side too, huh?" His voice is soft, low.

"The other side of what?" Amate asks, more intrigued than alarmed. She quickly assesses that he poses no threat. His question, however, is as cryptic as he is.

"I'm Shuji, by the way," he says.

Amate scrambles to think fast. "My name’s Machu," she replies, instantly regretting her choice of pseudonym. So childish!

She watches as Shuji shakes a spray paint can and adds to the graffiti. A new image appears, a white version of the red humanoid symbol, standing out clearly against the colourful backdrop. She knows now, he was there. In the Kira-Kira sparklies from yesterday.

"Shuji, are you a—" she begins, but before she can finish, the thief arrives. She's on her bike, ringing her puny bell, her trademark backpack slung over her shoulders, school uniform neat but unmistakable.

The exchange between Shuji and the courier thief quickly falls apart. The transaction they had attempted to carry out is ruined by a lack of funds. Shuji needs the Installer Key she was couriering.

"Ah, Conch, what do we do? That was the last bit of money I had," Shuji laments to the mechanical unit atop his head, all the while his stomach is growling loudly.

That’s when Amate suggests they Clan Battle.

"We'll win. Have some faith," she says, rallying the pair. They need money, and this is a surefire way to get it, though the thief looks hesitant and turns away.

Then, Shuji sniffs the thief’s hair. She screams and jumps. Amate wonders when hair-sniffing became a thing, it seems to be happening with alarming frequency.

"Come with me, you two," Shuji says, lifting a manhole cover. Amate follows eagerly, but the thief hesitates, her reluctance evident in every step.

Amate turns to her. "Uh… What was your name again?" she asks, hoping to put her at ease.

"Nyaan," the girl replies curtly.

Amate blinks, surprised. "Nyaan? I didn’t expect you to have such a cute name," she says truthfully. It's super cute.

They arrive at their destination, where Shuji pushes open a final door, revealing a large room drenched in fluorescent spray paint. In the centre is the Gundam, red, prone but still brimming with raw power. It's unmistakable. The one from yesterday.

All it needs is an Installer Key.

Amate turns to Shuji. "So, you’ll compete in Clan Battle with me?" she asks.

He glances over his shoulder, expression unreadable. "The Gundam is telling me… it’s time to fight," he says.

Amate laughs. What a character.

Convincing Nyaan doesn’t take long. Soon, she too places her trust, however hesitantly, in Shuji and the Red Gundam, handing over the Installer Key.

.....

Amate barely makes it to Pomeranian HQ in time, breathless from the frantic climb up the stairs. Sweat clings to her skin, but Annqi barely reacts, too focused on the task ahead.

She asks for a battle name and proceeds to welcome Machu to the team.

Amate straightens. "And my Mav will be here any minute now," she announces.

Silence. Stunned expressions. No one had mentioned a Mav, except the vague possibility of Jeezi filling in with a rental.

"Machu’s Mav. A real Mav," Haro chirps excitedly.

In the quiet change room, Annqi helps Amate into her battle gear, her movements swift and efficient. "Anonymity is critical in Clan Battles," she warns, pulling a cap low over Amate’s eyes.

"Clan Battle is a two-on-two mobile fight between Mav teams. Destroy your opponent’s head and you win. Other than that, no rules," Annqi continues.

No rules. Amate lets the thought settle.

Moments later, the GQuX powers up under her command, lowered into position. She maneuvers through the airlock, breaking free from Side 6 and into open space.

.....

Cas is the furthest thing from her mind—until the scent of his aftershave reminds her of his ever-present influence.

Impressive. A simple controlled exit. Not as powerful as launching via catapult, but sufficient.

Amate exhales. Thank you, she replies silently. We aim to please.

His voice turns indulgent. You have. Then, with calculated nonchalance, That outfit suits you perfectly.

Heat rises in her cheeks. Where did that come from?

Anything goes, he reminds her.

She echoes aloud, trying to ground herself. "In other words, it’s an anything-goes battle?"

"Anything goes!" Haro chirps.

Settled in her gear, toque snug over her head, Amate focuses on her display. Haro on her lap. Cas at her back, everything set.

She hesitates telling him how much he's grown on her, but his ego is too large for this small cabin, so she resists, amused.

......

"Shuji! Thanks for coming," she calls upon spotting the Red Gundam.

"Our Mav is here! Our Mav is here!" Haro repeats excitedly.

A drone hovers nearby, recording. The livestream must be moments away from starting. The countdown begins, silent and ominous.

But there’s no fanfare. No clear indication that the battle has begun.

"Did it start? Where are the opponents?" Amate asks, uncertain.

Stay calm. Remember yesterday. You got this, Cas murmurs.

She repeats the words aloud, willing herself to believe them.

Then, chaos.

Gunfire erupts, forcing Amate to swerve violently. She backs into Shuji, the impact sending the Red Gundam rolling away.

"Nobody told me there’d be guns!" she yells.

"We don't have enough to afford machine guns," Kaine says flatly. "As far as clans go, we're totally broke."

A sinking feeling grips Amate. This fight is going sideways fast.

.....

Cas details the technical intricacies of Mav combat, his tone as polished as ever, clinical, assured, effortlessly superior. Amate absorbs every word with remarkable speed, processing the strategy while simultaneously dodging gunfire and weaving through the unpredictable chaos of normal space traffic.

So far, you've successfully evaded every attack, he muses, voice rich with self-satisfaction. And they've exposed their position in the process. You're truly an exceptional pilot.

She barely has time to appreciate the rare praise before their opponent lobs a bomb in their direction. It detonates on impact, sending shockwaves through GQuX. The blast blinds her instantly, forcing her to grip the controls in sheer panic. Their weapon, the Heat Hawk, spirals out of reach.

Darkness.

"I can't see!" Amate gasps. "Where's Shuji? Why is this happening? Am I going to die?"

A hand grips her wrist, steady, firm, not Cas’s.

"I'll leave you two to it," Cas remarks, his voice uncharacteristically clipped. Then, just as suddenly, he’s gone.

Kira-Kira sparkles arrive and she exhales in relief. "The Kira-Kira!" she murmurs.

"Don't panic, Machu," Shuji's voice steadies her. "You need to be freer, like a fish in the sea."

"Shuji! Where are you?" she calls, searching for him. His face flashes before her, their gazes locking across the void.

"I'm right here by your side," he assures her.

As the Kira-Kira fades, their Gundams clasp hands, a brief tether before the brilliance dissolves, leaving them adrift once more in the stark black of space.

Then, the attack.

A direct hit catches Shuji off guard, damaging the Red Gundam as their opponents continue firing.

Desperation grips Amate. "My eyes… I lost my weapon… What should I do? What can I do?"

Cas returns, his presence slipping back in as if he never left. Scenarios unfold before her like a chessboard shifting. In one of them, her Heat Hawk.

"Ah!" She doesn't hesitate, the GQuX surging forward.

She drives toward her opponent, scanning the battlefield. Then, there, her weapon, arcing in freefall. She angles sharply, intercepting it mid-descent. The blade connects first, striking one of her opponents square in the head.

She struggles to wrench it free from their armament, the second enemy advancing rapidly.

A flicker, like static across her mind.

The Red Gundam materializes, its whip-like weapon slicing through the oncoming threat, shielding GQuX from the blow.

The advantage is hers.

Freed from immediate danger, Amate regains control, pivots toward the opponent harassing Shuji, and swings the Heat Hawk. A clean, decisive strike.

Their opponent’s head severs from its body.

Her display confirms it: Pomeranian’s victory.

Amate exhales in disbelief, heart hammering in her chest. Somehow, impossibly, they pulled it off.

You are a particularly special kind of person, Cas murmurs, his voice softer now, almost indulgent. The back of a phantom hand brushes her cheek, light, fleeting.

She barely has time to process it before Jeezi’s voice jolts her back.

"Hurry back home before the MPs get you, you nutjob!" Jeezi shouts.

"Hurry back! Hurry back!" Haro echoes.

Amate glances toward Shuji and the Red Gundam as they begin their retreat.

Over the radio, Shuji says, "And now the Gundam is saying 'Run,' and I think we should."

Run, Cas agrees.

.....

Amate lays in bed, her phone untouched, her gaze fixed on the dark ceiling.

Several Clan Battles have come and gone. Victory after victory.

But Cas remains missing.

Vanished.

"Where did you disappear to?" she wonders. "And when will you be back?"

.....

Chapter Text

Captain Char Aznabel surveys the chaos above Solomon, his eyes carving a path through the battlefield with effortless focus. The Federation is flailing, cluttering the space with its desperate attempts to hold position, yet his squadron still has yet to secure full control. It’s intolerable. As Zeon’s ace mobile suit pilot, it is his responsibility, no, his right, to cleanse the space of these nuisances.

One pilot, however, remains infuriatingly beyond his reach. The Witch. The Federation’s so-called ace, boasting a kill count that should have been impossible. A fluke, most likely. Yet she continues to thrive. Unacceptable.

Char tightens his grip on the controls, his tone assured. “It’s kill or be killed.” He pulls into another ascent, slicing through debris and enemy fire, seeking the last coordinates where she’d been spotted. The interference from wreckage is an irritant. The Federation mobile suits clog the sector, scrambling like insects determined to die by his hand.

“Looking for The Witch?” Challia Bull, his lieutenant, chimes in, ever the dutiful Mav. “She’s been ranting to anyone who’ll listen, claiming she’ll take down The Red Comet for what happened to her Mav.”

Char grins. That title, The Red Comet, is well-earned. He’s faster than any other mobile suit pilot in battle, his streaks of crimson carving across the heavens like a force of nature. A name like that is no mere compliment. It is truth.

“She seems unaware of the price of vengeance,” Challia continues, tone hovering between amusement and pity. “The war may end, but does the battle within ever stop?”

Char allows himself the faintest smirk. “Her bloodlust will cost her. Predictable, really.” His excitement is controlled, contained beneath a veneer of indifference. He doesn’t make impulsive kills; he orchestrates victories.

“Enemy inbound, twelve o’clock!” Challia snaps, pulling him back to the moment.

Char pivots effortlessly, his movements so instinctual they feel rehearsed. He assesses the approaching craft and, ah. Recognition settles. That pilot… surely not.

He knows them.

They had defected to the Federation. And now, here they are, guns drawn against him.

He won’t shoot them. Won’t. Can’t.

The Witch’s voice crackles over the radio, venomous and triumphant. “I’ve got you now.”

Char barely acknowledges her. The situation is more dire than a simple duel, she has positioned herself in such a way that the defector's craft is in direct danger. A misstep, and they’ll be collateral damage.

Calculating his escape, Char executes evasive manoeuvres, slipping far away into the firestorm surrounding Solomon. His displays flicker, interference. Psycommu interference. Differing sources. The overlapping of waves, their amplified resonance, culminates in a massive singular wave.

It's intense and Char feels his mind, body, and soul floating in swirls of sparkling colour, brilliant, chaotic, blinding.

Then—nothing.

.....

Casval drifts through an empty graveyard, though calling it "walking" would be generous. The sky is cloudy and the wind blows steadily. Yet he feels none of it. Curious, he lifts his hands, testing if they, at least, might perceive the elements. But they aren’t quite his hands, rather, a translucent suggestion of them, wrapped in an ethereal membrane so unnervingly flawless it borders on artistry. Elegant, really.

Fascinating, he murmurs, flexing fingers that move without substance. He sees straight through them, no veins, no blood, no bones. Merely an outline of what should be there, like a shadow that refuses to commit.

Movement catches his eye, a couple placing flowers before a tombstone. He doesn’t so much step toward them as simply arrive, propelled by nothing more than a flicker of curiosity. They are grieving, evidently. The question is for whom.

They do not acknowledge him, which he finds mildly irritating, though perhaps predictable. Invisible, then? It’s a working theory.

The woman's grief intrigues him; the man, meanwhile, offers comfort, though with noticeably less concern. Curious, how effortlessly she conveys profound loss without tears. Efficient.

His gaze drifts to the tombstone, and a name tugs at some distant recollection. He shifts his attention back to the woman, an older version of The Witch.

Now that is interesting.

.....

Casval doesn’t know how he knows her name—he simply does. Much like he knows she was his final target, the one responsible for cutting down so many members of his side. The knowledge lingers, unquestioned, as if it has always belonged to him.

The man departs, leaving The Witch alone with her grief.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, voice thin with regret. "I didn't kill The Red Comet. I tried, but vengeance was denied."

She finally sobs, and something shifts within Casval—a certainty, as absurd as it is unshakable. He was The Red Comet. How does he know? The same way he knows everything else.

She had plotted his death, marked him as her prey.

Unfortunate for her, then, that she failed. He is here, after all, quite indisputably not dead.

Granted, "alive" may be a stretch. By conventional standards, he is not human. But existence? Oh, that he has mastered.

Another certainty slithers into his mind, he does not like her. Never has.

And vengeance, as it turns out, is a rather persistent beast. It settles over him, possessive and absolute, demanding retribution with the force of undeniable truth. The why eludes him, but the must is undeniable.

.....

Casval has spent the day silently observing The Witch and the carefully assembled life she’s nestled into. Five years have passed since they last crossed paths, and she has settled, married, a son, the whole quaint affair.

For a fleeting moment, he entertains the notion that Shiiko Sugai is harmless, inconsequential, hardly worth his time. The sentiment barely has a chance to take root before his thirst for vengeance surges back with startling force.

She still mourns her Mav, not merely a partner in combat, but a figure of adoration, a love she refuses to relinquish. A loss she cannot, evidently, move past.

Casval sees it plainly, the simmering frustration, the resentment coiled beneath her skin, the way his disappearance robbed her of closure. She follows every whisper, every rumour of the Red Comet’s return, clinging to them like lifelines. Her dartboard, emblazoned with his mobile suit’s image, bears the unmistakable evidence of her unresolved fury: an axe embedded, dead centre. Charming.

No, she hasn’t relinquished her hunger for vengeance. And as Casval watches her close out her evening, lighting incense and muttering prayers to the void, he decides to do what any magnanimous spectre of retribution would, he’ll grant her the closure she so desperately craves.

This shouldn't be difficult. He is a master tactician after all.

.....

Casval decides quickly how The Witch will settle the score, by returning to the skies. The war may be over, and she may have cast aside her mobile suit, but conflict has merely adapted. Clan Battle, a glorified bloodsport orchestrated by Side 6 opportunists, thrives in its place, mobile suit duels waged for entertainment and profit.

It’s livestreamed, absurdly popular among the masses. Casval takes note, convincing The Witch to align with a faction will simply be a matter of strategic encouragement.

And then, of course, there’s the issue of his mobile suit. A Red Gundam will be necessary. Obviously, his survival implies his suit must have endured as well. Unless it was obliterated—an inconvenient possibility. No matter, a new one can be built. Details.

Casval has learned he can be persuasive when the situation demands it. A weak ability to manipulate objects, yes, but an undeniably strong psychic presence, more than enough to influence the minds of ordinary humans and, when needed, lesser Newtypes.

.....

The subway is quieter than usual at midday as Shiiko waits for her stop. Two young men enter, launching into an animated discussion about last night’s Clan Battle.

Casval watches as she flicks a glance their way, catching sight of mobile suits clashing on a tablet screen.

One of the pilots botches a move so spectacularly that Casval nearly groans aloud. Shiiko’s expression darkens, displeasure, unmistakable.

She won’t voice her opinion, of course. She’s a wife, a mother. That sort of thing.

Casval smirks. Good luck with that, Witch. She won’t resist the lure for long.

.....

Casval tails the top pilot for CRS and an active Clan Battle combatant. He then spends a few minutes encouraging a journalist to dig into the pilot's family history. The results are enlightening.

A father entangled in human trafficking. A mother and her children fleeing, reinventing themselves in Izuma Colony under new identities. A perfect scandal waiting to unravel.

Casval watches as the reporter approaches the pilot's wife for confirmation. She doesn’t just rebuke the claims—she obliterates them, countering with undeniable evidence.

Casval sighs. Unfortunate.

No matter. Time to shift focus, the pilot's Mav will prove far easier to dislodge.

.....

The Mav has a gambling problem. Or at least, he didn’t have one until Casval intervened.

Casval lingers behind him at a casino table, subtly guiding his winnings to astronomical heights over two nights. The pilot is enthralled. Luck, it seems, has returned.

Then Casval ensures it doesn’t. The ball lands everywhere but where the Mav needs it, save for the paltry bets he can barely celebrate.

Desperate, the second pilot bets big. He loses.

Casval watches as reality sets in. Now he’s off to seek a loan shark.

Perfect. The Mav will be fired soon enough.

.....

The boys with their tablets are on the subway again, chattering about two openings on the CRS team. Their excitement is palpable, anyone can apply, but do they have what it takes?

Casval watches as Shiiko tilts her head, just slightly, just enough to suggest pondering.

He grins.

.....

The CRS team director practically radiates enthusiasm, reminding Shiiko how gruelling the training will be. The new equipment will be a challenge.

She doesn’t so much as blink. Calculating, as ever. A cold fish in deep waters.

Casval watches, satisfied.

Now, all that remains is finding a Red Gundam for her to fight.

.....

Sadness radiates in waves, a suffocating heat pressing against Casval. It’s not unlike the blast from an open furnace, palpable, even through the vastness of space.

Whatever had emitted the heat has vanished by the time he is free to investigate. In its wake, a masterpiece remains, an arresting mural of luminous hues and intricate strokes, colours interwoven in chaotic harmony. The piece is undeniably beautiful, an explosion of brilliance against the drab backdrop of Side 6.

Casval studies it, momentarily intrigued. He hadn’t expected something of such artistry in a place like this, nor from a hand overcome with sorrow. The contrast is amusing.

The artist is a contradiction.

Curious.

.....

Shiiko’s training progresses spectacularly, almost as if she has finally decided to take it seriously. Her Mav, however, remains a liability. Casval knows they will only slow her down.

The Witch earned her reputation alone, and when the Clan Battle begins, she will fight alone. No sidekick will dictate the outcome of a fight already decided.

As decently skilled as one can be, The Witch is no where close to the proficiency of the Red Comet, Casval notes.

.....

Casval is amused to find Tem Ray lingering on Side 6—a man once brilliant, now reduced to rambling madness. Principal engineer on Project V, the architect behind 02 Gundam’s impeccable mechanics. How Casval came to know this is irrelevant. What matters is that, despite his deteriorated state, Tem Ray retains the knowledge to build another Gundam.

There is no shortage of scrap metal littering Side 6. And no shortage of derelict minds eager to tinker with it.

Casval merely needs to plant the seed.

As he surveys what Tem may require for the immense task ahead, a familiar presence interrupts, waves of blistering heat, suffocating sadness. The wretched feeling is overwhelming.

Casval deigns to make an appearance.

.....

Unbelievably, Casval spots 02 Gundam. His Gundam. It is in deplorable condition, missing its bits, its weaponry, stripped of its former glory. Yet still, it is unmistakably his.

The Red Gundam and, presumably, its pilot observe the removal of graffiti scrawled across the southern wall of Side 6.

Casval assumes the act must have upset the artist. A trivial thing to mourn. But then he recognizes the source of the sorrow, not mere frustration, but genuine human loneliness.

Pathetic.

The pilot of Casval’s Red Gundam is utterly alone, and though Casval cannot muster pity for such a weak soul, the revelation sparks an idea.

02 Gundam does not respond to him, not as it once did. Perhaps too much time has passed. Or perhaps it is bound to its new pilot now. Whatever the reason, Casval sees an opportunity.

Loneliness can be cured. The weak need companionship.

Casval merely needs to find the bait.

......

“He wasn’t a Newtype,” Shiiko mutters, standing apart from the others at a funeral, free to say whatever she pleases.

The Witch halts, stiffens, sensing something. Then, just as easily, she dismisses it and remains silent.

The funeral is for two people, a former employee and his wife. A tragic affair. A car accident.

“Was it an accident, though? Or could he simply not live with the humiliation?” a mourner whispers, eager for scandal.

Casval listens for a moment before turning away. Pointless drivel. He leaves her to her nonsense, idly wondering, purely for sport, whose funeral it is.

His gaze drifts to the framed photographs, and there it is: confirmation. The first pilot Casval targeted, alongside his unfortunate wife.

“His father was that infamous trafficker,” the mourner prattles on. “Living under an assumed identity, too.”

A vague impression lingers in Casval’s mind, a faded memory insisting that an assumed identity need not be tragic.

Sad, perhaps. But entirely avoidable, he decides, effortlessly disregarding any lingering guilt.

……

Casval wonders about the second pilot. And then, unbidden, the scene shifts, he’s in a hospital room.

The gambler is in bad shape, injuries severe. Recovery will be long, arduous. Loan sharks never let a debt go unpaid.

Is it Casval’s fault? Yes. Probably. But at least he’s not dead.

.....

Morning. The Witch journals.

"Newtypes are a myth. That pilot wasn’t a Newtype, no more than my Mav was…"

Casval smirks, listening as she murmurs beneath her breath, her written words echoing her spoken thoughts almost verbatim.

She had never encountered the Red Comet herself, and so she dismissed him, overrated, laughable.

She is intent on rewriting history, erasing the very concept. No Newtypes. No Red Comet. If only she had the means to dispel the myth entirely.

Casval stops reading. He understands her fixation, though truly, she’s wasting her breath.

And yet—the irony is exquisite.

Here he stands. The man, the myth, the legend.

Now, her resentment makes sense. The bitterness towards Newtypes, the so-called Chosen Ones, if her ramblings are to be believed.

How amusing.

……

A feeling of hope overwhelms Casval. He searches for the source.

The subway is packed. A chase unfolds. A student, pursued by police, weaving through the crowd. She nearly gets caught but manages to jump over the gate, colliding with a commuter in her escape.

The student is anxious, frantic. Not hopeful. Then Casval’s gaze falls upon the commuter sprawled on the floor, and he understands.

She’s the source.

Adorable. And beyond the hope she radiates, there is something else, the fragrant scent of life itself.

He’s drawn to her against his better judgment.

But why?

.....

Casval is surprised to find he can touch her. He had brushed aside her hair, intending only to inhale her scent, but she reacted. He stops immediately, eyes flicking to the mirror ahead. His own image is absent, yet she remains, eyes closed, savouring his touch.

Fascinating.

Curious, he watches as she unzips her backpack, retrieving a small device from a crumpled paper bag. He recognizes it instantly, an Installer Key, one of the most critical pieces of equipment in a Gundam’s arsenal.

She soon realizes the same, muttering that it’s contraband. It may well be, he muses, especially in civilian hands.

A plan forms. He wills her to safeguard the IK. Soon, they are on the street.

.....

A sharp wave of anxiety catches his attention. Then he sees it, the thief, barreling toward The Hope.

Wait for it, he murmurs. But she’s too slow. She stumbles forward on the sidewalk. Annoyed, she chides him for not warning her.

He chuckles.

Go! Casval commands, baffled by her hesitation. She obeys, bolting after the thief up to the rooftop of a nearby building.

“What is this?” The thief frowns, bewildered. A trained pickpocket, she should know precisely what she had stowed during the collision—but this? It wasn’t what Casval saw her stow. He chuckles.

Casval can't help but admire The Hope’s tactics. She baits the thief, pretending to toss away the IK, only to leap mid-air and snatch it effortlessly. Impressive. Her coordination is solid—given proper training, she could become exceptional.

Who is she?

.....

The Clan Battle members are an ill-tempered lot, and Casval finds them insufferable. Except for one—Annqi. She radiates unshaken confidence.

"And who the hell are you, girl?" the one with glasses snaps at The Hope.

"A tagalong, I guess," she shrugs. Casval nudges her to say more.

"Or maybe... a Mav."

"A Mav?" Annqi echoes, considering. Perhaps she senses Casval. Unlikely, but he will plant the idea in her mind anyway, coaxing her toward The Hope’s true desire.

.....

Moments later, on the rooftop, Casval watches, startled. A white mobile suit clashes with his 02 Gundam. The Hope stands frozen, shaken by the spectacle. She teeters as the battle rattles the structure.

Casval catches her, steadies her.

Fascinating, isn’t it? he murmurs near her ear. He doesn't need to be this close. But he is.

"Gundams," she whispers, trembling.

Stay with me, he wills. Your life is about to change.

.....

Cas, he prefers that name now, thanks to Amate, spends his days in a secluded lakeside cabin, drawn to its familiarity. He does not question it. Some things simply are.

He’s avoided checking in on The Witch and Amate, though not for lack of thought. His once rigid plans for revenge are shifting, unraveling in ways he hadn’t expected.

And somehow, impossibly, Amate has given him hope. A different fate. Not merely the man burdened by war, but something else, someone else. He doesn’t quite know what that means, not yet. He is not “alive” in the way others are. That much, at least, remains unchanged.

Looking back, when the GQuuuuuuX first crossed paths with the Zakus, he’d expected nothing remarkable, a foolish teenage girl, predictable in her recklessness. But Amate defied that assumption. She was sharp, rational, kind in a way that felt effortless. Unshakably steady. And it wasn't just the scent of living, it was more.

The memory of another girl lingers at the edges of his mind, bright, impulsive, familiar, but slips away like mist the moment he reaches for it. Perhaps there were more. It hardly matters. Amate is different. Amate is better.

And now, he finds himself unwilling to let Amate, or Machu, face The Witch in the upcoming Clan Battle. Skill can only carry them so far; experience, ruthless and uncompromising, will dictate the rest. Sabotaging The Witch’s equipment is one possibility. Or perhaps a quieter approach, something persuasive, something strategic. There must be a way to make her step aside.

.....

Cas finds The Witch engrossed in Clan Battle footage, analyzing the latest duel with meticulous focus. Her fascination with the Red Gundam has only deepened. He watches for a moment, considering his approach.

A family photograph sits on a nearby credenza. Cas nudges the frame, lets it teeter until it finally falls.

The Witch turns, startled. Of course she is, things do not simply collapse on their own. He chuckles inwardly, amused.

She retrieves the frame, glancing down at the photo inside, her son, nestled between two beaming parents, a picture of happiness. A beautiful moment.

But she does not linger on it. Instead, she returns to her footage, undeterred. Cas exhales, folding his arms.

A distant memory stirs, a time when he, too, was a child, though he cannot recall his mother’s face, nor her presence. Only the hollow ache of separation and loss remains.

The Witch is resilient. She will not be swayed easily.

His only certainty now lies in Shuji, the pilot of the 02 Gundam. The Kira-Kira are something he's lived with, and his skills were only partially revealed to Cas. Perhaps he will be enough.

.....

Cas offers what reparations he can to the families of the pilots he harmed, in his own way, of course. It may be inadequate, may come far too late, but money still holds weight in the lives of survivors.

As for his once-burning desire for vengeance? Gone. Dissolved into something quieter, something less consuming. He no longer despises The Witch.

He merely pities her.

What an unfortunate way to squander a life.

.....

His attachment to Amate is becoming something dangerous though, an ache, a longing, something close to devotion.

The scent of her. The sharpness of her mind. The fire in her voice. All of it calls to him, keeps him lingering, waiting, wanting. Just to see her smile.

Pathetic.

The night he lay beside her, he imagined sleep. And more than that, he imagined peace. He had tried, stubbornly, to forget the way she stood naked and wet, defiant after her bath. The memory refused to leave.

So he left as soon as he could after her first Clan Battle. The way she panted in that outfit, trying to catch her breath. If only there was a way... Forget it.

And now, he tells himself he’s proud, proud that he has resisted the pull to check on her.

But he will go back soon. Because tonight is the Pomeranian versus CRS Clan Battle.

And for the first time in far too long, he feels something unfamiliar, concern.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Cas arrives just as GQuX powers up. Amate, or Machu, sits in the cockpit, Haro perched loyally on her left shoulder. She looks well and his worry eases slightly. The break must have done her some good, though he’d never say so aloud.

The interior of the Gundam is, as always, exquisite. The seat cradles her with ergonomic precision, the controls respond like an extension of her own will, and the unit’s manoeuvrability is unmatched. A marvel of engineering, really, and one of the few things in this universe that meets his standards.

He concedes, albeit grudgingly, that Kycilia’s decision to integrate Psycommu augmentation into Federation equipment was a sound one. Not that he likes her. He doesn’t. Whoever she is, she’s awful. He doesn’t remember why he knows that, just that he does. These snap judgements from his past life occur often and he just accepts them.

Yes: Gundam, good. Kycilia, bad.

Machu’s teammates brief her on the enemy’s equipment, which is standard fare, though the clan’s backing by a military security firm with deep pockets is worth noting. Cas has seen their facility. Impressive, if one appreciates size, scope, and anything state of the art.

“And on top of that, they’ve brought in the former unicum,” Jeezi adds.

Cas listens in. Not intentionally, of course. But Amate’s thoughts are always compelling. Apparently, she’s encountered Shiiko before.

A vivid memory surfaces: the Witch, declaring, “And I’ll be the one to defeat the Red Gundam.”

Another: “About the Red Gundam’s pilot, what are they like?”

What did you reply? Cas asks, curiosity slipping past his usual detachment. She hadn't.

Somehow, she knew I’m the Red Gundam’s Mav, Machu answers, utterly unfazed by his intrusion.

Of course she did, he concurs. She always knows more than she lets on. Cas would love to be the one to wipe that insipid grin off the Witch's face, the one where she feigns helplessness. He hopes he never has to hear that childish giggle again either.

Cas notes how Amate remembers looking down on Shuji. They’re close. Closer than he likes. He smirks as she recalls saying, “A rose?” and Shuji replying, “That’s why I need to go to Earth.”

Earth? Cas scoffs. Charming place to visit. Living there, however, is a different kind of punishment. He can feel Machu's sorrow, that plus an anger toward him that seems to have lessened with time. Curious.

She tells him that both Shuji and the Witch are the sort who always seem to know what you’re going to say before you say it.

There’s something you should know, Cas says, the weight of it pressing against his usual aloofness. We’ll talk after. He hadn’t meant to sound cryptic, but this isn’t the time for a lecture on Newtypes.

“Focus on the battle,” Shuji says. “So says the Gundam,” he adds, his voice drifting from the Red Gundam flanking GQuX on the right.

Cas isn't entirely sure whether he heard Shuji over the comms or as an echo in his head. Judging by Machu’s startled expression, she’s wondering the same.

......

Machu’s teammates are in a full-blown panic over the equipment switch. Instead of the expected Light Type Gun Cannon, it’s a Gelgoog, and not just any Gelgoog, but one with augmentation. Cas raises a brow, intrigued. This might actually be worth watching.

Predictably, the Witch makes a beeline for the Red Gundam. Of course she does. Her obsession with defeating it is as tedious as it is transparent, driven by a sorry attempt to fulfil her vendetta.

“Leave Shuji alone!” Machu shouts, throwing GQuX into the line of fire to shield the Red Gundam.

Cas sighs. Loudly. Her tactics have deteriorated. So has her technical finesse. Disappointing, really. He expected better.

“Come on! Will you tweak the angles like I taught ya!” Jeezi yells.

Cas makes a mental note to injure him later if he’s responsible for this abysmal training.

“It’s going to pierce right through you if you get hit,” Kaine adds, his voice edging toward panic.

Obviously, Cas mutters.

“Yeah, I know that, but still…” Machu replies.

Cas doesn’t understand why she insists on shielding Shuji. The man can fight his own battles. He’s not entirely incompetent.

He watches as GQuX draws its blade, preparing for combat. The Witch, however, is faster—darting around Machu with dizzying precision. She vanishes, reappears, and Machu swings wide. Misses. Again. Cas notes, with no small amount of irritation, that the Witch wouldn’t have lasted this long if he were piloting.

“This is no place for part-timers,” the Witch sneers over the comms, just before GQuX takes a hit. Shuji arrives in the Red Gundam, pushing GQuX out of harm’s way.

Finally, the Witch returns to her true obsession, firing at the Red Gundam. Shuji deploys the Hammer from his limited arsenal, but Cas’s intuition say it’s more than enough. Shuji could win this, if he stops playing around.

“You’re impressive, Gundam. However…” the Witch cackles, then vanishes.

“It’s gone!” Shuji exclaims, just as she reappears behind him. She fires. He dodges. His Hammer swing misses. There's predictability in her attempts at random movements now. Cas is confident Shuji will figure it out.

She circles the Red Gundam like a frenetic hummingbird, fast enough to make anyone’s head spin. Cas watches, mildly impressed, as she deploys a hook-like device on a wire, winding around the Red Gundam. The tension strains the line, locking him in place, allowing her easy adjustments to the speed of her attacks.

She fires. Shuji blocks with the Hammer. Not bad.

“Shuji!” Machu cries.

Cas’s attention shifts back to her. She’s worried. Genuinely. She doesn’t know him, not really, but she cares. It’s sweet, in a naïve sort of way. Possibly romantic. Right then and there, he decides he'll never get in the way of that. It's not much, but it is one way to show he cares.

Machu groans in frustration, unable to catch up to either the Witch or the Gundam.

Cas allows himself the smallest smile. She’s trying. Even if she’s doing it all wrong. His concern now is how her heart will break from this romance. How and when did he become so sappy?

.....

Ugh! Cas groans.

His head feels like it’s about to split open. He reels as the Witch’s memories flood his mind with her recollection of his death during the war. Explosions come and go across the battlefield, blinding flashes where the Federation fell at Solomon. The Red Gundam, his Gundam, was likely responsible for most of it.

“My Mav might’ve been a Newtype… or so I had hoped,” the Witch moans, her voice thick with grief. Then comes the memory of one massive explosion. His explosion. Cas winces. How is it even possible to have survived that? Not physically, of course, but he is here.

“The Red Comet not only took away my hopes, but he disappeared without a trace, too,” she cries.

Cas would very much like to strangle the melodrama out of her. The sheer absurdity of her fixation is infuriating. He vanished. So what? People do that.

How many other people miss him that much? It's flattering to realize his legacy has become legendary.

Yes, Kycilia, too? By all accounts, he hasn't been seen in five years. Even, Cas is shocked. Who else is out there?

“The world we live in is absurd. There are no chosen ones who get everything they want. I accepted that and settled for a normal life. And yet…” the Witch continues.

And there it is. The real issue. The tragedy of unmet expectations. Cas scoffs. She’d probably commit genocide against Newtypes if given the chance. He finds himself rooting for Shuji with uncharacteristic fervour. Someone needs to shut her up.

“Now you die for me, you Newtype!” the Witch screams. She's finally deploying, what are they called? Stigma attacks?

Too little, too late, Cas says with a smirk.

“I’m not going to die just yet. That’s what the Gundam is saying,” Shuji replies.

Then the Kira-Kira appear, and with them, that sound. Lalah’s song. Cas feels his chest tighten, as if his heart is being broken all over again.

Lalah’s here. Somewhere, he thinks, clinging to the hope like a lifeline.

“Huh? What’s that voice?” Machu asks, snapping him out of the bittersweet haze of memories he can’t quite recall.

I do not hear a thing, Haro chirps.

But Cas hears it. Just as Challia Bull hears it. His voice echos in his mind: It’s the same sound I heard at Solomon… with the Captain… Cas will find his Mav once this Clan Battle ends. He must know more about Lalah, and why it breaks his heart to remember her.

His focus returns to the present, to Shuji and the Witch.

“I’ve won!” the Witch declares.

She couldn’t be more wrong.

Cas and Machu watch as Shuji appears behind her, silent and sudden. He drives his blade cleanly through the back of her mobile suit, into the cockpit. It kills her instantly.

Machu gasps. Kira-Kira appear, and suddenly, the Witch and Machu are suspended in it with Cas.

There’s somebody on the other side of the Gundam. Who is it? the Witch asks.

Lalah? Cas asks, searching. He can't find her, and it saddens him.

"I have only one wish. And there’s nothing else that I want,” Shuji says, his voice distant, as if spoken through someone else’s will.

The Witch speaks her wish too, one of sadness for her son, before the Kira-Kira vanish, and they’re back in space. The Red Gundam withdraws its sword from the Witch’s Gelgoog and the mobile suit explodes.

Machu in GQuX watches the brilliant explosion from afar. Concern for the Witch's family bothers her. Along with the realization that combatants will never reach Shuji’s level unless they're willing to die.

Cas does pity the Witch, who remained locked in her struggle, unable to fully escape the cycle of conflict, obsessed with vengeance, but this feeling doesn't last for long.

He won't be sad about her tragic end, because now he's back to being more of himself. His identity and purpose haven't fully come back to him, but he straightens and he takes what would have been a deep breath.

Kill or be killed, Cas says, his tone flat. Because that’s the truth of it. Sentiment has no place in war. He is a soldier after all.

.....

Cas isn’t sure how he ended up in the cramped quarters of what is, judging by the hum of the engines and the colour scheme, a battleship. But he’s certain of one thing: the view is unexpectedly captivating.

A young military officer stands with one leg propped on her desk, bent over as she unzips a thigh-high boot with the kind of focus usually reserved for disarming bombs. Her short skirt does little to preserve modesty, not that Cas is complaining. The Zeon military budget must be dire, because her undergarment is nothing more than a scrap of fabric.

He doesn’t know her name, rank, or why she’s dressed like a tactical daydream, but he’s going to find out.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Well. That happened.

Cas remains seated, an unseen presence, perfectly at ease in the chair, and a silent connoisseur of her little intimate spectacle. Not all the money or glory in the known universe could have tempted him to look away. It was, he groans softly, indescribable.

When was the last time he simply observed without participating? A rare indulgence, to be sure. And yet, despite the private performance, he finds himself at a curious impasse.

Why were they brought together, and what, precisely, is meant to happen next?

......

The deck of the Sodon hums quietly at night, its stationary presence looming over Izuma Colony.

Cas reclines, unseen, at an Operator console on the upper tier, observing the night crew with idle disdain.

The Sodon, a vessel with a decorated combat record, is hardly a reassuring sight for a neutral colony. He imagines the more perceptive residents lying awake, gripped by quiet terror. Sensible of them.

Sentiment is a liability. Attachment, a flaw, Cas muses, not for the first time, indulging in the absurdity of human emotion.

Take Ensign Comoli, for instance, so precise, so composed, yet allowing herself to be distracted by the likes of Ensign Xavier. A man who can barely string together a sentence without tripping over his own tongue.

“Systems nominal,” Comoli murmurs, scanning the console’s displays before updating her tablet.

“Oh, you’re here,” Xavier blurts, clearly surprised. His brows lift, and he hesitates at the entrance. “I’m, um…” He trails off, hands planted on his hips, gaze darting uncertainly.

Pathetic. Cas’s irritation flares at the sight of an officer with the conversational skills of wilted lettuce.

“You here for your analytics?” Comoli asks, sparing him a glance. Her tone remains neutral, but her gaze lingers just a fraction too long. Xavier stands frozen, as though simple conversation is a tactical manoeuvre beyond his capabilities.

She attempts to ease his discomfort. “Your combat instincts were solid. The unit malfunction wasn’t your fault,” she says gently. “It was interesting how you handled it.”

Cas nearly scoffs aloud. Handled it? The Psycommu never activated, and the GQuuuuuuX was stolen. But yes, let’s call that "handling it".

“Oh. Yeah, I guess the Psycommu malfunction was… unexpected,” Xavier concedes, rubbing his forehead.

“Unexpected,” she echoes, entirely too kind. “Sounds like you need someone to talk to. I’m around. We could grab breakfast. I’ll listen.”

“Thanks, Comoli. That’s really thoughtful. Sorry, I’m not hungry,” Xavier replies, eyes darting away.

“Wasn’t about the food…” She exhales softly, barely audible, yet Cas catches her unspoken meaning and smirks.

“I’m sorry, what?” Xavier asks.

“Review your analytics.”

“Right. Thanks again.” He walks off, leaving her to her work.

Cas watches her for a moment longer. Methodical, rational, unwavering in duty, Ensign Comoli Harcourt is, by every measure, an exemplary officer. Her concern for Xavier Olivette remains her one flaw. A sentimental weakness.

She could rise far, if only she learned to discard the dead weight.

......

Casval cannot leave her side, no matter how desperately he tries. Wishing, conjuring, dreaming, or pleading does not work. He’s tethered to her, and the connection is maddening, because it bars him from reaching Commander Challia Bull.

Comoli’s mind is a steel trap and no amount of persuasion, subtle or otherwise, lessens her infatuation with Xavier. His intuition tells him that when she fixes this situation, she will release him as well.

A plan forms. He does what he does best, and he plants a seed.

Why didn’t the Psycommu work for Xavier? Is he truly a Newtype?

Why is he so secretive?

And, as a bonus—a sliver of doubt: Perhaps Xavier isn’t Xavier at all.

The thought takes hold. He feels Comoli’s thoughts shift, like a ripple disturbing still waters.

The game has begun.

.....

Back in the fitness centre, Cas watches as Comoli sits on a bench, drying her hair in the change room.

She did nothing to investigate Xavier during work hours. Time for a nudge in the right direction.

“What’s his problem?” she murmurs to herself.

As if she doesn’t already know.

Cas’s amusement is fleeting. Something in her posture shifts, her breath catching as the air stirs behind her.

His fingers brush aside a strand of her hair, and he moves in close enough to press a kiss to her temple. He stops. Savours the moment. She emanates something he can only describe as assurance, protection. It’s intoxicating.

She turns sharply, searching, but of course, sees nothing.

She closes her eyes and inhales, as if catching the whisper of a forgotten perfume. Then, barely audible: “I must be losing it.”

.....

Hmm, Cas muses, coaxing her thoughts toward Xavier. He already knows where this is headed. Knows every pitiful sentiment she’s about to spill.

The first memory surfaces with Xavier’s voice, hesitant: “But you do know this is my first combat operation, right, sir?”

Challia replies with certainty: “You’ll be fine. You’re a Newtype, aren’t you?”

Cas notes how Ensign Xavier carefully avoids confirming his abilities before taking off.

More memories unravel.

“The status of forces agreement doesn’t apply. After all, the Ensign was caught red-handed,” Comoli states, ever unwavering. No bending the rules on her watch, not even for her precious Xavier. No wonder he doesn’t return her affections. She was prepared to hang him out to dry.

Another recollection, as Comoli voices her concern: “Hey, are none of you even worried about Xavier’s well-being?”

A dismissive response follows. “Of course, we are.” The words lack even a hint of sincerity.

Other than that, the only revelation here is the sheer duration of her futile infatuation with Xavier. It astounds even Cas that she persists in this losing endeavour.

Enough. It’s time for an intervention.

.....

Sleep doesn't come easy after her workout. Perhaps her adrenaline is still pumping, but eventually she drifts off.

Unsure of how this will play out, he’s going to try bolstering Comoli’s self-confidence and steer her toward recognizing Xavier as the uninspiring choice he is.

Perhaps the only reason she fixates on that damp dishcloth is because he’s the only available man on the ship.

Cas leans in, murmuring his influence directly into her subconscious. You are worthy of being pursued. If it’s not Xavier then someone better. The right person will fall at your feet.

She doesn’t respond. Deep sleep holds her captive.

Cas exhales, a foreign pressure pressing against his ribs, something suspiciously like regret. An unpleasant sensation. He isn’t sure if that was the right advice.

You’re beautiful, you know, he says, the words escaping before he can stop them.

She stirs.

Even when you’re sad. Your confidence in your own abilities is attractive.

More conspiratorially, he adds, If Xavier isn’t interested, maybe it’s because he’s hiding something. Whatever it is, he owes you honesty. And you owe yourself answers.

She rolls over, curling around her pillow, drifting off once more.

…..

Cas’s attention focuses on Comoli’s dream, something that comes upon her just before waking.

She's a child walking through a field, back on Earth. She tenses, somewhat frightened by a noise or by something flying overhead, and then runs to the neighbour's house, but her best friend, Amuro, isn't there.

She wakes trying to recall her dream. She also wonders why she's suddenly dreaming about her childhood. Maybe it's time to go back and visit Earth.

Cas listens to her. The name Amuro rings a bell, but like Comoli's fading dream, he's on the edge of recalling everything, only to have it slip away. Could he end up on Earth with Comoli? Maybe that's why he was sent here.

Any working theory will do. He wants out of this nightmare too.

......

Comoli sits at her console, reviewing a personnel file. Conveniently, there’s no one around to catch her prying, especially not the person whose file she’s digging into.

Family Name: Olivette
Given Name: Xavier
Nationality: Principality of Zeon
Place of Birth: Loum

Her access level halts at a classified document: Newtype Phenomenon Manifestation Characteristics of Xavier Olivette. Beyond her clearance.

Xavier graduated from the Flanagan Institute, but his Newtype abilities remain a mystery. She muses over the implications that obviously, he possesses them, but perhaps they haven’t fully manifested. After all, Newtype ability operates on a spectrum.

Then again, if he isn’t truly Xavier, that could explain a great deal. Because the real Xavier has the skills...

.....

Comoli’s doubts deepen with each new detail. Loum, Side 5, was obliterated at the onset of the One Year War. Casualties in the billions. And yet, here he is. A survivor.

What’s his story?

Mobile suits changed everything at Loum. The Red Comet and his legendary Zaku rewrote the course of battle, inflicting catastrophic losses.

Strange, then, that the Red Gundam should resurface now. Stranger still that Xavier lost the GQuuuuuuX on Side 6, only for it to reappear as the Red Gundam’s partner in the Clan Battles.

Did you do something to cause that, Xavier? Comoli wonders. Did you, Commander?

The Commander insists Xavier is a Newtype. But is he? The GQuuuuuuX should have worked, if his scores been high enough.

Is he a Newtype or not?

.....

Cas hears her. Not intentionally. Her thoughts simply leak.

Comoli’s suspicions churn, but she wants to believe in people. That is her flaw.

For now, he watches, calculating his next moves.

He looks over to her, considering, because despite it all, Comoli looks innocent, and maybe he shouldn't get her involved in whatever comes next.

Never mind, she'll be fine, he tells himself. Once she gets past that idiotic infatuation.

And when she does, he'll channel Comoli to reach Commander Challia Bull, and get more information on Lalah, and why she means so much to him.

.....

Comoli’s relentless work ethic impresses Cas immensely, undoubtedly the reason Challia Bull chose her as his wingman. Holding her back is an inflexible moral compass that, frankly, borders on tedious.

She follows orders, of course, as any well-trained officer would, but her inability to trust her instincts over any and all protocol is a liability.

Cas chuckles at her memory. The Red Gundam streaks past the command deck, buzzing the tower with reckless precision. Comoli gasps, eyes wide with astonishment. “Oh! That was really it!”

Challia, ever the sceptic, remains unimpressed. “So it wasn’t the Captain, after all. But then… who was it?”

Cas smirks. Shuji’s got game. He offers a slow, deliberate clap, more for his own amusement than anything else.

Then there’s yet another moment: Challia, ever dismissive, instructs, “You may ignore them. Keep on sailing at minimum speed.” Comoli, predictably indignant, protests, “This is completely outrageous!”

Cas smiles. That explains the Sodon's unorthodox position above Izuma.

She’s hilarious, really. That’s likely why Challia keeps pushing the limits, just to see her unravel. Watching her flustered reactions is, admittedly, entertaining.

Ensign Comoli, I might just stick around to witness more of these delightful outbursts, Cas muses.

Not sure where he was going with that thought, he cautions himself against attachment. But perhaps there’s something he can do for her.

Her absurd fixation on Earth, on its people, its landscapes, its sentimental value, baffles him. Yet, if leveraged correctly, it could serve his interests.

Her weakness could become a strength. And, in the end, it might benefit them both.

.....

Cas is certain now that Comoli harbours enough doubt about Xavier with her investigations leaving her unsettled. She returns from work, visibly perplexed by Commander Challia’s latest manoeuvres.

The memory plays out in her mind: Comoli, attempting to impress upon her superior the gravity of the situation. “We’ve had reports indicating the probability of Psycommu resonance triggering a Zeknova event. It’s too dangerous to ignore.”

Challia, ever composed, dismisses her concerns. “We’re talking about something only a select few can operate. Especially the Omega Psycommu.”

That would mean Amate or Machu, not Xavier, apparently. Cas muses over the revelation. Yet Comoli’s unease lingers, her memory marked by a quiet, unsettled energy. Why does the Commander seem pleased by this?

Cas never intended to cast doubt on Challia, far from it. This unforeseen consequence is something he’ll deal with later. Tonight, his focus is elsewhere.

Tonight, he intends to plant the idea of a chance meeting with Xavier’s competition deep within her dreams.

.....

It doesn’t take long for Comoli to drift into sleep. Cas waits, patient and calculating, until she’s fully under. Then, he whispers, Where’s Amuro?

Nothing. No reaction.

He tugs at her hair, just a small pull. She stirs. Interesting.

He repeats the question, giving her hair another tug. She shifts, rolling from her side to her stomach. A pang of guilt flickers through him, but he dismisses it. One more tug.

She responds, though not in the way he expects.

She’s into it, but it feels wrong.

He keeps whispering, Where’s Amuro? He hopes the pain and the pleasure will intertwine with the memory of her one-time neighbour.

It’s the strangest idea he’s ever concocted. But when you’re a magnanimous spectre, trapped in this wretched existence, you do what you must.

.....

"Comoli," Xavier calls, jogging to catch up with her as she strides down the hall. "About that breakfast... maybe, when I get back?"

After all the hints she’s dropped, the subtle touches, today is the day he finally notices. And, remarkably, he musters the courage to do something about it.

Why now? The universe works in strange ways, she muses.

"Certainly. Have a safe trip," Comoli says formally, then continues her journey to the bridge.

"Oh." He hesitates, surprise flickering across his face. Obviously, he expected more enthusiasm.

She walks on, no longer masking her frustration beneath a composed exterior. For too long, she convinced herself Xavier mattered, that winning him over would mean something. But now, faced with the truth, she sees clearly.

It was never about him.

She has always chased the unattainable, drawn to unavailable men like a moth to flame. But it was never about love. It was about proving something to herself—that she could win him over. And now, she no longer feels the need.

Work remains her priority. She repeats this to herself, work will always come first. Until she gets leave to visit Earth.

.....

Cas watches and listens, absorbing every thought racing through Comoli’s mind. Her feelings for Xavier have diminished, and Cas's plan worked.

Unfortunately, he remains bound to her, their tether unbroken.

His intuition had assured him this was the right move. How could it not work?

What did he overlook?

What’s missing?

He closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead, as if he's the real person he once was.

......

Comoli is in a turmoil because Xavier is searching for the Red Gundam mobile suit with the Commander’s approval. Something is happening, and it's something she’s being kept from. That is unacceptable.

Xavier, what have you gotten yourself into?

......

As Cas listens in, he can't help but wonder. Will Xavier find the GQuX with Amate in it? The thought unsettles him. It feels both wrong that she should lose the mobile suit, yet undeniably right that it returns to the Sodon.

As for the Red Gundam, there is no chance, none whatsoever, that anyone will take it from Shuji. So says the Gundam.

......

The good news is that, Cas is suddenly with Amate as she glances up at Xavier, in a tight enclosed space.

He sees the interest in Xavier's eyes, and feels Amate's confusion.

“Highbury! So you're from the school for debutantes?” Xavier exclaims.

“You looking for a date? Gross,” Amate replies.

An image, unbidden, of another man asking her to dance at the debutante ball, upsets Cas. Especially, not Xavier Olivette, not him.

That privilege belongs to Casval Rem Deikun, and him alone.

No, he ponders, shaking his head as if in a dream, Xavier can't have Amate. Go back to the hot Ensign, she’s the one that wants you.

Why did he ever convince Comoli that Xavier wasn’t good enough? That is coming back to bite him. There is one thing he can do, however…

But before he can seriously injure Xavier, he's been transported to the GQuX, and Amate is not the pilot, The Thief is.

Her anxiety level is at maximum, and he has no idea how GQuX will respond.

Hmm. It’s definitely going to be an interesting Clan Battle.

He'll do what he can to steer her to victory, but he needs to get back to Amate. She's the key to all this, and it just occurred to him how much he needs to go with her and the GQuX to Earth.

He issues a silent apology to Comoli because the way to fix her issues was getting Xavier back, and now he’s ruined her happy ending.

But then again, maybe subconsciously she knows that Amuro is the better choice? She could still get the happy ending she deserves.

……

Chapter Text

.....

The cockpit of the gMS-Omega seals with a hiss, swallowing Casval and the Thief in silence.

Casval takes a good look at Nyaan. Physically, she’s gaunt, with a kind of accidental prettiness, but nothing remarkable. Mentally? Now that’s interesting. Her mind is a fortress, secrets buried beneath layers of protective armour. Every twitch of her posture, every glance away, screams: Don’t look at me. Don’t think about me. I want to disappear.

How utterly fascinating.

A puzzle, then. One he’ll solve not through brute force, but through the observation of expressions that flicker too quickly to be masked, movements made without thought, the words she chooses not to say.

Delightful. This will be entertaining.

“Okay,” she mutters, gripping the controls with trembling fingers. “How do I do this again? Calm down. We have to calm down. It’s just like that time. When I feel like I can do things, I actually can.”

Ah. A Newtype. Of course.

“You’ll move for me, won’t you, Gundam?” she whispers, entirely unaware of Casval’s presence as the GQuX hums to life. The hydraulic lift lowers them to the maintenance shaft.

“Will you get a move on!” Jeezi barks over comms.

Casval rolls his eyes. As if shouting ever accelerated machinery. Predictably, the GQuX proceeds at its own pace, breaching the airlock and spilling into the void surrounding Side 6.

“I’m out in space again. It’s been a while. Now that I’ve made it in time, hopefully Shu-Chan can handle this for me.”

“Oh, I guess I’ll get to be with you today then, huh?” Shuji’s voice wavers. “I feel like my head is spinning…”

Pathetic. Either the man is high or suffering from some feeble ailment. In either case, Casval would have discarded him from his ranks without a second thought. The weak are liabilities. Still, Shuji’s skill in a mobile suit is inconveniently valuable.

“Did I catch a cold?” Shuji mutters.

The countdown begins. 3, 2, 1.

Nyaan’s display flashes: 3INARYS vs Pom.

Casval smirks. Two Rick Doms. Laughable. This will be over quickly.

Unfortunately, Nyaan is panicking. The enemy targets her first, a tactically sound move, but irrelevant. The GQuX could dismantle them with minimal effort if he were piloting. He watches, curious, as she flounders.

“Shu-Chan!” she yells. No response. Either the man is truly incapacitated or he knows the GQuX doesn’t need him.

Her shrieking grates on Casval’s nerves. The Doms launch Gundam-sized tasers, attempting to disable her. Current surges through the GQuX, but its grounding systems are more than sufficient.

Still, she screams. Useless noise. Now they’re swinging the GQuX around like a child’s toy. Casval’s irritation deepens as the Doms close in, fists pounding against the mobile suit’s frame.

Embarrassing.

Haro chirps unhelpfully: Can’t beat them. Escape. Escape. Escape.

And then, in a delightfully shocking move, Nyaan silences Haro with a swift stomp. Amate would never have done that. Crude, but effective.

“How... dare... you... you piece of shit...!” she snarls, breath ragged, fury rising.

Casval is 99% certain that wasn’t directed at him. Reasonably certain.

Finally, she snaps. The GQuX deploys its heat hawk, slicing through the taser restraints.

Haro chirps: Unlocking in progress.

Casval glances at the console. Unlock Complete. The Psycommu is engaged. At last.

Nyaan’s grip tightens on the controls and fortunately they’re reinforced or she’d have shattered them.

The Doms retreat, regrouping.

“Is this the Kira-Kira Machu was talking about?” she mutters.

Casval frowns. He doesn’t see it. It was obvious with Amate, but with her? Nothing. Curious.

“Something stinks!” she shouts. And then, without warning, the GQuX grabs the Red Gundam, using its shield to block an incoming attack.

Now that is something Amate would never have considered. Unorthodox. Reckless. Intriguing.

The tide turns. GQuX and the Red Gundam go on the offensive. The Doms attempt a second Jet Stream attack but it's futile.

Evading a point-blank shot? Hardly impressive. There was ample time, Casval muses.

Without much effort, GQuX obliterates the first Rick Dom; the Red Gundam dispatches the second. Nyaan’s screen flashes: Clan Battle Victory / Pomeranians.

“But still, it was so fun! So said the Gundam,” Shuji mumbles, still dazed.

Casval arches a brow. Did Shuji see the Kira-Kira? Because Casval certainly did not. What lies on the other side for The Thief?

She did something he didn’t anticipate. Something he couldn’t predict. That unsettles him more than he cares to admit.

.....

The GQuX strides into the airlock with mechanical precision, halting when Amate comes into view. As the cockpit hisses open, Casval descends with Haro in tow, joining Amate at the base of the towering mobile suit.

Casval notes Amate’s stunned expression when Nyaan emerges moments later, visibly drained. Of course she’s shocked. He watches with interest as she recalls her frantic escape from the original GQuX pilot from the locker, and her desperate sprint through the rain to reach the shaft. All that, only for her to show up in the suit.

“Nyaan?” Amate breathes, disbelief colouring her voice. The notion that the soft-spoken girl could pilot the GQuX is clearly beyond her.

…..

Later, in the quiet intimacy of Amate’s bed, Casval reclines beside her, offering what he considers a generous reassurance.

“No one will ever replace you,” he says, and for now, he believes it. Reasonably certain, at least.

“Why?” she asks. He realizes the question is not directed at him, but at the universe. She wants to know why Nyaan? Why her?

Casval watches the disappointment settle over Amate and he understands, in his own way. The moments she once held sacred with Shuji have been tainted; shared now with someone unexpected.

He doesn’t pry. He doesn’t need to. Her memory of the moment Amate realized Nyaan posed a threat replays not once, but twice. The disrobing in Shuji’s hideout was a crude, desperate move by Nyaan. And yet, Amate, ever the romantic, had followed suit. That surprises Casval.

He wonders, idly, if Shuji would’ve acted on the situation had he not been ill. Casval chuckles. The man’s an idiot because sickness wouldn't stop any man given two nymphs. There must be another reason. He certainly doesn't dress for the male gaze, so perhaps his equipment simply isn’t functional? Casval laughs again, quietly.

“What is it?” Amate asks, curious.

“Just amused by Shuji’s behaviour. Nothing important,” Casval replies, then adds, more softly, “I haven’t trusted The Thief since the day you met her.”

“Why?”

“She’s shifty. Like a snake in the grass. Remember when she tried to steal your backpack?”

“Yes.”

“And now she’s trying to steal your love interest. Stripping down like that is utterly tasteless.”

“Nope. Definitely not okay,” Amate agrees, shaking her head.

“And then there’s the GQuX,” Casval continues, though he hesitates. To call it a mistake would be dishonest.

“It’s horrible, right?” Amate prompts, clearly hoping for validation.

“Well,” Casval begins, choosing his words carefully, “first, she stomped on Haro. I didn’t appreciate that.” He did kinda laugh, but he's not going to tell her that.

“Aww, poor Haro!” Amate moans.

“Second, she used the Red Gundam, with Shuji in it, as a shield. That shows a reckless disregard for a friend, in my opinion. Fortunately, the Red Gundam held up.”

“That’s so not right,” she says, frowning.

Although, come to think of it, he might have done the same. Then again, he’d never have ended up in that situation to begin with, so, yeah, he can judge The Thief.

Casval leans back, his tone turning thoughtful. “I’m just wondering what she’ll take from you next.”

Amate places an arm over her forehead, staring at the ceiling, and leaves the question to linger in the air.

.....

Casval doesn't sleep, so much as remain suspended in time. He’s like a cat, dozing between feedings, passing the hours resting peacefully. Never truly asleep, yet never fully awake.

The comparison to a cat irritates him. He shouldn’t know anything about cats, and yet... he does. There’s something about them. One in particular. But every time he reaches for the memory, it slips further from his grasp, like light fading to darkness.

“Hm,” he murmurs, frowning at the ceiling. His memory is imperfect, and that is unacceptable. There must be a way to repair it.

"What is it?" Amate’s voice cuts through the quiet. She had been asleep, or so he thought. He glances at her, mildly surprised. Usually, he’s not the one disturbing her rest.

"I was thinking of pets," he replies. “A cat, oddly enough.”

Amate shifts, propping herself up on one elbow. “Did you used to have one?”

“Possibly,” he says, though the idea feels foreign. Casval, caring for something so helpless? It doesn’t align with his self-image.

“You’re not sure?” she asks, nearly whispering. “Maybe someone in your family had one. Or a neighbour?”

“Go to sleep,” he says dryly. “You’re going to give me a nightmare.”

She smirks. “I’m the one talking to no one in the middle of the night. I think I’m allowed to chat with my nightmare whenever I want.”

He feigns offence. “Are you calling me a nightmare?”

“Well, you’re definitely not a cat,” she says with a laugh.

Casval nudges her, just enough to make a point. She squeals as she begins to slide off the bed, clutching at the frame in mock panic.

He quickly realises that he’s pushed harder than intended. Reflexively, he reaches out. “I’ve got you.”

His arm wraps around her waist, just beneath her chest. Her body is warm, soft, alive in a way that startles him. He releases her quickly, as if burned.

He just needs her help with something that he hasn't figured out yet. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

He glances at her. “You okay?”

"I am now." She turns away from him, ready to drift back to sleep. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says quietly.

He closes his eyes. So am I, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. Instead, he offers a noncommittal "Hmm" and remains silent as she drifts back to sleep.

He's a gentleman, and maybe Shuji is too.

.....

The next day, Casval stands alone along the canal, the Kira-Kira graffiti staring at him, like a reminder. Occasional foot traffic goes by, but it doesn't distract him from the vivid artwork.

The display works its magic, and for a fleeting instant, memories stir, fragments of a world that once was. His father’s commanding voice, brimming with rhetoric, his sister's laughter echoing through the halls. And her cat, Lucifer, hissing at a Zeon officer, claws bared, as if it could protect them all.

Casval exhales slowly. The memories are clearer now, no longer fragments but a sequence. Their first failed escape from Zeon without his father. Asteria clinging to Lucifer like a lifeline. His encounter with Kycilia. The brazen defiance with which he met her, already resolved, when the time came, he would destroy her along with the rest of the contemptible Zabi family.

His jaw tightens. He was just a child.

They took everything.

And yet, last night, once again, in the quiet solace of Amate’s presence, he had felt something foreign, something dangerously peaceful, like a new beginning.

But sentiment is a luxury he cannot afford.

His voice cuts through the still air. “It’s time. No more waiting.”

.....

Casval watches as Amate emerges from the tunnel leading to Shuji’s Lair, his name for the abandoned airlock, not hers. She is seething, returning with the groceries she had meant to deliver but now carries back.

If he had the ability, he would lift the weight from her arms. He does not. So he walks beside her, silent but present.

Her thoughts are painfully transparent when she’s this incensed.

“Hara Herimushi! We’re back in action today!” Amate announces with her usual cheerfulness. That lilt in her voice pleases Casval more than he'd ever admit.

She cracks opens the door and peers inside, only to see Nyaan busy working on making dumplings. Casval would guess she's doing a good-enough job, having never made them himself.

Nyaan is talking to herself about seeing the Kira-Kira for the first time and her outing in GQuX. How what she did, presumably the shielding with the Red Gundam, wasn't a Mav move.

It was something alright, Casval muses, but it worked, so he, personally, wouldn't complain about it.

"I might have done something awful to him. I don't know. I feel like every time I start panicking, I lose it," Nyaan murmurs.

Shuji appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and sniffs her hair. Casval needed to smell the heavy anxiety emanating off The Thief once to never have to do that again.

"You're fine the way you are. I do love it when things are fun. Well, that's what the Gundam is saying," Shuji says.

Smooth, Casval thinks dryly. Is the Gundam saying that?

“You’re wrong. I didn’t even know what I was doing out there,” Nyaan replies.

“I like you no matter what, Nyaan,” Shuji continues. “Yeah, that’s what the Gundam is saying.”

Is it, though? Casval wonders. He certainly doesn't feel that way.

Although, he supposes, it's the sort of thing he might say, if he needed something from her. But what precisely the Red Gundam needs, he can't figure out. It's like a puzzle with missing pieces.

The walk back to Amate’s place is silent because she's still mad as hell about Nyaan piloting GQuX in the first place.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His presence, as always, is enough.

.....

Casval watches Amate as she balances upside down on her bed, legs perfectly vertical, hair hanging over the sheets. Apparently, this helps her think.

He doubts the efficacy of blood rushing to one’s head as a cognitive aid, but then again, she’s always had her own logic. Who is he to question it?

She’s ruminating again, replaying a previous exchange with Nyaan. He can tell by the way her brows knit together, even while inverted.

“Machu, I saw the Kira-Kira. It was just like you said,” the Thief had said, as though that were some kind of triumph.

Amate’s response had been immediate and sharp. “Why the hell were you piloting it?”

Nyaan had stammered, “I just—”

“Shut up! That’s my place, not yours!”

Strong words, Casval notes with a flicker of admiration. His Amate, fierce and territorial. Nyaan’s apology had gone unnoticed, as it should.

Haro, ever the unhelpful commentator, chirps, “She said she would pilot it even if it’s scary because it’s for a friend.”

Amate’s tone softens. “Yeah, I get what she was trying to do there.”

That tone, gentle and understanding, is the same one she uses with him. It's comforting, and feels like coming home. He stops himself before he’s drawn into feelings he isn’t ready to name.

Casval frowns. No matter. He should probably mention that he didn’t see the Kira-Kira when Nyaan did. He has a theory about that and it's one he’s rather proud of, actually.

But before he can speak, her phone buzzes. She flips upright with the grace of a gymnast and checks the screen.

A message from her mother.

Apparently, there’s a parent-teacher meeting they’re expected to attend.

Casval blinks. A what?

.....

They remain quiet on the walk toward her school, Amate clearly ruminating over what Casval has shared, while he secretly takes comfort in the fact that she isn't running in the opposite direction.

He glances at her as she frowns, then asks, "You want to kill them?”

“I need to,” Casval replies, turning to face her fully. “They murdered my father. Or so I’m told.”

“You don’t remember?”

His jaw tightens. “No. Only fragments. But the hatred, it’s there. Persistent. Like a wound that refuses to close.”

“And you’re certain vengeance is the answer?”

“It’s the only answer I have.”

He watches her, aware of how crazy and desperate he must sound.

There’s a pause. He can see her mind working, trying to make sense of it all. To her, it must seem impossible, she’s still just an idealistic girl, after all. Untested in the ways of espionage or war, for that matter.

“I’ll help you,” she says at last. “But I don’t see how.”

Casval nods, concealing the flicker of gratitude that rises unbidden. “We’ll need Shuji. And the Red Gundam.”

Her expression falters. “You think he’ll help?”

“He will,” Casval says smoothly. “Because you’ll win him over.”

She looks away, uncertain. “That’s... complicated. He likes Nyaan now.”

Casval leans in, his tone softening, calculated. “You’re the only one who can reach him. Besides, Shuji didn't say he likes Nyaan, the Gundam did. I’ll help you get through to him.”

She glances up, surprised. “You’d do that for me?”

He hesitates. “Of course. You’re... important.”

Why he admitted that, he's not sure, and suddenly her face is unreadable to him. Casval clears his throat, stepping back. “Besides, it’s strategic. Shuji’s loyalty is tied to you. If you have him, I have him.”

But even as he says it, the logic rings hollow. The truth is far more dangerous: he no longer wants Shuji for the mission alone. He wants Amate to look at him the way she looks at Shuji. And that desire, unplanned and unwelcome, threatens to unravel everything.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Casval walks in silence beside Amate, her outburst following the parent-teacher meeting still lingering in the air.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, more for effect than from any genuine dismay.

Ordinarily, he would never tolerate academic negligence. But given that she'd been participating in Clan Battles, he finds it difficult to summon genuine disappointment. It was, regrettably, unavoidable.

He had skimmed through her teacher’s notes with a critical eye, only to find that Amate's grades were, in fact, excellent. The so-called “Cram School” seems redundant. If anything, it’s a waste of her time.

Casval is quite certain he could tutor her himself, should the need arise. He recalls, albeit vaguely, being an exceptional student. Then again, he feels that he was exceptional at most things. It’s simply how he’s built.

Amate had not specified what career she wished to pursue, apart from mentioning jellyfish. Consequently, they had asked her again.

Amate had replied, with that maddening honesty of hers, “I want to go swim in the ocean on Earth.”

Her mother’s response had been predictably shrill. “That’s not a career goal!”

“You see?" Amate shouted. "And that’s why I can’t talk to you about anything.”

She had stormed out, and now here they are, walking silently together.

They follow the canal path, the one with the Kira-Kira mural. Casval stops suddenly, letting Amate drift ahead.

.....

The swirls of the mural coalescing in the centre pushes him to try to see the other side. Not just of what was or what will be, but of now.

Casval hadn’t understood her outburst then. The tremble in her voice when she said, "I want to go swim in the ocean on Earth.”

At the time, it had sounded juvenile, but now, standing before the mural, he hears it differently.

It wasn’t just a teenage mutiny, it was her truth.

He turns to the railing, gazing down at the water. The canal is artificial like everything else here, but Amate is not.

She is caring and kind, and wild in quiet, inconvenient ways. She hangs upside down not to think, but to feel. To let the blood rush to her head and pretend gravity, maybe Earth’s gravity, matters.

He remembers the jellyfish and the way she speaks of them reverently. As if their drifting, translucent existence were something noble.

“They don’t fight. They just float. They just… are.”

He had dismissed it at the time. Another of her poetic digressions. Something cute that she says or does that makes her lovable.

But now, he sees it. She doesn’t want to fight or live in a world where people aren't free.

“She just wants to swim.”

She wants to be weightless and untethered like the creatures she so admires.

“I’ll get her to Earth. Eventually.”

He means it.

Casval tries not to dwell on the destruction he could unleash if he involves Amate in his plans for vengeance.

He takes a long deep breath.

“By eliminating the Zabis, not only will Amate be free, but so will everyone she cares about,” he tells himself to justify what he’s about to do.

His fists clench. He recalls Annqi saying, "Even though Zeon won the war, we Spacenoids will never be free. Our suffering has no end in sight."

Seeing the MPs tearing through the housing in this neglected corner of Side 6, Amate had wanted to help the residents who live here. She couldn’t bear to stand by and do nothing.

“She doesn’t want to destroy anything, but what choice does this world she lives in, give her?”

His vengeance will give her the means to fight that oppression.

Unfortunately, the only path he knows is paved with death and ruin when the two Gundams get involved.

In the end, he tells himself, once more trying to justify what’s about to unfold, he will give Amate everything she wants and needs, while getting the vengeance he desires.

They both win, right?

He pauses, knowing he’s done worse than using someone he cares for as a tool. Far worse.

What were those things? Had they cost him everything?

His memory fails him once again.

.....

Shuji wanders the silent shadowy area of Side 6 where refugees and undocumented residents often find themselves. It's quiet and no one asks questions.

The junkyard is full of interesting stuff. Machinery that built the industrial complex in the colonies and on Earth, and aided in the war machine that destroyed so many lives.

Now the machinery sits in silence, their purpose long since stripped away.

He likes it here, but right now, he's having worse luck than the city rats scouring for food. There just simply isn't any way of acquiring any sustenance.

Shuji will need to find something to trade, and then hopefully trade again, and eventually swap once more, before maybe, being able to turn it into real currency.

Last time, he blew everything on paint.

Conch had warned him, but the mural had needed finishing. The colours had been vivid in his mind, and once that happens, there’s no stopping until it’s out.

This time, maybe he’ll save a little for food. Maybe.

He crouches beside a pile of scorched wiring and twisted metal, fingers brushing over a smashed tablet. Useless. He sighs.

It's not that he couldn't make a living as an artist, but his style isn't in fashion with the brutalist style that is currently trending. His paintings evoke love and harmony, and freedom in a world free from war.

That doesn’t sell.

He doesn’t mind.

Conch chirps from somewhere behind him, alerting him to a broken drone two rows over. Shuji nods, even though no one’s watching.

He moves on.

.....

He follows Conch’s signal through the maze of scrap, stepping over rusted girders and ducking beneath the collapsed wall of a derelict office building.

He rounds a corner and stops.

There, half-buried in the garage of the ruined structure, tangled in discarded office furniture, is something that doesn’t belong.

Red.

Not rust. Not paint. Armour.

He steps closer, his heart is pounding, not with fear, but with something stranger. Recognition.

The plating is scorched. The joints look seized. The headpiece is scratched but intact. Even in ruin, it radiates presence. Like it’s waiting.

He crouches beside it, brushing away soot and grime. His fingers find the edge of a hatch. The seal is unbroken.

The Red Gundam.

He doesn’t know how he knows. He just does.

Conch is silent now. So is the world.

But something else stirs.

It's a hum. It doesn’t come through his ears, but through his chest. Psychic, maybe. Ancient.

Shuji places a hand on the hull.

And the Gundam listens.

Not with words. With stillness. A faint vibration pulses through him.

He exhales.

“You’re not dead.”

The Red Gundam doesn’t answer.

It doesn’t need to.

He sits beside it, knees drawn up, leaning against the battered frame.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there.

But for the first time in a long time, Shuji doesn’t feel alone.

.....

Hours pass.

He’s not sure when the thought first formed. Maybe it was when he touched the hull. Maybe it was when the hum in his chest aligned with the stillness in the machine.

But now it’s clear, he will restore the Gundam. Not for glory and definitely not for battle, but because it’s broken, and so is he.

Maybe, just maybe, they can help each other.

Conch chirps a long string of notes.

“Yes, Conch,” Shuji says, smiling faintly. “I fix things that don’t work, even when no one asks.”

Conch chirps again, pleased.

Shuji rises slowly, brushing dust from his pants. The Gundam lies beside him, silent but not indifferent.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmurs, scanning the junkyard for tools, for parts, for anything that might serve as a beginning.

He’ll trade. He’ll scavenge. He’ll paint less, eat less, sleep less.

He’ll make it work.

Because this Gundam isn’t just a machine. It’s a presence.

And it chose him.

He places a hand on the hull again, just for a moment.

“Let’s get you home.”

Conch chirps and prints out a map.

“Oh, interesting, Conch,” Shuji says, placing the little unit on his head.

He follows the route into the darkness, but gets only half a block before a loud clatter erupts behind him.

Anywhere else, the authorities would come running. But not here.

“Gundam, what are you doing?” he asks, not expecting a reply.

The Red Gundam dislodges itself from the rubble, shedding building material and shattered furniture as it rises.

It crawls on all fours, following Shuji and Conch. Dust scatters and debris crunches under it's frame as it lumbers forward.

“Amazing,” Shuji breathes, because he is amazed, and relieved. He had no idea how he was going to repair the Gundam in place.

Now, he doesn’t have to.

.....

The directions on the map lead Shuji, Conch, and the Red Gundam to an abandoned airlock tucked beside a maintenance tunnel.

As they step inside, stale air hits Shuji in the face. It smells like rust and old plastic, exactly like you'd expect a place that time forgot, to smell. The two machines, of course, remain unaffected.

“Well, that’s not nice,” Shuji mutters, wrinkling his nose. “But at least it’s warm and dry.”

He takes a few cautious steps forward, squinting into the darkness. “It’s just dark,” he laments.

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than the Red Gundam’s eyes flare to life, flooding the chamber with harsh, white light.

“Turn it down a bit,” Shuji says, shielding his face. The intensity reminds him of being chased by an MP mobile suit during a protest. Those damned searchlights cutting through smoke and fear.

The Gundam obliges, dimming its optics to a soft, ambient glow. It then crawls forward on all fours, careful and deliberate, until it reaches the centre of the airlock chamber. Shuji and Conch step aside, giving it space.

The Gundam has to crouch to fit, its frame folding in on itself with surprising grace. Once it settles, Shuji takes a slow look around.

The space is tight, but it works. It fits the three of them perfectly.

Almost.

“There’s just one problem,” Shuji says, scanning the bare, grey walls.

He gestures toward the largest one, directly across from the Gundam.

“It needs artwork.”

.....

The airlock doesn’t stay grey for long.

Within weeks, it becomes a kaleidoscope of colour. Spirals of electric blues, glowing greens and yellows, radiant oranges, and brilliant pinks twisting across every surface. The walls pulse with movement, the floor a swirling vortex that seems to pull the eye inward. Even the ceiling blooms, like a galaxy with colourful spirals.

It’s modern, bold, and impossible to ignore.

Shuji stands in the centre, paint-stained gloves on his hands, a smear of yellow across his cheek. Conch hovers nearby, chirping approvingly.

The Red Gundam reclines in the middle, its crimson armour now reflecting the mural’s hues like stained glass. It doesn’t move, but Shuji knows it’s watching. It always is.

He steps back to admire the work, chest rising with a quiet pride. The mural is the largest he’s ever done. And it won’t be the last.

He can afford the paint now. Not because his art sells, he’s long given up on that, but because he’s found another way.

Gaming.

That first night, Conch had printed out an advertisement.

"Okay, if you say so," he had replied to the Red Gundam. "So, I'll pass their test and get the job? Because I'm good?"

Turns out, he was good. Really good. Reflexes like lightning, and an uncanny knack for predicting his opponents’ moves before they make them.

He’s on a semi-pro team, under a pseudonym, and the prize money’s decent. Not enough to live lavishly, but enough to keep the paint flowing, and the Red Gundam mechanically fit.

And that’s all he needs.

He's content spending every credit on colour. The murals are getting bigger, more intricate. They’re not just art anymore, they’re a call to action, for what, he's not entirely certain.

He knows the painting is not sustainable. But he also knows he can’t stop.

Not yet.

.....

The last piece Shuji needs is the Installer Key.

It’s not just a technical component, it’s the final link. Without it, the Red Gundam’s weapons remain dormant, and more importantly, the mobile suit itself remains incomplete. The key allows it to become whole, to fulfil the purpose it was originally designed for.

Surprisingly, getting one isn’t as difficult as he feared. Not if you have money.

And thanks to his recent tournament win, he does.

“Painting can wait until next pay day,” he tells himself, even though he knows it won’t.

The key he finds on the black market isn’t a perfect match. It’s older, slightly warped, but it fits. It works. That’s all that matters.

Now, he and the Red Gundam are heading out for a trial run.

The cockpit hisses open. Shuji climbs in, settling into the pilot’s seat as the hatch seals shut around him. The heads-up display flickers to life, casting a soft glow across his face.

The airlock opens.

The Red Gundam powers up, its systems humming with renewed energy. Then, with a low, resonant rumble, it goes forward, returning to the void of space for the first time in years.

.....

“What did you want to show me?” Shuji asks, eyes scanning the quiet exterior of Izuma Colony.

The Red Gundam leads them to a wide, empty wall that's pristine, untouched, and impossibly white. It stretches across the entire side, like a blank canvas begging for colour.

Conch chirps excitedly.

Shuji tilts his head. “You want me to paint a mural here?”

The Gundam doesn’t respond, but the silence feels like confirmation.

“No, it’s not impossible,” Shuji says, already imagining the design. “Yes, I’ll need plenty of paint. And a large spray canister.”

He grins, unable to hide his excitement.

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” he says, not that his arm needed much twisting.

Shuji can only stare, eyes wide with possibility. The wall is perfect. The moment is perfect.

And the mural?

The colourful kaleidoscope. His call to action.

Conch chirps again, bright and cheerful.

.....

"Pitch, yaw, and roll," Shuji mutters, adjusting his grip on the Red Gundam’s controls. He’s mastered these manoeuvres not just to become a better pilot, though that’s a definite perk, but because precision is everything when painting in zero gravity.

Holding a Gundam-sized spray can is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he still expects the mural to turn out flawlessly. Anything less would be a crime against his artistic integrity.

He’s painted this design countless times, each iteration with slight variations, so the difficulty of doing it in space is an unpleasant surprise.

Turns out, gravity, or the complete lack of it, makes everything harder.

Just as he’s about to admit defeat and slap a giant vinyl sticker onto the surface, he figures out the right nozzle pressure to get the paint flowing.

One colour down. Seven more to go. He guides the Red Gundam back to the airlock and calls it a day.

.....

The final day of mural painting is a resounding success. Conch lets out excited chirps, mirroring Shuji’s satisfaction, though he suspects the little unit might actually be more impressed than him.

He tilts his head at the swirling masterpiece. "What’s next?" he asks the Red Gundam, knowing full well it won’t answer.

The Gundam's electronics sparkle. The spiral expands, and the colours come alive, stretching through space, twisting towards the centre in a vibrant dance. Shuji watches, mesmerized, ranking it as the best high he’s ever experienced. Psychedelic mushrooms probably wish they had this kind of impact.

Then, just as quickly, the colours retract, and the cold, dark space surrounding Side 6 returns.

Still, he feels lighter than ever. Happier than he can remember.

Except.

There’s no one to share it with.

He’s on the top of the world, or colony, and, after coming down from the high of creating his masterpiece and experiencing the sparkles, he feels it. That deep, undeniable loneliness for human companionship.

…..

Days later, Shuji and the Red Gundam silently observe the removal of his artwork.

He hopes someone aboard the many transports admired it, maybe even felt something, while it was there.

Still, watching it disappear is more than just disappointing.

It’s heartbreaking.

.....

Two Military Police Zakus patrol the spot Shuji picked for his next mural, forcing him and the Red Gundam into a hasty getaway.

He doesn’t need to hear their comms to know they’re struggling to keep up.

A grin tugs at his lips as he twists the controls. The Red Gundam dips into a tight spiral, slipping through the colony opening with effortless precision.

He never stops moving. The Red Gundam weaves between their wild shots, and with a final evasive manoeuvre, he flips backward, disengaging just as his thrusters ignite.

A burst of acceleration sends him hurtling out of range, leaving the MP Zakus floundering in his wake.

......

Shuji spots the surveillance unit, a shiny white Gundam, before it even moves. He stays on his flight path, waiting for the inevitable comm burst.

There it is. Ceasefire warning.

"Yeah. Not happening."

He punches the thrusters, and the Red Gundam peels away in an instant. Two bits detach, darting into the offensive.

The white Gundam jerks from the sudden impact, caught off guard.

Shuji can't help but notice that the newer model's reaction time is off. No matter.

The Red Gundam emerges from behind, beam sword igniting. The white Gundam turns, and blades collide in a violent storm of energy.

Shuji presses, locking the white Gundam into a relentless close-quarters assault. The Red Gundam doesn't ease up and drives the battle forward, every strike sending them spiralling downward toward the surface of Side 6.

Shuji narrows his eyes.

"Hope you’re ready for a crash landing."

.....

Beam fire drowns out everything else, lighting up the sky. Fortunately, the impact from the battle causes minimal damage.

Shuji’s focus shifts to the civilians below.

"I have to end this. Fast."

A group of reckless teenagers watches the fight from a rooftop. He fires a bit, aiming for the white Gundam, but misses.

The bit lands dangerously close to the rooftop gawkers before miraculously taking off again. They scatter.

Damn.

The distraction costs him, as a hit lands squarely against the Red Gundam.

His shield crashes onto the rooftop, narrowly missing the two teenage girls who were among the rooftop gawkers. He lands nearby, standing tall, his gaze locked on the scene.

“02 Gundam, not half bad,” a voice remarks, pleased.

It’s the first compliment he’s ever received as a pilot, he realizes, trying not to let it go to his head. Still, good to know someone noticed.

One of the girls, the shorter, cuter one, meets the Red Gundam’s gaze.

There’s something between them. More than just her approval of his prowess in a Gundam, he supposes.

Shuji finds himself held captive in her stare. Eventually, he breaks contact, grabs his shield, and blasts away as the military police arrive.

The white Gundam fires off a yellow flare, creating a dense smoke screen that obscures everything, allowing the Red Gundam to easily escape.

Shuji smiles. He had heard a voice.

Not Conch’s beeps. Not the Red Gundam’s intuition.

Familiar. An approving voice he should know, but doesn’t.

He takes a moment to catch his breath.

“Yes, I did see the two cute girls!” he says in reply to Conch’s beeps.

"Maybe," he answers Conch again, who had beeped saying Shuji will meet them.

"So says the Gundam," he says, repeating exactly what the Red Gundam puts front of mind.

......

The battle, however, isn’t over for the white Gundam. Shuji watches from nearby as it escapes from an airlock with an MP Zaku in pursuit. The pilot is clearly inexperienced.

He senses their hesitation through the Red Gundam’s intuition. But just as she, yes, it’s a she, seems ready to concede, something shifts. Resolve hardens, and dazzling lights erupt.

"Wow," Shuji mutters. An understatement, to be sure.

The pilot and the white Gundam are swept into the sparkles, suspended in the radiant glow. Shuji spots her floating ahead, amazed to have company.

"Who’s that?" she asks, before realization dawns. "It’s the red one… from before!"

"You can do it," he murmurs.

Something about his words seems to take hold, and she responds, sounding surprised. "I don’t know why, but for some reason, I feel like I got this."

Her Gundam steadies, the spinning ceases, and the sparkles dissipate.

Shuji remains on standby, observing as the MP Zaku locks onto her and fires. The white Gundam doesn’t hesitate. It goes on the offensive, its Heat Hawk cleaving through the Zaku in a clean, decisive strike.

"Time to make a quick getaway," Shuji mutters, relieved to have evaded those relentless MPs, but first...

The Red Gundam executes a flyby of the Sodon, buzzing the command tower for good measure.

"So says the Gundam," Shuji murmurs.

......

Several weeks later, Shuji stands atop the Red Gundam, spray painting a base coat on the ceiling.

Conch perches on his head and gurgles.

"I hear you. The world just keeps on changing so I guess, I'll have to paint it all over again."

The Red Gundam’s intuition whispers of a presence that still hasn’t grasped the price of vengeance.

"I suppose the lesson from The Witch's War didn’t sink in," he muses, shaking his head. Some people just refuse to learn, even when history slaps them across the face.

The fallout from that ignorance will echo through everything, forcing the Red Gundam to step in, again.

Yes, the world they know now will transform. Shuji just hopes, for once, it’ll be a change worth sticking around for.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Bad things come in threes.

Today, Amate finds out just how true that saying is.

First, she's not the only one who can share the Kira-Kira with Shuji.

Second, the disaster at school.

Third, the competition for Shuji’s attention.

Honestly, life couldn't get any worse.

But it’s not just about bad luck. Not really.

It’s about Shuji. About the Red Gundam. About the Kira-Kira that makes her feel alive.

Amate flashes back to a quiet visit to his bunker. Shuji looked so peaceful, asleep in the Red Gundam's cockpit. She crept up, not wanting to wake him, and just stared at his handsome face.

Why does he want to go to Earth anyway?

"The Gundam is searching for a rose," he replied.

Amate wasn't sure what had stunned her the most. The embarrassment at being caught creeping, or the fact that he had heard her thoughts.

"A rose?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"That's why I need to go to Earth," he murmured.

She made a promise, to herself, if no one else, that she’d protect them. That she’d help Shuji and the Red Gundam reach Earth, no matter what it cost.

And now, with everything unraveling, she’s not sure she can keep that promise.

.....

She’s still fuming over the fact that Nyaan piloted the GQuX. The image of her stepping out of the mobile suit plays on repeat in Amate’s mind, like a glitchy recording she can’t shut off.

“Shut up!” she had snapped, not wanting to hear a single excuse.

The frustration still gnaws at her. Nyaan had taken her place.

The bitter disappointment stings.

So bitter.

So disappointing.

She lets out a slow breath, forcing herself to refocus. Just calm down. Breathe.

“It’s not wrong to be angry,” Casval says, ever composed. “What’s wrong is clutching onto it like a child refusing to let go of a broken toy.”

“You’re right,” she mutters, though the words ring hollow. She knows she’ll move on. Just not today. Maybe not this week. Possibly not even this year.

“I don’t believe mobile suits were ever meant for a single pilot. Disregard that,” he muses. “ I may have had my own equipment custom-built.”

“Of course,” she replies, her sarcasm barely hidden. Not exactly the pep talk she was hoping for.

“What you should focus on,” he continues, unbothered, “is becoming the best pilot the GQuX has ever had. Don’t leave any room for doubt. Make it impossible for anyone to question who should be in that cockpit.”

“I get it,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s sulking. She totally is, though.

“Becoming irreplaceable should be easy for you,” he adds, then hesitates. “You’re already—”

“What?”

A pause.

“Halfway there.”

She frowns. “Hmm.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Of course he doesn’t. But she knows that isn’t what he meant to say. And somehow, that makes her smile. Just a little. She’s pretty sure he was about to give her a compliment. His version of one, anyway.

.....

The streets beyond the canal hum with the usual chaos of daily life. Amate doesn’t care if people see her talking to herself. Let them stare. It’s not like they’d get it anyway.

She switches gears. “Did you always know you wanted to be a soldier?”

“Yes,” Casval replies without hesitation. “Is this about the parent-teacher meeting?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“I chose this path not just out of interest, but because I systematically ruled out every other option.”

“Really?” she asks. “Like what?”

“Medicine, for one.”

She waits, curious.

“I feel that if someone were to collapse in front of me, it would be their karma catching up with them, telling them they were meant to die.”

“What?” Her voice rises in disbelief.

“Not that I wouldn’t make an excellent doctor,” he adds, like it’s obvious. “I just wouldn’t care to be one. Not consistently. Not at all, really.”

She laughs. What an absurd answer. And yet, somehow, it’s so very him.

“I’m guessing you were top of your class, right?”

“Naturally,” he replies. “Though I did have to put in effort. There were obstacles, of course.”

He pauses. “Nothing insurmountable.”

There’s something in his tone, just a flicker of hesitation. Guilt? Maybe. The way he picks his words feels deliberate. Like he’s holding something back.

Not that she thinks he’s done anything truly awful like killing someone. More likely, he had a private tutor, some elite mentorship program, basically the rich-kid version of cram school. Wrapped in luxury, no doubt.

Not that he ever brings it up, thanks to that convenient amnesia of his.

.....

They keep walking, still talking, as Amate reaches the base of the long staircase leading up to Kaneban, the Pomeranian HQ. She stops, gripping the railing, realizing this might be the longest conversation she’s ever had with Casval without feeling like she’s about to doze off.

Not that he isn’t interesting. He is. Annoyingly so. It’s just that their chats usually happen late at night, when sleep is ready to overtake her.

She’s lucky her mum hasn’t burst into her room mid-conversation. From the outside, it would look like she was talking to herself. If it ever comes up, she’ll just say she was sleep-talking. That should do.

But there’s one last thing she needs to ask the death-defying soldier who always seems to have an answer, whether she wants to hear it or not.

“So, I’m supposed to let go of my anger, but you don’t have to?” she asks.

“Correct,” he replies, without missing a beat.

She scoffs. “That’s a double standard.”

“No,” he says, as smooth as ever. “In my case, a family member was harmed. You? A petty inconvenience.”

Her foot catches on the next step. “What?!”

“You heard me.”

“But—”

“If your mother—never mind—” He stops himself.

Amate frowns.

“Yeah, let’s not go there. You’ve made your point.” She doesn’t look in his direction as she starts climbing, each step feeling heavier than the last.

She hates that he’s right. Hates even more that he knows it.

.....

As Amate pushes open the door, she hears voices deep in discussion. Neither speaker notices her arrival.

The conversation is unmistakable. Annqi plans to turn in the Red Gundam for reward money. She found Shuji’s hideout by following Amate.

No…

Rooted in place, her heart pounding, she watches as Annqi unlocks the office safe and tosses a stack of photos onto the piles of cash inside. From her vantage point, Amate sees them clearly: photos of the Red Gundam at Shuji’s hideout.

“What about the GQuX?” Nabu asks.

Annqi’s response isn’t reassuring. She declares it’s time to rid themselves of their so-called lucky charm.

As Annqi departs, Amate slips back into hiding, waiting until the coast is clear. Then, stepping into the office, she finds Nabu perched on the edge of the desk, his back turned.

Haro rolls up to her, chirping insistently. Machu! Machu! Machu!

She scoops up the little unit, absently running her fingers over its smooth casing. “Uh… Hey…”

Nabu turns around. “What are you doing here?” His tone is curt.

“I just wanted to check on my mobile suit.”

The conversation is brief. Nabu tells her she needs to stop showing up for Clan Bat, to continue on with life as normal, but most ominously, to stay far away from the Pomeranians. He also thanks her, almost awkwardly, for helping them get out of debt.

Amate stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

As Nabu moves past her toward the door, he hesitates.

“Anyway, Machu, that’s all I wanted to say.”

Then, he leaves.

Amate stands frozen. Not only was that the gentlest tone he’s ever used with her, but what she’s just overheard has her reeling.

.....

The GQuX towers in the hangar bay, sleek and commanding. Amate climbs into the cockpit, clutching Haro close. At some point, the little unit has become her emotional support pet. Thank goodness for that.

Annqi’s words replay in her mind.

We know where the Red Gundam is hiding now.

Betrayal.

She still can’t wrap her head around it. Selling them out for money? She doesn’t fully grasp what desperation and survival can drive people to do. She knows she shouldn’t judge, but how is she supposed to ignore it?

She was so naive.

And now? Now, what?

It’s her fault. She dragged Shuji into this. It’s her fault his mobile suit is about to be taken.

Amate recalls Shuji standing in front of the Red Gundam, the soothing tone of his whispers, the gentle hand movements, as man and machine shared a quiet moment together.

At the time, she had thought, she knew barely anything about Shuji, but now she knows he's someone who cares. Human or Gundam. He cares. And he deserves better than this betrayal.

She rifles through possibilities, searching for an answer, for somewhere Shuji and the Red Gundam can both be safe.

“Earth.”

Casval’s voice cuts through the air, calm and steady, like he’s been waiting for her to figure it out.

She looks up. He’s right. She was already getting there herself, but now, there’s no debating it. There’s nowhere else. It just moves the plan forward.

"Were you even paying attention to his relationship with the Red Gundam?" Casval asks, but Amate ignores him. There's no time for that discussion.

She pulls out her phone and texts Nyaan.

.....

Amate stands alone at the rooftop shrine, mist clinging to her hair as she stares at the spot where she had confronted Nyaan with the Installer Key the day they met. It feels like ages ago.

Though, technically, it wasn’t.

She and Nyaan are acquaintances, nothing more. Friends actually spend time together, visit each other’s places, hang out beyond school or work. Maybe she should have invited Nyaan over. Talked about something that didn't revolve around Clan Battles or getting to Earth or Shuji.

"I heard you can swim in the seas on Earth anytime you want," Amate had said, as they stood on a bridge overlooking the canal.

"Is that true? They're probably cold." Nyaan had replied.

Amate remembers being excited about the idea, but, as usual, Nyaan was about as much fun as Amate's cracked phone screen.

She's had a lot on her mind lately, besides what kind of swimsuit she'd wear or how much it would cost to get to Earth, but Amate has never been so self-indulgent on purpose.

Suddenly, she feels bad about not trying harder.

"I can fix that," she mutters.

"Yes, you can," Casval replies, effortlessly smooth.

She's not as upset with Nyaan about piloting GQuX anymore. Maybe because of her conversation with Casval earlier, though there is no way she’s admitting that. Still, the disappointment lingers. The Kira-Kira had been the only real connection between her and Shuji.

But the truth is, she’s scared.

Scared that Shuji never really saw her. That maybe she was just a placeholder until someone better came along. Someone like Nyaan.

She hates thinking that way. It’s petty. It’s selfish. But it’s also honest.

And honesty hurts.

Does she still matter to him?

She hopes so.

"Stay tuned for another thrilling episode of—" Casval begins, clearly entertained.

"So funny," Amate mutters.

If she wants to sulk over Shuji, she should at least be allowed to. Not that they ever really got to know each other. How could they, when Nyaan was always there?

"I want to be friends. Not rivals. Fighting over a boy."

"Then be friends," Casval replies, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

"It's not that easy."

"It is, if you stop pretending it’s a war. Be yourself. You’re kind, considerate. She needs your compassion."

She scoffs. "Wow. That’s weird coming from you. Aren't you the guy who wants to wipe out an entire family line?"

"True," he concedes. "But that’s me, not you. If I were in your position, having been given everything, I suppose I could afford to be generous. And so can you."

"Uh, thanks, but love doesn’t work like that," Amate counters. "Even I know that. Love is worth fighting for, no matter the cost."

Casval doesn’t push further, which is unusual. Normally, he won’t back down until she begrudgingly agrees. Begrudgingly, because she hates admitting he’s right.

But he isn’t doing that. Not this time.

Why?

Whatever. Even if he had argued his point, Amate isn’t ready to give up on winning over Shuji.

Unless Shuji actually likes Nyaan. Then it’s not even a rivalry, and she’ll be stuck figuring out how to lose gracefully.

Ugh. Life can be so unfair.

.....

Putting that all aside, Amate drops her umbrella, and runs over to where Nyaan is standing. Relief floods over her knowing she has an ally.

"They know where Shuji's hiding!" she shouts, grabbing ahold of Nyaan's shoulders for emphasis. "And they're going to tell the MPs tomorrow."

"Machu, be honest with me. Are you in love with Shu-chan?" Nyaan asks in her characteristic monotone.

Amate is, naturally, taken aback. Not only because of the personal nature of the question, but because with everything that's going on, that's what Nyaan chooses to ask about first?

"And how do you feel about him?" Amate counters, angrily. "Tell me the truth!"

They hash it out, and Amate is left wondering why Nyaan is behaving like this.

She'll do what she can to fix their relationship eventually, but the road isn't going to be easy.

"It's possible, just not right now," she tells herself.

.....

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Amate remembers how thrilled she had been when Shuji announced that the Red Gundam wanted to go to Earth.

"Let's go to Earth! I've got to go there!" She said, so enthusiastic, like nothing could stop them.

Their plan for getting three puny humans and the mobile suit to Earth rested on that secondhand space glider she had managed to put a down payment on.

"I didn’t realize Gachap paid so handsomely. Well done, you," Casval remarks. She wants to tell him that while he had been off the Psycommu radar, she had spent hours on her phone, bored and alone, doomscrolling.

A classmate had told her Gachap was easy to play, and she hadn’t been wrong. The winnings kept piling up until she had accumulated over 12 thousand Hytes.

Still not enough to do more than secure a deposit on the glider.

And now, with a hefty balance left unpaid, she’s going to have to borrow back their winnings from the Pomeranian safe to seal the deal.

"It’s your money in the vault, so it’s not exactly theft, is it?" Casval says, unbothered.

He easily drifts into those morally grey areas sometimes, but honestly, he has a point. It is money that she and Shuji won fair and square.

"I need to sleep," she tells him, muffling a yawn. "It’s been a long day, but I can't sleep. Can you tell me a story, please?”

He chuckles, and then begins...

“Once, there was a girl who lived in a skyless world,” Casval says, his voice softer than usual. “Every night, she climbed to the highest rooftop, searching for stars that never came.”

Amate closes her eyes, letting the rhythm of his voice carry her.

“One day, she heard a whisper from the machine. ‘Come find me,’ it said. ‘I shine where the sky touches the water.’”

“So she found a key and flew away in the machine, chasing the shimmer she had only imagined.”

“Battles came. Opponents towered. She lost her way more than once. But she kept flying, even when her body ached and her hope thinned.”

“At last, she reached the sea. There, in the tide, a single jellyfish floated, glowing faintly.”

‘You’re not a star,’ she said, disappointed.”

‘No,’ the jellyfish replied. ‘But I came from the same place.’”

“The girl sat beside it on the shore, and for the first time, she didn't feel alone. The sky opened. And above her, sparkly stars began to appear, one by one.”

Casval pauses. “The end.”

Amate doesn’t say anything at first. She’s not sure she can.

“That was... weirdly beautiful,” she whispers.

“I thought you might like it,” he replies.

“Was that supposed to be about me?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it’s about anyone who’s ever chased something they couldn’t quite reach.”

She smiles faintly. “I think I get it.”

“Good,” he says. “Now sleep. You’ve got a quiet shore to reach.”

She drifts off thinking it's a little sad that he’s not real.

Especially with that cologne.

She inhales slowly.

…..

The streets are crowded, with people brushing past, their voices rising and falling, along with the occasional burst of laughter. But Amate barely registers any of it. The world feels distant, like she’s moving through it underwater.

All she can think of are the plans she and Nyaan made for getting Shuji to safety.

“Can I ask you something?” Casval says, like he has all the time in the world.

“Sure,” she replies, trying to sound casual. She hopes it’s not one of those deep questions. She doesn’t have the energy for soul-searching today.

“It’s about Shuji. And his art.”

Her smile fades slightly. “Oh.”

They pass beneath the bridge where the Kira-Kira once shimmered. Amate's not entirely sure she can discuss art. But it involves Shuji, so...

“Have you ever figured out why he paints? Or why the Kira-Kira, specifically?”

She hesitates. “He loves it, obviously. It's not about being famous. But... I haven’t really thought about it much.”

A memory surfaces: Shuji, flushed and feverish, that one time they talked about his art. She swallows hard, remembering how her heart had practically leapt out of her chest watching a bead of sweat flow down his throat.

“Nyaan once asked why he keeps painting if it’s just going to be covered up,” she adds, trying to steer her thoughts away from the memory. Her cheeks feel warm. She hopes no one will notice.

“Right...” Casval drawls, amused. “Obviously, art is subjective, but do you see it as a symbol of hope? Something powerful?”

Her pace slows. The noise of the city fades even more. It’s just the two of them now, walking through a world that doesn’t see him and barely sees her.

“It called to me,” she says slowly, “but only because it reminded me of the Kira-Kira. I think anyone who’s seen the Kira-Kira would feel the same call.”

She pauses. “But maybe for everyone else, it’s a way to imagine something beyond all this... conflict. Like the ocean at sunrise. Calm, endless, peaceful.”

She glances up. “I said that once, and Nyaan immediately shot back, ‘How would you know? You’ve never even seen one.’”

Casval laughs at her squeaky imitation, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes her want to join in. Even if people are watching.

Screw it. She laughs anyway.

It feels too good to be real, being here with him, and not having to worry about what's about to happen.

“I think Shuji’s art is more than just expression,” Casval says, his voice quieter now. “The fact that it keeps getting erased by the authorities, it’s like a metaphor for the suppression you’re all living under.”

Amate’s breath catches. She hadn’t thought of it that way.

“And yet,” he continues, “he keeps painting. Over and over. That’s not rebellion. That’s resilience. That’s... something that refuses to vanish. Like the Kira-Kira.”

“Wow,” she says softly. “Look at you, getting all poetic.” She thinks she likes a poetic Casval. Likes him a lot.

He chuckles. “Don’t get used to it. I’m usually more ‘strategic annihilation’ than ‘art appreciation.’”

“No, I like it,” she says before she can stop herself. “You’re right."

“When I saw the Kira-Kira," she says, "it felt like the whole universe was responding to me. If everyone could feel that... maybe they’d stop fighting. Maybe that’s what Shuji’s trying to show us.”

Casval is quiet for a beat. Then: “I’d kiss you if I could. You get it.”

Her heart skips. She laughs, flustered, but she’s smiling too.

She doesn’t say it aloud, but she thinks it anyway:

I wish you could.

.....

GQuX’s hand lowers Amate gently onto the floor of the maintenance tunnel. She steadies herself and immediately spots Nyaan waiting nearby, arms crossed, and looking disappointed or irritated.

Whatever. Amate exhales, resigned. There’s no avoiding it because Shuji’s fate, and that of the Red Gundam, hinges on the two of them working together.

She turns to leave, glancing back just once, as Nyaan climbs into GQuX. Amate's earlier complaints about sharing Shuji and the Kira-Kira are momentarily shelved.

Be grateful. This is no time to be selfish.

The backpack slung over Amate’s shoulders is empty for now. Soon, it’ll be stuffed with cash from the safe, enough to buy the space glider before the Clan Battle ends.

“We should discuss strategy for the upcoming Clan Battle,” Casval says, his tone light, like they’re planning a dinner party rather than a military engagement.

“Hmm? Why?” Amate replies, distracted. Her thoughts are elsewhere.

“The pilots possess artificially-induced Newtype abilities,” he continues, unbothered by her lack of enthusiasm. “And the Psycommu systems have been upgraded accordingly. In both Gundams.”

“Good to know,” she says, trying to decode what he’s really getting at. She does, eventually.

“So,” she says slowly, “we’re talking Newtype abilities beyond mine or Nyaan’s, in machines that are at least as good as what the Witch had?”

“Precisely. And there are two of them. Shuji will be stretched thin. Nyaan must adapt quickly, or she’ll become a liability to the Red Gundam.”

Amate frowns, trying to picture the battle. “Will it be like the first GQuX-Red Gundam fight I saw? Or worse?”

“Worse,” Casval replies, tone still maddeningly calm. “These opponents won’t hesitate to cause collateral damage. The residents of Side 6 are in real danger.”

“Oh, no!”

“And with the local MPs involved, the aftermath will be messy.”

“That’s awful,” Amate says, her voice rising. “Whoever decided to hold a Clan Battle inside Side 6 should be shot.”

“I'll find them,” Casval says. “Regardless, the Pomeranian strategy should be to let the MPs engage first. Then mop up what’s left. But you’ve seen how effective MPs are against Psycommu-triggered Gundams. They won’t last long.”

“Then what?” she asks, dread creeping in.

“Shuji and the Red Gundam work their magic.”

She doesn’t know what that means exactly. Maybe it has something to do with the Kira-Kira. A pang of sadness hits her as she realises that she’s going to miss the sparkles again.

“Another time, perhaps,” Casval says softly, as if reading her thoughts.

.....

Amate is still shaken from nearly shooting Annqi after the heist.

She hadn't had a choice, but that doesn’t make it easier.

The betrayal cut deep. Still, that’s no excuse to pull a trigger.

She was desperate.

How she’ll recover from that moment, she doesn’t know.

.....

Amate sprints through the deserted downtown core toward the rendezvous point. The emptiness makes it easier. Everyone’s hiding. It’s like those old Japanese films, where Godzilla rampages through Tokyo and people flee underground.

But this isn’t a movie. This is real.

And she’s running out of time.

The cash is heavy on her back. The glider deal is waiting. Shuji is waiting. The Red Gundam is waiting.

“How’s it going, Casval?” she pants, hoping for his usual dry commentary.

Silence.

He was just there.

“Casval?”

Still nothing.

The Clan Battle rages close by, loud and chaotic. Explosions echo from the building she calls Nakatomi Towers, the Zeon MP headquarters. That place is always surrounded with military police, sirens, flashing lights, and protesters. The once-neutral colony is slowly becoming a war zone.

What’s going on?

Her panic starts to rise.

Suddenly, there's an explosion. Massive. Blinding. The shockwave hits her like a wall.

She stumbles, barely catching herself. Debris rains down, and the afterglow still lingers in the sky.

She keeps running.

Haro chirps in alarm. No train service. Phone signal undetected.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Figured.”

She rounds the corner and stops dead.

A crater yawns before her, like a giant golf ball-sized divot. It's a clean break, and the street is gone.

Across the chasm, she sees it: GQuX, lying still, its frame intact, it's electronics silent.

Her heart lurches.

“No...”

.....

Casval stands firm, hands on his hips, his gaze locked on Shuji.

They can see each other clearly now.

Like him, Shuji’s phantom form has separated from his body, the unforeseen consequence of a Zeknova.

"Just as I thought," Casval remarks, unbothered by the sight.

There's no panic in his voice. No surprise. Only confirmation.

The Kira-Kira around them is shimmering and they remain, suspended in the sparkles.

Neither human, nor Gundam, but something else, both having escaped the limitations of time and space.

Shuji’s presence fades beside him, dissolving into light. The moment is quiet. Still. Almost peaceful.

But peace was never his destination.

“I’m not done,” Casval says into the light. “Not yet.”

The Kira-Kira pulses once, as if in answer.

And then, silence.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Ensign Shuji Ito blinks slowly. “That’s different,” he murmurs. “Okay…” Her memory replays for him. She's standing beneath a bridge, drawn to the universe’s soul, painted on a wall in shimmering yellows, rebellious pinks, and vibrant greens. It's not unlike the scent of her hair, he realises, like roses after a summer shower. Her presence feels like a perfect brushstroke, the kind that lands flawlessly on the first try. With her, he feels safe.

Nyaan.

She remembers going with Machu to a hideout, a dark, industrial place, but alive with colour. Not like this place.

This hangar is cold and sterile, but not lifeless. Whoever designed it knew how to wield a palette of greys and steel blues with military precision. Shuji’s gaze lifts, and there it is.

A Gundam.

It towers above everything, lean and lethal, painted in a bold violet with eyes that glow a venomous green. Not a child’s toy. Not a too-friendly dinosaur. This is a predator sculpted in alloy and menace. It looks evil. Romantic, even. Like a villain in a love story destined to end in ruin.

He grins faintly. “I’d paint it in a heartbeat.”

Below, Nyaan stands beside a young man in a Zeon uniform. Shuji’s breath stills. She wears the same uniform. Zeon. The very name tastes bitter. She’s always hated them. Hated the Earth Federation too. She’s never been one to pick a side. And yet, here she is.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Shuji knows: this is another universe.

There’s no other explanation.

.....

He watches her closely. She’s not smiling, but she’s not broken either. Her expression is resolute. The look of someone who’s endured worse. His heart aches for her, quietly, insistently. Is this the world where they find each other again? Or the one where they part for good?

He doesn’t know. But he will wait. He will watch. And he will understand.

.....

She searches for Kuuro at the naval research base, and Shuji follows her memory like a shadow. She’s been here often enough to have her own visitor’s pass.

She finds him in his usual space, the hangar bay, still flushed from a run, flight suit half-zipped, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“You always know when I’m flying over,” he says, pulling her into a hug.

“I can feel it,” she replies, resting her head against his chest. “Like time stands still when you’re up there.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re poetic today.”

“I’m always poetic when I’m in love.”

His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then back at her. “Dinner with my parents tonight? They’d love to see you.”

“Would love to,” she says, and Shuji feels the sweetness. So sweet, he's going to get a toothache.

.....

They walk the platform hand in hand, the distant clatter of mobile suits locking into catapults echoing around them. Kuuro talks about his training: how he aced the last simulation, how the instructors are already whispering about deployment.

She listens, smiling, but Shuji sees it, there's something in her eyes, a quiet tension.

“Do you think they’ll send you away soon?” she asks.

Kuuro stops. “Maybe. But not before graduation. And not before I ask you to promise me we’ll stay together, no matter what.”

She throws her arms around him, laughing and crying all at once. “If you didn’t ask me, I was going to ask you myself.”

He hands her a small box. She opens it, and her breath catches when she sees the diamond pendant, delicate and bright. She’s genuinely surprised, but Shuji knows it wouldn’t have mattered if it were a daisy on a string. She would’ve loved it just the same.

.....

The memory shifts again, seamless as breath.

Nyaan reads a message on her phone.

Kuuro: Meet me at the hangar. I have something to show you.

Soon, she’s beside him, standing before a sleek, dark-grey mobile suit. Its face is angled toward the sky, like it’s already dreaming of flight. Kuuro’s grin is boyish and proud.

“This is her,” he says, patting the footing of the unit. “The Korvus. She’s mine now.”

Nyaan runs her fingers along the cool metal. “She’s beautiful.”

He helps her climb into the cockpit. She settles into the seat, the controls spread before her like the keys of a piano. Shuji watches her hands, delicate and precise, as they hover over the console.

“You remember all this?” Kuuro asks, leaning over her shoulder.

“Some of it,” she replies. “You’ve shown me before.”

“Good. Just in case.”

She turns to look at him. “Just in case what?”

He hesitates. “There’s been talk. Nothing official. But some of the instructors think we might be deployed sooner than expected. There’s tension building outside the colony.”

Silence settles between them, heavy and uncertain. Then Kuuro reaches into his flight suit and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

“I’ve been working on this,” he says, handing it to her.

She unfolds it. A hand-drawn map annotated with notes and arrows. A flight path. From their colony to the next, and on to another, then across space to a neutral zone.

“If anything happens,” he says, “and I’m not there… you take the Korvus. You follow this route. It’ll get you to safety.”

He taps the directions into the navigation system. The HUD flickers, simulating the flight path.

Nyaan stares at the map, her throat tight. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve already logged your biometrics into the system. You’re the only other person who can fly her.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide. “Kuuro…”

He kisses her then, slow and certain. Shuji watches, and if he could, he would freeze this moment. Let her love story end here, before the world begins to fall apart.

....

The memory shifts again—this time, with a tremor.

Not in the ground, but in the air. A low, unnatural hum that makes the windows rattle and the birds scatter. Nyaan is in the school library, flipping through a textbook, when the first siren blares.

Everyone freezes.

Then chaos.

Students spill into the hallways. Teachers shout over the alarm. Nyaan grabs her bag and runs. The emergency drills had always felt like theatre. Not anymore.

Outside, the sky is streaked with smoke trails. Military vessels cut across the clouds. Explosions roll in like thunder. She pulls out her phone.

No signal.

“Dad!—Kuuro!”

She sprints down the hill toward town, dodging panicked crowds and military vehicles. The streets are choked with people trying to flee. Sirens wail from every direction.

At home, her father is packing a bag, phone pressed to his ear.

“They’re saying the base is a target,” he says, his voice straining to sound calm. “We need to leave. Now.”

“But Kuuro—” she begins.

Her father grabs her shoulders. “He’ll find you. He always does.”

But she doesn’t wait. She runs out the back gate.

Back through the chaos. Past the checkpoint. Through the smoke and screaming. Toward the base. Toward him.

She finds him near the hangars, already in his flight suit, barking orders at younger cadets. When he sees her, his face changes: fear, relief, and determination all appearing at once.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

“I had to find you.”

He looks over her shoulder at the rising smoke. “They’re coming. The colony’s going to be hit hard. I have clearance. I can get you out.”

“What about my father?”

“There’s no time, Nyaan. Please.”

She hesitates. Her heart is tearing in two.

Then the ground shakes. A blast in the distance. Closer now.

Kuuro grabs her hand. “We have to go. Now.”

She doesn’t move. “I can’t leave him.”

He looks at her, eyes full of pain. Then, without another word, he pulls her along. They run.

She begs him to stop, but he doesn’t stop, not until they reach the Korvus. He opens the cockpit and helps her in.

“You know how to fly her. You remember the route.”

“No—Kuuro, don’t—”

Another explosion. Closer. A hiss in the air. Gas.

He coughs, staggers. His red and watering eyes meet hers, still full of hope.

“Go,” he rasps. “Please.”

She reaches for him, but he pushes her back into the seat and seals the hatch.

Through the camera, she watches him fall, swallowed by the toxic mist.

Inside the Korvus, the vents release clean air. Shuji watches her scream, her grief raw and unfiltered. He wants to reach through the memory and hold her. But all he can do is watch.

.....

The Korvus roars to life beneath her. The cockpit trembles as the engines surge, and Nyaan’s hands grip the controls, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Through the cameras, the base is engulfed in windy gusts of gas. Sirens wail. Bodies lie scattered like ragdolls.

And Kuuro is collapsed on the platform, unmoving.

“No, no, no—” she sobs, slamming her fist against the glass. “Get up. Please, get up.”

But he doesn’t.

The HUD flickers to life. His voice echoes in her memory:

"Control systems here. Thrust there. You’ve got this, Nyaan. Just like we practiced.”

She doesn’t want to remember. She doesn’t want to fly. She wants to go back. To pull him into the cockpit. To scream until the war rewinds.

But the gas spreads. A pale, sickly green mist creeps across the hangar floor. She has no choice.

With trembling fingers, she pushes the throttle forward.

The Korvus surges ahead. There’s no time for a catapult, even if she could see one through the haze. The end of the launch pad looms.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Come on, come on—”

The mobile suit lifts. The floor falls away.

And Nyaan screams.

Not in fear—but in grief. A raw, broken sound that fills the cockpit and echoes in her bones. She screams until her throat burns, until her vision blurs, until the only thing left is the sound of the Korvus and the hollow ache in her chest.

She is alone.

The Korvus rattles off the side of the hangar exit before she figures out how to right it. “I know I can do this,” she whispers. The mobile suit steadies, and she breaks through the gas clouds into open air.

Below, the base is silent. The personnel are gone. The school, her school, hidden beneath a haze. The hilltop where she and Kuuro used to meet is barely visible now.

She flies higher. Away from the chaos. Away from the memories.

Her hands move on instinct, guided by Kuuro’s training, his voice whispering in her mind.

“You’re the only one I trust with this.”

Tears stream down her face as she follows the route he’d drawn for her. The map is up on the navigation display, but she doesn’t need it. She remembers every line, every note. He’d planned this. He’d known.

And he’d given everything to make sure she got away.

.....

The Korvus cuts through the gas clouds like a ghost, silent above the devastation below. Nyaan sits rigid in the cockpit, her hands steady on the controls, but her mind is unable to process what she's just been through. The adrenaline has faded, leaving behind a hollow ache and a thousand unanswered questions.

Shuji watches her from the quiet between thoughts. He sees the way her eyes scan the horizon, searching for something, anything. An opening, a sign, a reason.

Below, the colony is lifeless. Farmland swallowed by mist. Villages quieter than ghost towns. Roads clogged with abandoned cars. And the people, tiny from this height—she turns away.

Even if she wanted to land, there’s no one left to help.

Kuuro’s voice echoes in her memory:

“Don’t stop. Not until you’re safe.”

She follows the route on the navigation system, each waypoint a lifeline. The Korvus’s fuel gauge ticks down slowly, but steadily. She has enough. For now.

As she leaves Side 2, her breath catches. The surrounding space is nothing more than a graveyard.

Then suddenly there's static.

The radio crackles. A faint voice breaks through:
“…repeat, this is Echo Station… humanitarian corridor… coordinates…”

Nyaan leans forward, adjusting the frequency. The signal fades, then returns:
“…safe zone established… limited landing capacity…”

A safe zone.

She quickly marks the coordinates on her HUD. It’s a fair distance, in a nearby colony. Not on Kuuro’s map. But it’s something. A reason to keep flying.

The sun disappears behind the colony’s curve. Her eyes burn from exhaustion, but she doesn’t dare close them. Every second in space is a second further from the life she’s lost, and closer to whatever comes next.

Hours pass. Cold stars surround her, offering no comfort.

She reaches into her jacket and pulls out the folded map. Her fingers trace the lines Kuuro had drawn, now smudged with tears and sweat.

“I’m still flying, Kuuro,” she whispers to the empty cockpit. “I’m still here.”

And the Korvus soars on like a lone firefly in the dark.

.....

The landing is rough.

The Korvus touches down on a narrow strip carved into a forested valley, guided by a beacon someone had marked on this God-forsaken colony. Her hands tremble as she powers down the mobile suit. Her body aches from hours in space, her mind from everything else.

She expects medics. Soldiers. Relief workers.

What she gets is silence.

Then, the click of rifles.

Figures emerge from the trees. Uniformed. Armed. Their insignia unfamiliar. Not Zeon. Not Federation. Something else.

Her heart drops.

She raises her hands, but it’s too late. They surround her, pull her from the cockpit, bind her wrists.

“You’re a long way from home, pilot.”

They take her to a compound hidden deep in the mountains. It isn’t Echo Station. It’s a military research facility. And she's a prisoner.

The Korvus is impounded. Engineers swarm it, dissecting its systems. Nyaan is interrogated, then transferred to a labour camp under the guise of “civilian containment.”

She’s stripped of her name, her past, her dignity.

Worse—she loses the diamond pendant Kuuro gave her.

Shuji watches her cry, and though he cannot touch her, he aches with her. That pendant had been more than a gift. It had been a promise.

Days turn to weeks.

She shovels gravel. Hauls crates. Cleans floors. Her hands blister. Her spirit frays. But she watches. She listens. She learns.

One officer, Commander Lyle, takes a particular interest in her. Cruel, but curious. He asks about the mobile suit. About her training. She gives him just enough to keep him talking. She smiles when she has to. She plays the part.

And one night, when the guards are drunk and the hangar is quiet, she makes her move.

She seduces Lyle with soft lies and false promises. Steals his access card, slips into the hangar, heart pounding, and climbs back into the Korvus.

The systems are sluggish, having been tampered with, but the Korvus miraculously responds to her without much coaxing.

Alarms blare. Searchlights sweep the sky. A rifle beam cannon erupts.

The Korvus takes a hit to the arm, but she keeps flying. She doesn’t look back.

At dawn, she crosses another border.

.....

The Korvus sputters and dies just as she reaches the terminal to the neutral Side 6 colony. The mobile suit is towed to a remote landing zone beside a lake, its final descent hard but survivable.

Nyaan climbs out, alive. Barely.

She finds herself in a refugee processing centre. It’s cleaner than the last place. More organized. There’s a kind of order here, a thin veil of compassion stretched over bureaucracy.

She sits in a crowded room, filling out forms under a false name.

“Country of origin?”
“No longer exists.”

“Occupation?”
“Pilot.”

“Reason for asylum?”
“Survival.”

They give her a cot. A ration card. A number.

No one knows who she is. No one knows what she’s lost.

She wanders the camp in silence. Watches children play in the dirt. Listens to the murmurs of other survivors. At night, she dreams of Kuuro. His voice, his hands, the way he looked at her like she was his whole universe.

Her memories are all she has left of him.

Shuji watches her from the shadows of thought. He sees the way she holds herself together with sheer will. The way she keeps moving, not because she has to, but because she still can.

One morning, she stands at the edge of the camp and stares at the horizon. The sky is clear. The wind is soft.

That night, she slips away.

Into the city. Into the crowd. Side 6 is full of refugees. She just has to blend in.

It’s what Kuuro would have wanted.

.....

The memories fade, and Shuji’s focus returns to the present.

Nyaan is back at the Zeon Navy Research Lab and her expression is unreadable. The hangar is quiet, the air heavy with tension. GFreD looms above her, violet and still, its green eyes dimmed but watchful.

Miguel is waiting with a slice of cake.

He offers it with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Welcome back.”

She lifts the plate, sniffs the freshly baked treat. “It looks good.”

Conch chirps from her shoulder. Shuji Ito smiles faintly. Hello, Conch.

She’s just about to take a bite when she pauses. Her voice is calm, almost curious.

“If I eat this, is my heart going to stop too?”

Miguel stiffens. “What?”

She sets the plate down. “Ensign Xavier. To think how much trust he placed in you.”

So that was his name—Xavier. Shuji files it away.

Miguel’s hand moves. A gun appears, aimed at her head.

“If you knew the real reason the GFreD was constructed,” Miguel says, “you’d do exactly the same thing.”

The entry doors burst open. Xavier storms in, gun drawn. “Miguel! What the hell are you doing?”

He’s trembling. Shuji sees it. He doesn’t want to shoot. Doesn’t want to believe this is happening.

“You’re shrewder than I thought, little lady,” Miguel mutters, still aiming at Nyaan, now caught between two barrels.

“Is it true?” Xavier asks. “You’re a spy for Supreme Commander Gihren?”

Miguel doesn’t deny it. He talks about the Intelligence Bureau. About the pilots. About the deaths.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of my friends becoming Diablos,” he says, voice shaking with conviction.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Xavier demands.

It sounds like madness. Shuji agrees. But there’s something else beneath Miguel’s words. Fear, not of death, but of transformation.

Suddenly, Nyaan flips the table, scattering cake and tea everywhere. The table blocks Miguel’s shot. She bolts behind GFreD, climbing the mobile suit to the topmost platform.

Shuji watches her fluid and focused movements. The survivor’s look is back. The one she wears when she’s done running.

Miguel fires. The shot misses, sparks flying off the platform.

“I’m not going to let them turn you into a Diablo!” he shouts. “I’m going to protect your human heart for you!”

GFreD’s Psycommu activates. Green lights flicker to life. The mobile suit’s head creaks, turning toward Miguel.

“Impossible!” he yells. “She can’t control the Psycommu without a Psycho Suit! Don’t tell me! You’ve already become a Diablo?!”

Shuji doesn’t know what a Diablo is. But he knows what he sees.

Nyaan’s eyes glow dark and luminous.

Weapons detach from GFreD’s headpiece. They hover, then fly.

One shot.

Miguel disintegrates.

The blast tears through the hangar wall, out into the vacuum of space. Sirens blare. Air pressure drops. The emergency lights flash red.

Shuji turns to GFreD, glowing from the blast. Nyaan is curled on the platform, arms wrapped around Conch.

“My dear, sweet, beautiful Nyaan,” he whispers.

.....

Nyaan stands in her quarters on Granada, holding Conch gently in her arms. Her back is to Xavier, who paces behind her, phone pressed to his ear.

His voice is sharp with disbelief. “Are you sure? No. You’re kidding.”

Both Shuji and Nyaan glance over.

“They’re saying the GQuuuuuuX escaped from the Sodon,” Xavier says. “But how could it possibly escape from a military vessel mobilized on an operation? It has to be someone you know.”

Nyaan doesn’t flinch. She turns back to the window, to the ghastly view of Solomon hanging in the void.

“Machu is the real deal,” she murmurs.

.....

Shuji follows her gaze. The stars beyond the glass are cold and distant. He wonders what game Amuro Ray is playing now. GQuuuuuuX—GAmuroRay, as he’s come to think of it—is out there. And GFreD, or GChar, is here.

So where is the other Shuji, the Red Gundam, and Lalah?

His other darling, Machu, is going to Earth. That much is clear. And if Lalah is involved, then this might be another universe where she interferes, always trying to make the best of the worst situation.

Her persistence is admirable. But when will it stop?

Or is Amuro behind all this? Hell bent on trying to right his wrong. The time he kills Lalah with a killshot meant for Char?

Ensign Shuji Ito doesn’t know. He only knows that Nyaan is still here. Still standing. Still fighting.

And somewhere, out there, the story continues.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Of all the places Amate imagines waking up, this isn’t one of them.

Her eyes flutter open to a ceiling the colour of cold gunmetal. The walls and floor match the industrial feel, also dull, metallic, and utterly inhospitable. She shivers. The door looks solid, and the barred window lets in only small squares of dim light.

A cell. On a ship. She’s lying on a narrow bunk, the mattress barely thicker than the blanket draped over her.

Amate sits up too quickly. The ship hums with a low, constant vibration that deepens the throb in her skull. Her headache is sharp and insistent, definitely worse than any she can recall. But is it really the worst?

She recalls some things. The GQuX soaring above the colony. Military police in pursuit. A male voice in her ear, commanding her to take hold of her fury. Then silence. Then nothing.

“No, no, no—” Her breath quickens, shallow and sharp.

“Shuji,” she whispers, voice cracking. Her hand flies to her chest, as if she can hold the panic in place. “Where is he?”

A voice, amused and unmistakable, cuts through the rising tide of fear.

Don’t talk. Just think it. They’re watching you.

She freezes. She doesn’t hear him so much as feel him, like his thoughts are brushing against hers like silk.

“Casval?” she breathes.

He doesn’t appear. He never does. He’s a presence more than a person, a suggestion more than a shadow.

Just think, don’t talk, he reminds her. You’re aboard the Sodon. Remember that ship floating over Izuma? That’s where you are. Along with GQuX. You’re safe. For now. His tone is polished, touched with that aristocratic lilt that makes everything sound like a private joke.

I’m not safe, she snaps. Shuji’s gone. I don’t even know where I am—

You learn fast. Keep not talking. You’re in a cell, he says lightly. But not a prison. There’s a difference. One is meant to contain you. The other, to observe.

She glares at the empty air. If he were here, he’d be getting the full force of it. That’s not comforting.

No, he agrees, but it’s true.

He clears his throat, as if assessing her readiness.

This isn’t good news, unfortunately, but it’s better you hear it now. The Clan Battle ended with the Pomeranians’ opponents taken out by the Commander's mobile armour. He’s the one who brought you and GQuX here. I don’t know where Nyaan, Shuji, or the Red Gundam are. The police are actively searching, and they’re off my radar too. I believe they got away. Nyaan on foot. Shuji and the Red Gundam in the Zeknova.

That blast was a Zeknova?

Yes. Trust me, Shuji’s going to be okay. She senses he’s holding something back, but lets it go. Her headache won’t let her process much more.

She buries her face in her hands. Her fingers are cold, but the chill is oddly grounding. He’s okay... It’s just... I can’t see the Kira-Kira without him.

You’ve done harder things without him, Casval says gently. Remember the diving platform? The one that would’ve scraped the other side of the colony if it were any higher? You did a handstand off it. Something I’d need to be paid to do. You survived that.

His voice softens, almost tender. You’re not alone now.

She lifts her head, eyes rimmed with tears. You’re not real.

I’m real enough, he replies. Real enough to remind you what matters.

She exhales shakily. What matters is Shuji. I need to find him.

And you will, Casval says. Because from here, we can reach Earth. And on Earth, Shuji is searching for the Rose of Sharon.

Her head lifts. The Rose…

Yes. That elusive, mythic thing he’s always chasing. If you find the Rose, you’ll find him. And everything will be good again.

She hesitates. You really believe that?

I believe in you, he says simply. And I believe in ambition. Especially the ambition of someone strong enough to realise it.

She exhales. The panic ebbs, replaced by a heavy, aching weariness. Her limbs feel like stone. The headache, though lifting, still fogs her thoughts.

“I just want to sleep,” she murmurs aloud.

Would it help if I told you a story? Casval asks, and for a moment, the cold room feels less empty.

“Yes, please,” she replies, lying back down, and silently cursing herself a split-second later for saying that out loud in her excitement.

Casval settles behind her, the feather-weight of his phantom arm not quite a hug, but a gentle and steady presence.

Is it a true story? she asks, eyes already closing, comforted by the familiar scent of his cologne.

Maybe, he replies. All the best ones have a grain of truth.

She closes her eyes, ready to listen.

She doesn’t believe him. Not really.

But she wants to.

.....

Once upon a time, he begins, his voice smooth as silk, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a prince whose father was given a curious gift: a horse, carved from ebony, with gears in its belly and wings folded at its sides.

Amate opens one eye. A mechanical horse?

Yes, Casval replies, a faint smile in his tone. Not the sort you’d find in a stable because this one could fly. With the turn of a key, it would rise above the earth, defying gravity, wind, and reason.

She exhales slowly, letting the story settle over her like a blanket.

The prince, naturally, was sceptical. But curiosity is a powerful thing. He mounted the horse, turned the key, and soared into the sky above the kingdom, and soon the clouds, before finally learning to master his ride. He crossed deserts, oceans, and mountains, until he reached a land that looked better than all the rest.

Casval pauses, letting the silence stretch just long enough to draw her in.

There, he met a princess. He fell in love, of course. But love, as you know, is never simple.

Amate murmurs, What happened?

He brought the princess back to his kingdom to meet his family. But while he was preparing a grand reception, she and the ebony horse were captured.

Another pause. The storyteller’s rhythm is deliberate.

Oh no, how awful, Amate says, feigning horror.

No, not good, Casval agrees, clearly amused by her mock drama. But worse still—she was taken to yet another faraway kingdom. The princess, clever as ever, pretended to be ill to avoid... well, let’s just say, unpleasant obligations. He pauses, his tone dancing on the edge of laughter. While in captivity, for many days and nights, he adds, barely hiding his amusement.

Amate shakes her head, chuckling at his choice of words.

But the prince never gave up hope. He tracked her down, disguised himself as a sage, and claimed he could cure her, but only with the horse. Once reunited, they made their escape.

He pauses to take a breath and Amate mimics him.

The prince returned home, not as a boy chasing wonder, but as a man who had mastered technology, he had gained wealth and knowledge from his travels, and had overcome mental and cultural barriers. He had seen the world and chosen what mattered most.

She shifts slightly, nuzzling back toward the sound of his voice. And the horse?

Ah, Casval says, the ebony horse was never just a machine. It was a symbol. Of transcendence. Of rising above the limits of one’s world. The prince’s journey wasn’t just across lands; he also took a soul-searching detour inward. He became more than he was.

Amate smiles and is quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: You’re saying I’m the prince.

I’m saying, Casval replies, that you’ve already mounted the horse. You’ve left the palace. And though the path ahead is uncertain, you are not alone. You have your wits, your will, and an excellent sense of doing what's right.

She smiles faintly, eyes still closed. The path ahead is uncertain...

For us all, he agrees. But I have no doubt, you'll do what's right. He pauses, and then adds, Although, at the end, the king did dismantle the ebony horse, but don't tell GQuX. It'll be our little secret.

She shakes her head and grins.

The hum of the ship fades into the background. For the first time since waking, the tightness in her chest eases up. The story lingers in her mind like his good stories do.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Casval’s voice softens, almost fond. Go to sleep now. The journey continues soon.

She feels the words brush the small hairs behind her ear. Goosebumps ripple down her front and it's not from fear, but from something warmer, something she doesn’t want to name.

Her headache is gone.

And in its place, something better.

.....

The sharp measured click of high-heeled boots echoes down the corridor outside Amate’s cell. Whoever it is, they’ve stopped at her door.

“Amate Yuzuriha, or do you prefer Machu?”

She doesn’t respond. The Zeon officer peers through the small window, but Amate keeps her gaze fixed elsewhere.

“Release the lock. Remove the cuffs as well,” the woman orders.

The door hisses open with a mechanical clink, something Amate finds surprisingly low-tech for a Zeon ship.

A young woman steps inside, composed and crisp in her Zeon army-green uniform. Her thigh-high boots strike the floor with the same precision as before.

“I’m returning these to you,” she says, placing two evidence bags on the bunk. Amate glances over. One holds her phone. The other, Haro.

“Machu. Machu,” Haro chirps from inside the plastic.

“This chatty little thing isn’t technically allowed here,” the woman remarks, as if granting a rare privilege, “but I’m told you have special clearance.”

“Machu,” Haro repeats, muffled but persistent.

Amate studies her now-unbound hands, still seated on the bunk, avoiding eye contact.

Ensign Comoli Harcourt, Casval supplies, voice smooth in her mind. Commander Challia Bull's Lieutenant.

“Your phone screen’s cracked,” Comoli notes. “It still powers on, but no calls because we wouldn’t want to give away the ship’s position.”

Amate doesn’t look up, but she can sense the Ensign standing with arms crossed, watching her like she’s a sulky child. There’s a small bag in her hand.

“Texts are permitted, though they’ll be monitored,” Comoli adds.

Amate picks up her phone. Numerous messages from yesterday, the majority of which are from her mother, along with many from her classmates.

Her throat tightens. She hadn’t even thought about her mother.

“Might be wise to contact her, at least,” Comoli says, tone bordering on sisterly. Amate tunes out the rest. She’s not ready for a guilt trip. Later. She’ll deal with it later.

“I brought you a change of clothes,” Comoli says, holding out the bag. “The size is what it is.”

“I’m not wearing a Zeon uniform. They’re so lame,” Amate mutters, clearly striking a nerve.

Comoli arches a brow. “And why would you assume we’d issue you military attire? I’m lending you my own clothes. Be grateful.”

With that, she turns and leaves.

Casval’s voice returns, dry and amused.

Well, that was almost cordial. She likes you. Or what you represent.

Amate snorts.

She likes control.

Ah, a woman after my own heart.

She shakes her head, and grins despite herself. She opens the bag and pulls out something that resembles gym wear.

So... Casval begins, then pauses.

What?

Nothing, he replies, chuckling.

What is it?

Did she give you a full change of clothes? As in... something to wear beneath that outfit?

Amate frowns, rummaging through the bag again.

Yeah, there’s something. I didn’t notice it before. It’s tiny—like a scrap of fabric.

Casval bursts into laughter.

She shakes her head, grinning in his direction. It’s hard not to laugh with him, especially since she knows she’s being watched.

I don’t even want to know how you know, she says, heading to the bathroom to change.

If it's even possible, he laughs harder.

Once she's alone, Amate gives up holding it all in and laughs.

.....

The only thing that makes this entire ordeal bearable is Casval’s presence. Without him, Amate suspects she’d have gone mad by now. Time blurs in space without a sunrise or sunset. Just endless artificial light. Earth must be so much simpler.

Thanks for making me feel special, Casval drawls, his tone dry and amused. Always a joy to be in your company. Now, shall we get to the point?

Amate frowns. This mind-reading thing is getting old.

He falls silent, obliging her unspoken irritation.

Anyway...

She recalls the interrogation, seated across from Commander Challia Bull, with Ensign Comoli standing stiffly at his side, announcing her arrival like she’s some criminal.

Being called a “suspect” still grates. It’s not like she robbed a bank or went on a murder spree.

True, Casval muses. An odd choice of words. Perhaps they’re adopting the Side 6 narrative and branding you a terrorist.

Really?! I’m not a terrorist.

Casval clears his throat delicately, and she presses on.

"Machu, you ought to be grateful for the good fortune of being born in Side 6," Challia had said.

Guilt. A classic tactic with the young, Casval notes. A promising start, Commander.

I know I should be beyond grateful, Amate replies, half-heartedly.

Only if you truly are, he says gently. No one can dictate your feelings. Circumstances of birth may shape us, but they don’t define us.

True, she agrees, then pauses. But some people are never given the chance to escape those circumstances.

Then perhaps gratitude is warranted, he replies. If you recognise the privilege, that’s a start. Alternatively, one could use a "fake it 'til you make it" approach. Continuously defending privilege may eventually become tiresome.

I am grateful. I just couldn't articulate why. Thank you, and no, I don't have to fake it. Amate would look at him askance if she could see him.

She continues her recollection.

I heard the beard man before. Back when I was panicking. I thought I’d failed Shuji. Nothing I planned worked.

The "beard man", Casval repeats with a chuckle. I’ve never seen him without it. It’s practically a trademark.

"Back during the last war, half the population perished," Challia had said. "Many survivors lost their homes and became refugees."

Like Nyaan, Amate thinks.

Yes, Casval agrees. And countless others like her.

That must’ve been hard.

Excruciating. Refugees often long for a place and time they can never return to. The Portuguese have a beautiful word for that yearning— saudade.

Homesick, she murmurs, turning the word over in her mind. I never thought of it that way.

How could you? Casval says kindly. You’ve never had to.

I’ve never asked her about it, Amate whispers, ashamed.

She’s quiet, yes. But she had a life before Izuma.

Probably a good one. She’s so graceful.

That’s sweet of you to notice. However, avoid dwelling on it, it's impossible to assist every victim. Just remember that in future. Now, where were we?

Thanks, I will, Amate replies, ignoring what she suspects is a dismissive tone. Um, Portuguese? Is there anything you don’t know?

Plenty, he replies with a smile in his voice. Trust me. He sighs, like he's hesitant to explain. As for Portuguese, I learned what I had to when I was in Jaburo.

Wow. She's okay with his answer and doesn't probe further. Sometimes, getting information out of him is like pulling teeth.

I heard that.

Amate grins.

She skips over Challia’s speech about Spacenoid independence and the cost of war. Casval sighs, but doesn’t press. She suspects he has strong opinions on the matter.

I do, he confirms.

I hate that everyone keeps reading my thoughts. Beard man answered before I even spoke. Just like Shuji. And you.

As your Newtype abilities grow, you’ll learn to block those intrusions.

Amate continues.

"Commander, that information is classified," Comoli had said, her voice tight.

Casval chuckles.

What? Amate asks, not seeing the humour.

Ensign Comoli is delightfully by-the-book. I’d rattle her cage daily, just for fun.

Amate rolls her eyes and moves the memory along.

"Now, tell me what you know about the pilot of the Red Gundam," Challia had asked. "This Shuji Ito—does he have ties to Char Aznable? Any idea?"

"He is currently missing," Challia had answered her unspoken thought about Shuji's whereabouts. She still resents that.

Don’t worry, Casval murmurs. You’ll learn to shield yourself soon.

"Reports say he vanished from Side 6, along with the Red Gundam. Any idea where he might have gone?"

Challia had leaned forward, as if trying to hear her thoughts more clearly. "Of course. The Rose of Sharon is what he’s after."

"He’s not the only one," Challia continued. "The question is, what does Shuji Ito hope to achieve by finding it?"

Amate had looked down, trying not to think too loudly.

"You really don’t know anything about this, do you?" Comoli had asked, before launching into a theory about Amate’s innocence.

Casval sighs, content.

Really?!

The interrogation had continued, Challia growing more animated. "Oh! So the Rose is on Earth, then? Is that what he told you?"

Ah, I’m sorry, Casval says, his tone softening. But if it’s any consolation, nothing stays secret when you’re a Newtype. You’ll uncover truths in others you may wish you hadn’t.

Amate throws herself back on the bunk.

That’s not comforting at all.

.....

The lights in Amate’s quarters dim for the night cycle, but sleep eludes her. Casval is not nearby to tell her a dreamy story to relax, so it is what it is. Lonely.

Haro chirps.

"I haven't forgotten you, Haro," she says kindly to the little unit.

That guy's probably off laughing at her delightful outbursts. Whatever.

She floats within her cell, Haro beside her, and begins to mull the same thing over and over in her mind.

Shuji is out there, searching for the Rose. If she can find the Rose, she will find Shuji.

Her phone lies on the bunk, its screen dark—until it isn’t. A soft chime signals a new message.

She reads it and frowns. It’s from the unknown sender who had contacted her once before.

Unknown Sender: The rose will bloom soon.

Haro chirps, mimicking the words: The rose will bloom, the rose will bloom.

Unknown Sender:The lock will open. To the right.

Then more instructions.

Before Amate can puzzle over their meaning, the lock on her cell clinks. She looks up. The door slides open, and, astonishingly, the sign reads "Open."

Her heart pounds. She doesn’t know who sent the messages, but she knows exactly what they mean.

Freedom.

She peeks out. The corridor is empty.

Haro chirps: Shall we?

She glances quickly at the little unit and exhales. "We shall," she replies and then floats into the corridor with Haro following.

.....

The instructions work flawlessly. Soon, Amate reaches Deck 2 where the hangar doors hiss open.

Inside, GQuX waits in shadow, its sleek frame gleaming under the emergency lights. The cockpit hatch is already open.

Amate climbs in, her hands moving on instinct. The controls illuminate beneath her touch, and soon, GQuX is fully activated and the Omega Psycommu is online.

Haro chirps a satisfied beep.

She rushes to engage the catapult, initiating the launch sequence as alarms begin to blare.

"Too late now," she mutters. "Let's go."

GQuX lurches forward, its thrusters igniting. The hangar doors begin to close, but not fast enough. With a roar, the mobile suit surges through the narrowing gap, into the void.

The message from the unknown sender on her screen replays in her mind: Let's get the Beginning.

Adrenaline surges through her veins.

.....

Not long after, the heads-up display reads: "Atmospheric entry in progress." Amate braces herself. This part is bound to be intense.

The atmosphere hits like a wall. Flames lick at the edges of the cockpit view. The GQuX trembles violently.

Haro chirps: Machu, put your pilot suit on.

"Are we sure this thing can actually handle atmospheric entry?" Amate asks no one in particular. She shivers despite the blistering heat pressing against the mobile suit.

Casval is here, she's sure of it, but he's oddly quiet, and that's probably a good thing. This is not the time for a deep-thought provoking conversation.

"The Earth is supposed to be massive, right? Even if we survive, will we make it to Shuji?" She asks, not bothering to hide her panic.

GQuX's controller arms brace her. Amate starts, then exhales in relief.

"GQuX," she murmurs.

The altimeter spirals downward. Panic grips her once again because there are no parachutes on this suit.

Just before what would could been a fatal impact, the Core Fighter detaches, its smaller frame slicing through the turbulence. Below, the ocean stretches like a silver sheet under the moonlight.

GQuX’s body plummets, swallowed by the waves.

Amate clenches the controls, teeth grinding. The Core Fighter skims the water’s surface before banking toward the distant shore.

She soon realizes she doesn't have any control of GQuX and has no idea where she's going. Only that she's free.

The Core Fighter travels a fair distance before it crashes into a forest with a heavy thump. The last thing she remembers is screaming before everything fades to black.

.....

Amate awakens to the sight of a maid standing over her, arms full of towels. The bed beneath her is impossibly soft, the sheets faintly scented with jasmine.

“Oh! She’s awake. Kachana, she’s awake!” the maid calls out cheerfully.

Above her, the ceiling stretches high, and she guesses that this must be a large room.

Amate struggles to sit up. As she does, she takes in her surroundings: a grand bed in an even grander room with tasteful furniture. Her body aches from the re-entry, and her shoulder, now wrapped, throbs dully. But she’s alive. Somehow, the Core Fighter must have landed safely.

“You’re alright,” the maid says reassuringly. “No broken bones. We should inform the Mistress right away.”

"Where am I?" she asks, as they scurry out, and one of the maids pops her head back in and answers.

.....

“The Kabas Estate?” Amate echoes the name after they leave. It means nothing to her. She rises, determined to assess her situation. Things are not as she expected.

First, there’s no phone signal, which shouldn't be a surprise on Earth. Second, gravity feels no different than it did in the colony. And third, the view from the balcony reveals a mountain range, not the sea.

“I can’t see it from here. Still… this is the real sky. And that’s the real sun,” she murmurs, surrounded by the sounds of birds and distant wildlife.

.....

The maids return as Amate finishes dressing in the clothes she left in, Comoli’s gym clothes.

“The Mistress had a premonition you’d be arriving,” one of them explains. “That’s why everything was prepared yesterday, this room, and a doctor. The Mistress’s dreams always come true.”

“I’ll have to thank this Mistress of yours,” she says.

Apparently, now isn’t a good time. The Mistress is expecting a lover, which leaves Amate wondering just what kind of place the Kabas Estate really is.

“Are you all being kept here against your will?” she asks, her tone cautious, probing for signs of coercion.

“I wouldn’t say that,” the fair-haired maid replies. “We’re just working here as maids, that’s all.” It’s considered a good job because they’re fed, clothed, and have a roof over their heads.

“But still…” Amate remains unconvinced.

What troubles her more is their reasoning. They say they’re fortunate because in the nearby town, children beg on every corner. The thought of which makes her sad.

.....

Amate stands on the balcony, gazing out at the early evening sky as a warm, gentle breeze stirs her hair. The air carries the scent of earth and blossoms, and the light is softening into gold.

Below, beneath the shade of a sprawling tree, a young woman sits on a swing. She glances up, meeting Amate’s eyes for a brief moment.

Amate senses it might be the Mistress. She leaves her room, sneaks along the hall, and a door opens behind her. Two working women caution her in hushed tones telling her to be careful because customers might spot her. She descends the stairs, passing two sentries at the doorway who seem entirely unaware of her presence.

It’s then that the truth settles in. This is a brothel. Amate cringes inwardly.

Still, she continues weaving her way through the estate grounds toward the hilltop swing, and despite everything, she feels strangely fortunate to be here. The vegetation is abundant, and she speculates whether the sal flower mentioned by the maids is nearby.

She reaches the crest of the hill where the sight of the sunset leaves her utterly breathless.

The sky is a canvas of impossible colours: crimson, violet, gold, and rose. She’s at a loss for words. It’s one of those moments when only poetry could do justice to the feeling swelling in her chest.

Now, standing near the swing, Amate hears the woman speak without turning. She does sound calm and kind just like the maids had told her.

“There are flocks of migratory birds that cross over the Himalayas,” she says, watching a V-formation glide across the sky. “Once, no one believed birds could cross such immense mountain ranges. Just as they never imagined humans could live in outer space.”

“Pardon,” Amate says, then quickly bows. “Thank you for saving me. And for your hospitality.”

She recognises the woman now. She’s the same one Amate saw floating inside the Kira-Kira, wearing a yellow, flowing dress. Not the prim black one she wears now.

“Why have you come to this place?” the woman asks, glancing over her shoulder. “You won’t find the Rose here.”

And, yes, the Mistress is beautiful, just as the maids had also said.

“I’m actually looking for someone,” Amate replies. “A boy who’s been chasing that Rose.”

“A boy, you say?” The woman’s voice lifts with a soft, amused giggle. “I’m jealous.”

Amate tells her that the other girls at the estate had said that she can see the future in her dreams.

The woman shakes her head gently. “Not the future. What I see are dreams of the other side.”

“The other side?” Amate echoes, and the woman’s answer confirms what she had only sensed before, that there is something beyond time, beyond space, beyond understanding.

.....

“My self on the other side is in love,” the woman says, closing her eyes. “Truly in love, not something's that paid for. A very young Zeon officer visits this place, and falls in love with me at first sight. And he even buys my freedom, and takes me far away from here. That is what I see..”

As she speaks, the Kira-Kira envelops Amate’s senses. The world around her dissolves into shimmering light.

“And then, my life truly begins,” the woman continues. “He takes me into space, and I’m ready to fight for him. Even to die for him.”

In the sparkling void of the Kira-Kira, the woman, dressed in dark fabric, her hair tied in twin ponytails, floats beside Amate. They drift together, suspended in a dreamlike current.

She turns to face Amate, her voice calm but heavy with sorrow. “But he will die in battle, against the Federation’s white mobile suit. That’s what I saw. Soon after, Zeon will lose the war.”

Amate listens, heart tightening. The woman speaks of a love that spans lifetimes, of meeting him again and again, only for tragedy to follow. The white mobile suit always takes him from her. And in the strangest twist of fate, she falls in love with the man in the white mobile suit too.

“I am helpless to protect the one who is precious to me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The Kira-Kira fades. Reality returns with the sound of a barking dog and the approach of two estate workers, who inform them it’s time to return to the mansion.

.....

As they walk back, Amate lingers behind, her steps slow, her thoughts tangled in the fading echoes of the Kira-Kira.

Lalah’s story clings to her—tragic, beautiful, and strangely familiar. A love that transcends lifetimes. A war that always ends the same way. A white mobile suit that brings death, no matter how many times the story is told.

Is that what fate is? she wonders. A loop we can’t escape?

She thinks of Shuji chasing the Rose. Is he caught in the same cycle? Is she?

The breeze carries the scent of night-blooming flowers, and she pauses at the edge of the garden, her gaze drifting to the stars that emerge in the night sky.

What if I’m not just here to find him? What if I’m here to change something?

The thought is like a lone firefly in the dark. But it stays with her.

She presses a hand to her chest, not pain exactly, but something deeper. A longing. Casval had called it saudade.

Lalah wanted to be free. To go to space. To fight for love. To live for it. To die for it.

Then, her heart skips a beat.

Casval.

She doesn’t fully understand. Not yet. But something deep within her knows.

Lalah had longed to go to space, to be free, to do anything—for Casval, the young Zeon officer.

He was in her dreams too. He had asked Amate to dance, but not in uniform. And yet, he still haunts her waking moments.

She doesn't know Casval as a real person, at least not in this life. But her intuition tells her that somewhere, somehow, he exists.

And Lalah is waiting, but what happens after is frightening.

Certain death for the young Zeon soldier, and a war where Zeon loses.

She stops walking, but then realizes just how dark it is tonight, and hurries along still lost in thought.

What are the chances her Casval is the same Zeon officer in red that Lalah's waiting for?

Amate mulls the thought over, more confused than ever. The chances might be slim, but not impossible.

.....

Amate jolts awake, her breath caught in her throat. The room is silent, and Lalah’s two maids are beside her bed.

“We’re going to help you escape tonight. It’s the Mistress’s orders,” one of them whispers.

Amate listens as they make a special request—to take the Mistress with her. She agrees. The Mistress deserves better. They all do.

.....

The fire at the Kabas Estate crackles so fiercely it can be heard miles away. It was meant as a distraction, but it has become total destruction. Amate isn’t particularly sad about that, though the fate of Lalah’s maids weighs on her.

It’s behind them now as they race through the forest, Lalah pulling Amate along.

Gravity on Earth is not her friend, Amate muses. It turns out it's slightly heavier and she's panting to keep up.

They eventually reach the hill where the Core Fighter had crashed.

“They’ll catch up to us in no time. You have to go,” Lalah insists.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Amate argues. It would be a tight squeeze, but they can both fit. She grabs Lalah’s arm, urging her toward her ride, but Lalah refuses to budge.

Amate climbs into the cockpit, still pleading with Lalah to join her. In space, she can finally be free.

Haro chirps: Kept me waiting. Machu.

Since when did Haro become so demanding? Amate barely has time to wonder. One of the Estate workers arrives, rifle raised, aiming directly at them.

“Don’t move!” he barks. “And you get out, house guest!”

Lalah turns, slowly raising her arms in surrender. Amate is absolutely certain that never in a million years would she ever surrender to that man.

“I won’t be going,” Lalah says, her voice so soft Amate barely hears it.

“Why not?” Amate shouts. “Going to space is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I have to wait,” Lalah explains. “I have to wait for him.”

Amate stares at her, dumbfounded. “You’re waiting for him? That was just a dream, wasn’t it?”

“Please, just go!” Lalah pleads.

The Estate worker has had enough. He fires. The shot misses Lalah, ricocheting off GQuX and activating the Core Fighter.

“Continue searching for the rose,” Lalah urges. “You have to go! You have things to do!”

The cockpit seals shut, locking Amate inside. She protests, but the autopilot engages before she can change anything.

The last thing she and Haro see is Lalah, standing against the wind, her hair whipping around her, before the Estate worker grabs her and drags her away.

Disappointment weighs Amate down, and she slumps into the seat.

It’s dark out. Somehow, she drifts off, lulled to sleep by the hum of GQuX as it carries her off to parts unknown.

.....

Amate awakens to bright sunlight streaming into her face.

Haro chirps: Machu! The ocean!

“It’s the real sea. I’ve always wanted to swim in it,” she murmurs, before remembering why they’re flying over the water.

“Oh right! The GQuX is at the bottom of the ocean. What are we going to do?” she asks.

Haro chirps cheerfully: Land, sea, and space—it’s all-purpose. No problem.

Amate has no idea what the little robot is going on about until the Core Fighter abruptly takes a sharp turn and dives straight into the water. She lets out a scream.

GQuX sinks lower and lower. The eerie creaking of compression against the hull makes Amate tense.

“We’ll be okay down here... won’t we?” she asks, uncertain.

Haro reassures her that they can go deeper. And they do.

As they reach the ocean floor, the Core Fighter’s spotlights flare to life, illuminating GQuX’s body resting undamaged below.

“What is that massive thing behind it?” she asks.

Haro chirps excitedly: The Rose! The Rose!

Amate narrows her eyes. “Is that... the Rose of Sharon?” She never expected to see a spaceship.

As she processes the revelation, a vision seizes her mind. She sees Lalah in the cockpit, her signature ponytails framing her face, clad in a space suit, sound asleep.

Suddenly, GQuX’s body activates. Its eyes glow a vivid green as the Core Fighter reconnects, reforming into GQuX, the complete mobile armour.

Submersible balloons inflate, propelling them toward the surface.

Amate blinks against the blinding sunlight, but any relief vanishes when she spots the Sodon hovering above, its base lights flashing ominously.

.....

The Sodon’s brig feels colder this time.

Not physically, though the recycled air still stings, but in spirit. The walls seem closer. The silence heavier. Amate sits on the bunk, hands once again bound in handcuffs, while Haro rolls idly beside her.

She stares at the floor. Just... waiting.

She feels like a fool for leading the Sodon straight to the Rose of Sharon. She didn’t escape —the Commander had let her go knowing she’d find it. And she did.

Her voice is quiet. “So I was bait.”

Her body aches, but her heart aches more. She doesn’t trust Zeon to handle the Rose with anything resembling goodwill.

Casval’s voice returns, soft and reassuring. You did what you had to. And you did it with grace.

I failed, she whispers in the silent way they do. They used me.

They used your hope, Casval corrects. But they didn’t break it. That’s the difference.

She opens her eyes. You’re still here.

For now, he says gently. But not for long.

What do you mean?

You’re changing. Growing. Your Newtype abilities are awakening. You’re beginning to see the world not just as it is, but as it could be. And that means... He pauses, his voice laced with something like fondness. You won’t need me much longer.

She swallows hard. I don’t want you to go.

Casval chuckles softly. I’m not going far. I’m part of you now. Like a good story—always there when you need it.

He pauses before adding, Would you like to hear one more?

She nods.

I don't know if you realized this, but every story I’ve told you, aside from the first one, came from One Thousand and One Nights. This is the story of the storyteller.

Amate's eyebrows lift in surprise.

He begins, his voice like velvet. A king with trust issues of truly epic proportions, became furious when he discovered his first wife had been unfaithful. His solution? A wildly excessive marriage strategy—wedding a new woman each day and swiftly eliminating the previous one, ensuring no repeat betrayals. It was not exactly a sustainable dating method.

Amate chuckles.

Enter Scheherazade, a woman with a plan.

A plan... Amate whispers conspiratorially.

Casval chuckles.

To save herself and countless others from the king's extreme breakup policies, Scheherazade launched into a captivating bedtime story. The king, unexpectedly hooked, listened with fascination. But just as the tale reached its most gripping moment, dawn arrived.

Wow, now I’m hooked. What happens next?

He chuckles, then continues.

Scheherazade, with impeccable dramatic timing, announced that she’d have to finish the story the next night. The king, desperate for the ending, postponed her execution—because nothing takes precedence over an unfinished cliffhanger. And thus, the world's longest binge-worthy storytelling session began.

Amate grins.

She was brilliant, brave, and clever beyond measure. She faced a king who had lost all faith in love, and every night, she told him a story. Not to save herself, but to save him.

Amate listens, eyes closed, the rhythm of his words like a lullaby.

And through her stories, the king changed. He softened. He remembered what it meant to feel. To hope. To love. And in the end, it was not her beauty or her fear that saved her—it was her mind. Her voice. Her will.

Amate breathes in slowly. She took control of her fate.

Yes, Casval affirms. Just like you.

Silence settles around her. She opens her eyes.

Amate, he begins, you don't need Shuji. One day soon, you'll be able to call up the Kira-Kira on your own. Trust me on this. But if you need Shuji for more than that, then go for it.

Amate mulls this over and remembers that the last time she had been told to "go for it," it had been bad advice.

The heavenly cologne disappears and Amate instinctively knows he’s gone.

But she doesn’t feel alone.

Not anymore—because her king changed too.

And her intuition tells her, he'll be back.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

The Kikeroga and GQuX return to the Sodon after a vigorous flight training session. They drift into a cluttered patch of space near the Yomagn'tho Solar Project Grand Opening—whatever it’s officially called, Amate couldn’t care less. There’s no sound in space, of course, but the glittering lights from Zeon ships and heavy mobile armour catch her eye. Navigating through the chaos is a challenge. To the others, she and the GQuX are just another obstacle.

She recalls much of what Casval taught her about Mav manoeuvres during that first Clan Battle. Having those lessons reinforced by someone as skilled as the Commander is deeply satisfying. She’s not arrogant enough to think she knows everything, but she’s come a long way since her first sortie. Still, there are tricks the Commander knows—manoeuvres learned only through age and experience. The old saying rings true: he’s probably forgotten more than she’ll ever know. At least for now.

She’s hopeful that time and real combat will close that gap. According to the Commander, some lessons only war can teach.

The GQuX aligns with the Sodon’s landing path, and she brings the mobile suit in smoothly.

“Thanks, GQuX,” she murmurs, gazing up at the sleek machine now resting in its designated cubby in the hangar.

The moment brings her back to when she first realized that Shuji and the Witch were the kind of people who knew what you were going to say before you said it.

Focus on the battle, Shuji had told her, appearing starboard in the Red Gundam as if summoned by her racing thoughts.

So says the Gundam, he’d commanded.

When will the GQuX start talking to her? She smiles at the thought, imagining herself saying, So says the Gundam, in a deeper, more commanding voice than Shuji’s. That must have been so satisfying for him to say.

Where are you, Shuji? Are you doing okay?

Okay enough. Time to change the inner dialogue to happy thoughts. She’s been sentimental lately—maybe it’s the stress, or worse, those hormones. Either way, she feels grateful.

She appreciates the Sodon and its crew. Their loyalty to Zeon is expected. But their loyalty to the Commander? That’s something else. He inspires strength, resilience, and a deep respect for his vast knowledge—far beyond his so-called “Jupiter Intuition.”

Now she understands why he and the Red Comet were such close friends. Loyalty like that is rare.

.....

A familiar voice calls out from the platform above.

“Really?” Comoli’s voice echoes as Amate floats up. “We gave you a pilot suit. Why aren’t you wearing it? And where’s your helmet?”

Amate arrives at the platform, grinning. She’s genuinely happy to see her. Now she understands why Casval liked Comoli so much. Not only is she loyal, but she’s predictable, kind, and deeply caring. Even her scolding is just another way she shows it.

If only Casval were here to join in the amusement.

“I’m just used to what I’ve got, okay?”

Comoli taps her mic. “Commander, would you kindly discipline her?”

“Now, now, Ensign Comoli,” Challia’s voice comes through, calm as ever. “Remember, she’s not military.”

Comoli doesn’t look thrilled. Amate doesn’t need to read her mind to hear the unspoken thought loud and clear: And yet you’re entrusting our latest mobile suit to that kid.

That kid.

It’s not the worst thing she’s been called, but hearing it from Comoli, as someone she’s beginning to admire, it stings. Just a little.

Then she remembers the Commander’s trust, the way GQuX responds to her, and the quiet progress she’s made since that first chaotic battle. She’s not there yet, but she’s getting closer.

“Oh, girl. Chill out, Comoli. The Beard Man doesn’t care, so why should you?” Amate teases, flipping upside down mid-float.

Haro chirps in agreement: He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“The Beard Man? Who’s that?” Comoli asks, confused.

Amate just smiles and drifts toward her cell in the brig, the place she’s been calling home since coming aboard the Sodon.

Comoli unlocks the door, and Amate steps inside.

“Thanks—for the fresh clothes,” she says, spotting the neatly folded pile on her bunk.

“Uh, just doing my job,” Comoli replies, taken aback.

Amate’s genuinely thankful. She guesses Comoli still isn’t used to that—especially not from her. She was definitely a brat the first time they met. She’s vowed to fix that first impression.

.....

She settles in and floats in silence. Most of the time, Amate feels like an outsider, not only because she's a civilian, but she's also technically unqualified to pilot one of Zeon’s most advanced mobile suits. The rules, the discipline, and the chain of command are all part of a world she was never meant to belong to.

And yet, here she is. Not just surviving, but learning. Adapting. Maybe it helps that she’s young enough not to know any better.

The Commander doesn’t treat her like a mistake. She may not wear the uniform, but she’s beginning to understand the weight of what it means to stand beside those who do.

It’s a relief to find someone she can trust in Challia Bull—but more importantly, someone she can talk to about Casval. The Commander still doesn’t know that Casval has been part of her life, but he does know the Red Comet. Perhaps he sees her interest as just that—interest. Everyone speculates about Char Aznable, Casval’s alter ego, the captain whose feats in war captured the imagination of the masses and fuelled the romantic dreams of more than one young girl.

Sometimes, in quiet moments like this, alone in her cell, Casval’s voice echoes in her mind. Calm. Deliberate. The way he explained things as if she were already capable—even when she wasn’t.

She remembers the first time they were alone together in GQuX. His tone had been serious, almost patronizing.

Let’s go, his voice had urged.

How? she’d asked.

Use the controls, he replied.

“Do I place my palms on these?”

What do you think? he’d retorted, as if she were an idiot.

No one would argue that. Except maybe her mum.

At the time, she thought he was condescending and pushy. Now, she understands. He saw something in her before she ever did.

She holds onto that memory like a promise to herself that she can become someone he’d be proud of.

But even those recent memories fade, and she can’t help but think how lucky Lalah is. To relive so many good things, to fall in love over and over again—it must be addictive. Amate would be happy just to hear Casval whisper a story in her ear one more time. That’s her happy place.

Okay, enough sentimentality. If she keeps it up, it’ll only make her sad.

.....

During their last training run, the Commander had asked, “Do you want to know more about the Rose of Sharon?”

Of course she does. But even now, Amate isn’t sure if it’s curiosity or something deeper—like fate—that draws her to it.

She knows Shuji was searching for the Rose. She doesn’t know where he is now, or if he knows she found it. But she remembers what she saw—someone sleeping inside the Rose. Someone who looked like Lalah.

She and GQuX pull up beside the Kikeroga. She places a hand on the shell of his mobile armour. The gesture feels instinctive now, this surface-to-surface communication in the presence of heavy Minovsky particles, when they need to speak in private.

Challia had told her once, during her interrogation, that the Rose of Sharon appeared suddenly between the Earth and the Moon during the One Year War. Then it vanished.

And then she found it.

Or maybe it found her.

Now it sits at the heart of the Yomagn'tho Solar Amplifying Project, under Lady Kycilia’s control. It’s supposed to power the device that will amplify the Sun’s rays and accelerate Earth’s recovery from nuclear winter. A century of healing, compressed into years.

That’s the theory.

Amate doesn’t fully understand the science. She’s not sure she trusts it. But she wants to believe in something that brings warmth back to the people of the world.

Also, why didn't they give the thing an easier-to-remember name?

.....

As the Sodon looms ahead, its silhouette a homey fortress against the stars, Amate’s thoughts drift back to the Rose of Sharon—its impossible presence, hidden in the ocean, and the miracle of GQuX landing on it.

“That spaceship was under the ocean,” she says suddenly, her voice quiet but clear. “The Rose was submerged beneath the sparkly sea. I had to descend in the Core Fighter to find GQuX—and her.”

Challia’s voice crackles through, thoughtful. “That sounds like the unconscious. Jung wrote about how the truth lies beneath the surface, waiting to be integrated.”

Amate blinks, caught off guard. “Psychoanalysis?”

“Some,” he replies, a hint of amusement in his tone. “The Rose of Sharon sounds less like a weapon and more like a symbol. Something archetypal. Maybe even sacred.”

She exhales slowly. “I don’t know what she is. But she didn’t feel… mechanical. She felt alive. Like she was waiting.”

“You’re just asking to get psychoanalysed now,” he chuckles.

She grins.

Amate’s breath catches. “I saw the pilot in a vision. Asleep at the controls in a spacesuit. Her name was Lalah.”

“She is likely a Newtype who has arrived from the other side,” Challia says, sounding as certain as someone uncertain can.

“The other side?” Amate asks, startled. It’s not the first time she’s heard that phrase.

“Only Newtypes are aware of the other side of Zeknova,” he explains.

She ponders this. She’s seen Lalah on the other side too. Was she, in another lifetime, at the heart of a Zeknova?

Is she capable of seeing her life’s story, over and over again, on the other side?

There’s a pause. Then Challia says, “Time repeats, Amate. Like a Möbius strip. One surface, one path—but if you follow it long enough, you end up on the reverse side. Maybe we’re there now—on the underside of history. New players. Same roles.”

Amate’s gaze drifts to her control systems, not really reading the displays. “I don’t think it’s that simple. It’s not a loop. It’s more like... quantum entanglement. Like we’re all possibilities. Each repetition is slightly different. Not a cycle, but a pattern. A field of futures, but always unable to go back in time.”

Challia is quiet for a long moment. Then: “And what about the Zeknova? About Char?”

Amate’s voice is steady. “Maybe this time, we find out what was supposed to happen.”

She adds, more quietly, “And I’m afraid I’m projecting. That I’m seeing what I want to see.”

“And what do you want to see?” Challia asks gently.

Amate hesitates. “That I matter. That I was chosen for a reason. That I didn’t just stumble into something I can’t control.”

“Maybe that’s why she revealed herself to you,” Challia says. “Maybe you’re the one who’s supposed to find Captain Char. Or finish what he started.”

Finish what he started.

She doesn’t answer. She’s thinking of Lalah’s visions of the other side. Of the battle between red and white mobile suits. Of the silence that followed. Of the way her heart had clenched—not with awe, but with dread.

She wants to believe she’s meant for something. That her descent meant something.

But what if she’s wrong?

What if she brought back something that should have stayed buried?

A flicker of dread takes root in her chest.

What if Lalah’s vision was about Casval—or his alias, Char—still alive, still out there… and doomed to die by mistake?

By her hand, if it turns out GQux is the white Gundam of Lalah’s dreams… it’s in the realm of possibility, however slim.

....

That evening, Amate finds herself in the Commander's office, continuing their earlier conversation.

“Captain Char must know the truth if he was on the other side when the last Zeknova occurred at Solomon,” Challia remarks.

She can’t fully grasp what it all means—and she doesn’t want to. Not right now. So she shifts the conversation to something tangible.

“Commander,” she says after a long pause, her voice quieter now, “what was Char Aznable really like?”

The question hangs in the air like the way she floats on this ship.

Challia doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer, touched with a rare fondness.

“He was brilliant,” he says. “Too brilliant, maybe. Ambition like a comet, always burning ahead of the rest of us. He could see things before they happened. He understood strategy, politics, and people, and used this knowledge to his best advantage.”

She finds herself in awe of Casval’s near-prescient ability to analyze and anticipate outcomes. It's what must have made him a force to be reckoned with both in battle and leadership, she surmises.

But her thoughts drift. That portrait of Casval is only one part of him. She waits for Challia to say how he often drifts into the morally grey areas, quite easily at that, but he doesn't. He's a good friend after all.

Her mind drifts back to his most fiendish request.

"You want to kill them?” Amate had asked.

“I need to,” Casval replied. “They murdered my father. Or so I’m told.”

It didn't scare her, but it should have. She just didn't believe she could make it happen, even if she wanted to. And she wouldn't have, even if she could. So she politely listened.

But Casval had continued on, telling her he'd help her win Shuji back because it was strategic. "Shuji’s loyalty is tied to you. If you have him, I have him.”

If everything that followed hadn't happened during their time alone, she wouldn't believe in his goodness. He is a great person, a truly remarkable human, she reminds herself.

Challia continues, unaware of her silence. “His noble lineage was evident in his refined manners and effortless grace, a man as comfortable in the saddle as he was at the helm. He possessed an impeccable sense of taste—music, wine, uniforms—he had a way of making everything seem effortlessly stylish.”

Amate smiles faintly despite herself. That guy sounds too good to be true. She would add good-looking and, although she's never seen his table manners, she would assume they were impeccable.

“Blondes and redheads,” Challia adds with a chuckle. “He had a thing for both. You, with that hair of yours? Char would’ve been orbiting you like a satellite.”

“Well then, he’d be happy to know the curtains match the drapes,” Amate quips, before blushing. That was probably too much information.

“What?!” Challia blurts, before the full meaning sinks in—and then he cracks up with laughter.

Eventually, the laughter fades, and so does her smile.

“You miss him.”

“Every day,” Challia says. “He was more than a captain. He was the axis we all spun around. When he vanished after the Zeknova… everything lost its shape.”

He pauses, then adds, “That’s why I believe we needed to find the Rose of Sharon. If we can trigger another Zeknova—if we can somehow align the pattern just right—maybe we can bring him back. Maybe everything can be good again.”

Amate doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the blank wall ahead, but her mind is far behind, tangled in visions and probabilities.

She thinks of that night on Earth. The breeze had carried the scent of night-blooming flowers, and that stuck with her—along with the view of the stars.

What if I’m not just here to find him? What if I’m here to change something?

She doesn’t know if her Casval is the one in red from Lalah's visions. It could just as easily be Shuji in the Red Gundam.

But she knows one thing with certainty:

She will not let either of them die.

But bringing back Captain Char using a Zeknova? She doesn't know if that's even possible, but stranger things have happened.

.....

The Sodon hangs in low orbit, its hull dimmed against the blinding light of the Yomagn'tho Solar Ray Horror Show. Inside the launch bay, Amate stands before the GQuX, her hand resting on its cool armour. Her breath is steady, but her thoughts are not.

She’s been ordered to go. The Commander’s voice had been calm, resolute: “Lady Kycilia was a step ahead, and this war was exactly what we needed to prevent."

"Uh, so what should I do from here?" Amate had asked, stunned.

Challia stopped and held the wall above her right shoulder, leaning right on top of her. Amate flushed slightly.

"From this point, please do whatever it is you desire..."

But doubt coils in her chest like a tightening wire.

What if I’m not ready? What if I fail?

GQuX hums beneath her palm, sensing her hesitation. She closes her eyes. Casval’s voice echoes faintly in her memory—Use the controls. What do you think?

She exhales. I think I’m scared.

But she climbs in anyway.

As she breaks from the Sodon, the void opens before her—until it doesn’t.

"Am I too late?" She gasps, breathless.

GQuX pauses against the growing radiance. Before them, the fabric of space convulses. A Zeknova ignites like an impossible bloom of energy.

Space erupts in a kaleidoscope of Kira-Kira. Those signature sparkles of a Zeknova fan outward in a majestic spiral, each one a shard of energy emitted as light.

Then—

A Bao Qu is caught. The asteroid trembles under Yogmagn'tho's focus. Space folds and twists as a Einstein-Rosen Bridge blossoms open like a cosmic iris. The station is dragged through, vanishing in a flash of distorted light.

On the other side, this side, closer to Earth: A Bao Qu emerges—only to be unmade.

It explodes along with everything that was dragged in around it. The Zeon fortress becomes reduced to flotsam and jetsam.

Amate slows, her breath catching. GQuX shudders, not from damage, but from something else. A wave of emotion crashes over her.

Grief.

Raw, overwhelming grief.

Inside the Rose of Sharon, she sees her.

Lalah.

The girl from the other side. The one who cried in her dreams.

And she’s crying now.

Tears stream down her face, visible even through the haze of Minovsky interference. Her sorrow is not just her own because it radiates outward, pressing against Amate’s mind like a tide.

Amate gasps, clutching her chest. Her vision blurs. She feels Lalah’s pain, her loneliness, and her longing.

She stares, eyes wide, the glow of the Zeknova reflected in her tears.

"The Rose of Sharon is crying. Who would use a weapon as horrible as that?"

....

A formation of Gyans blocks her path, their angular forms gleaming like blades in the solar light. At their head, a formidable silver knight broadcasts a signal.

“Sorry to tell you, Miss,” comes the voice—sharp, cold, familiar. “This is no Clan Battle.”

Xavier.

The former crew member of the Sodon. The original pilot of the GQuX. The one who lost it.

“It's a military operation,” he continues.

At the overwhelming firepower surrounding GQuX, Haro chirps: No fair. No fair.

Amate’s hands tremble on the controls. Her heart pounds. She could turn back. She could let someone else do this.

But then—

A massive shadow streaks across the field. The Kikeroga.

The Commander’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade: “Leave the rest of this to me. You must go now, GQuX.”

The mobile armour surges forward, its weapons unfolding like wings of war. The Gyans scatter to meet him.

Amate doesn’t look back.

.....

She descends toward the heart of Yomagn'tho. The Rose of Sharon glows below—an impossible structure, half-organic, half-machine, pulsing with light. But she’s not alone.

Hovering near the Rose is a new Gundam. Sleek. Predatory. Its design is unfamiliar, but its presence is unmistakable.

It looks like a killer.

Why am I feeling this?

Then she understands.

She’s not just sensing Lalah.

She’s resonating with her.

The killer Gundam doesn’t move. But the crying slows.

Amate squares her shoulders, assessing her opponent.

And for the first time, GQuX responds, not with words, but with clarity. The controls feel lighter. The space around her sharpens. She’s not alone in the cockpit anymore.

She’s part of something larger.

Care to join me on a magic carpet ride?

.....

Chapter Text

......

The Kira-Kira pulses with it's familiar yellow, green, and pink hues, casting a soft, surreal glow around Casval. He floats in its light, disoriented. The other side is gone, obscured by white light.

That's fine by him. He isn’t ready to return.

Not yet.

“No, it’s not time for me to go back either,” a voice says behind him.

Casval turns, already irritated. Shuji stands there, all gaunt limbs and wearing that insufferable expression that suggests he’s one second away from tuning out the world.

Typical.

Unbidden, the Witch slithers into Casval’s thoughts. Her connection to Shuji remains maddeningly unclear.

Was he her Mav? Her kin? Her son?

The thought is repulsive.

The fog in his mind refuses to lift. Shuji had stopped her without hesitation. Why? The question stings, sharp and raw. He lets it drop—again.

“Why don’t you want to go back?” Casval asks, already regretting the effort.

That does it. Shuji smiles that deranged little smile and turns away, drifting toward the unseen edge.

“Leave him,” says a voice.

Casval stiffens. Of course. Amuro. Always appearing when least wanted.

The memory of having been killed by him, which no one can believe was accidental, festers like a wound that refuses to close.

.....

His thoughts drift, unbidden, to that moment.

He had been trying to draw the Witch away from Artesia. The far side of Solomon offered a trap. Amuro had been waiting—perhaps by design.

Casval flew into it anyway. His sister was his weakness. They all knew it. Amuro especially.

Then Lalah appeared.

He didn't know her. But the Newtype connection was immediate. Electric. Beautiful, in an ageless, tragic way.

“You came to me too late,” she said.

He arched a brow. Her tone was overwrought. Whatever wonder he'd felt was already fading.

“Why?” she asked, voice trembling. “Why did you have to show up now?”

He studied her, bemused. “Why do you fight?” he asked. War clung to him like a second skin. She seemed far too young to wear it.

“I fight for the one who saved me,” she said, as if it were noble.

“Is that all?” he scoffed. Typical. Another starry-eyed idealist dragged into Amuro's orbit.

She wore the same look he’d seen a hundred times—eyes tracing his face, lingering too long on his lips, as if memorizing him might change her life.

One more try, then. A touch more civility—for her sake.

“Nothing can come from our meeting.”

But she pressed on.

“But this is happening,” Lalah pleaded. “You have to accept it.”

His patience thinned.

“And if I don’t accept it?” he snapped. “Nothing can come of this.”

“Lalah, stop playing around with him,” Amuro barked.

Casval backed away. Fast.

Then the beam cannon struck.

Pierced the Red Gundam.

Quick. Brutal.

Instantaneous.

.....

Then—silence.

Casval finds himself beside a lake, beneath a sky scattered with stars.

Lalah stands nearby, glowing faintly. An after-effect of transcendence, he assumes.

He is drawn to her. Not out of love—he knows what love is, and this isn't it—but because she offers something rare: clarity. Power. A glimpse into the infinite.

She sees him, understands him, and doesn’t flinch.

That is intoxicating.

But she is not the one.

He knows this with the same certainty he knows the Witch must die, that Amuro will always be a thorn in his side, and that Artesia must be protected at all costs.

Lalah is a mirror, not a destination. She reflects what he could be, not what he needs.

She smiles, serene and knowing.

“I can fix this,” she says.

He scoffs, but doesn’t argue. She is already dissolving into light, folding into the Kira-Kira like a swan landing on water, lost in the light of sunset.

He doesn’t ask what she means to fix.

All he knows is that it feels good to be free of the chokehold of her love.

He's made his peace with how it ended.

.....

He doesn’t know it yet, but in that instant, four Newtypes meet their fate.

Lalah creates the Zeknova that wraps around them all. It moves them across to the other side.

Time moves on for everyone else.

But not for Casval.

He wakes here, in this strange universe, as if summoned.

As if she wanted it.

.....

Amuro watches from the edge of the light, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He remembers what Lalah told him before all this began.

He’s pure, she had said.

Amuro still doesn’t understand it.

Char, still not calling him Casval because that name's foreign to him, is arrogant, manipulative, and dangerous. A man who weaponizes affection and cloaks ambition in nobility.

And yet, Lalah had looked at him like he was some kind of lost star worth guiding home.

“He’s not pure,” Amuro mutters. “He’s just good at pretending.”

But Lalah had insisted. Not innocent. Not kind.

Pure.

As in unfiltered. Undiluted. A force of nature that hasn’t yet been shaped by the world into something lesser.

Amuro doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like him.

But he respects Char's intellect. His eloquence. His unwavering sense of purpose.

He sees how Char reads people. Wins them over. Bends them to his cause.

And that’s precisely why he doesn’t trust him.

The Kira-Kira pulses again.

Char vanishes.

Amuro is left alone with the silence—and the echo of Lalah’s voice in his mind.

We'll find each other again. I'll fix it so we'll both be happy.

.....

Nothing moves.

The Rose of Sharon hangs suspended in the heart of Yomagn'tho, like a relic in a museum display. Its green hull flickers in and out of phase—an artifact unnaturally tethered to modern tech.

From the cockpit of GQuX, Amate watches. Her breath is shallow. Her hands, steady on the controls.

The violet Gundam clings to the Rose’s core like a parasite—sleek, sharp-edged, and still. It pulses faintly in sync with the Rose, as if listening. Waiting.

“That’s who fired the weapon,” Amate murmurs. “Then… who’s inside?”

The killer Gundam stirs. GQuX pings it: GFreD. Zeon mobile suit.

Without warning, the killer Gundam unleashes a volley of glowing, arrowhead-shaped bits that scatter like shrapnel before arcing back with terrifying precision.

“All-range attack,” Amate mutters, yanking the controls.

GQuX twists hard, spiraling through Yomagn'tho’s fractured interior. The first wave misses by inches. Beams carve through the debris field, vaporizing everything in their path.

Her jaw tightens. The Commander’s words echo in her mind: They’re not random. The Newtype behind them is still human.

Casval’s calm voice cuts in. He’s unimpressed.

The pilot’s a one-trick pony. And not a subtle one.

Another volley. Amate spots the one bit veering wide.

GQuX’s arm snaps out. Catches the bit midflight. Hurls it back.

Direct hit. The killer Gundam reels.

This isn’t a fencing bout, Casval says. Go for it.

She doesn’t hesitate. The beam saber ignites with a hiss of light.

She charges.

GFreD surges to meet her. Blades collide. Sparks explode. The impact rattles through her cockpit like a thunderclap.

This must be hilarious for the spectators, Casval remarks. Two kids swinging glowsticks in the void.

Then—static. A voice crackles through the comms.

“Machu… is that you?”

Amate’s breath catches. “Nyaan?”

The killer Gundam freezes.

“How did you get here?” she asks, voice tight.

“I… I don’t know. It just happened, okay?”

Her grip tightens on the controls. “You disappeared. And now you’re fighting for Zeon?”

“I don’t understand it either,” Nyaan snaps. “It just—happened. What do you want me to say?”

Their blades lock again. Amate leans in, pressing forward.

“Didn’t you hear all that screaming before?”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “All I know is how sick I feel. And someone I don’t know is in my head. Anyway… didn’t you say you were trying to protect Shu-Chan?”

“Protect Shuji?”

Amate stiffens.

Shuji. He had made her feel seen in the Kira-Kira’s light. She’d thought those moments were just theirs—hers and his. But they hadn’t been. Nyaan had been there too. Reaching. Taking. And Shuji had let her.

It still stings.

The melodrama of misplaced affection, Casval muses, with a cruel little smile in his voice. Nothing says ‘Newtype’ like a psychic love triangle mid-duel.

Amate blinks, then speaks with quiet resolve.

“I’m saving Lalah from the Rose of Sharon. Once I do, you won’t be able to use Yomagn'tho anymore, Nyaan.”

There’s a pause. Then Nyaan’s voice, shaken: “Lalah? That’s… that’s the voice I’ve been hearing?”

Amate says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

Most people listen to the voices in their head, Casval remarks. But not that one. What does she need? A billboard?

While Nyaan hesitates, Amate acts.

GQuX surges forward, seizes GFreD, and hurls the killer Gundam into the side of the Yomagn'tho device. The impact echoes through the void.

Well done, you, Casval says, almost fond. You always fight like this. With your whole soul. It’s endearing.

She turns toward the Rose. It looms ahead—silent, waiting. Her heart pounds. She knows what comes next.

Haro chirps softly: Will you do it?

She hesitates. GQuX is beautiful. The thought of damaging it, maybe beyond repair, makes her pause.

Nothing a good engineer can’t fix, Casval offers gently.

Her hand hovers over the limiter panel—the governor that keeps GQuX’s Psycommu systems in check.

A breath. A beat.

“I will.”

She draws the pistol Challia gave her and fires once into the console.

The cockpit dims—then flares to life.

Control arms descend. She reaches up, fingers curling around the grips.

She draws a breath. Deep. Centering.

Will this work? Or just make everything worse?

Still with the dramatic pauses, Casval says, amused. If you wait any longer, the Rose might Zeknova out of boredom.

She rolls her eyes, but only a little. Then she straightens, shoulders squaring, resolve hardening.

GQuX responds.

Psycommu Overdrive mode engages.

Its eyes flare green. Four Psycommu mounts snap open, shoulders and hips, each one glowing with radiant pink light, ringed in shimmering blue halos.

“Let’s do this,” she says.

Yes, Casval replies, voice softening. Let’s.

A beat. Then, dry as ever: Just try not to explode.

Amate guides GQuX forward.

The Rose of Sharon shimmers ahead, wrapped in a field of warped space. Not a shield—something stranger. A time freeze.

She feels it pressing against her, thick and heavy. Like pushing through water. No, it’s like climbing a waterfall made of time itself.

The Psycommu halos spin faster. GQuX groans under the strain.

“Come on,” she mutters. “You’re not stopping me.”

The cockpit shudders. Metal creaks. The suit resists.

“O, it is excellent—to have a giant’s strength,” Casval quotes, voice low. Then a pause. Shakespeare.

“You’ve read other books besides One Thousand and One Nights?”

Sometimes I reread it, he replies. To remind myself of what I’m missing.

That lands. Her eyes flick to the display, but her thoughts linger on his words. She swallows—wants to say something—but the moment slips away.

“Machu! Stop it!”

Amate’s eyes snap wide.

GFreD is back—hovering behind her, violet armor gleaming, eyes burning with sickly light.

She doesn’t turn.

“I’m not stopping.”

Of course not, Casval says, voice low and certain. You never do. That’s what makes you exceptional.

She pushes forward.

GQuX’s hand stretches toward the Rose. The time-freeze field resists—then fractures.

A soundless crack, like glass breaking in a vacuum.

With a final surge, she rips the controller free from the Rose of Sharon.

Golden light erupts, blinding and radiant.

Then the shockwave hits.

It slams into her like a tidal force. GQuX and GFreD are hurled backward, crashing into the far wall of the Yomagn'tho device.

Amate screams—

And through the blinding light and roaring silence, Casval’s voice echoes, faint and final:

“What’s mine is yours… and what is yours is mine.”

Then—blackness.

Total and absolute.

.....

Machu, wake up! Machu, wake up!

Haro’s voice chirps, far too cheerful to be an alarm.

Amate groans. Her head throbs, and she can't think straight. After a moment, her eyelids finally cooperate, and she forces them open.

Shuji hovers above her glowing faintly white. He looks as translucent as a ghost.

No, she isn’t as startled as she should be. After everything in the Kira-Kira, seeing someone this spectral doesn’t feel all that unusual. Talking to a presence, or to herself really, is not too strange either.

Shuji raises a hand and points.

“What are you trying to say?” she asks, squinting in the direction he indicates. “What’s even over there?”

He doesn’t answer. His form simply floats, hair drifting as if caught in a breeze that isn't there. He wears that same expression she's seen before, like he's about to repeat something.

She sighs. “Right. That’s what the Gundam’s saying,” she interprets, more to herself than anyone else.

Leaving GQuX, she follows Shuji’s presence, Haro bobbing along beside her.

.....

In the distance, Casval spots Nyaan and GFreD.

“Shu-Chan!” Nyaan shouts, but her voice is swallowed by the wind. Amate doesn’t hear her.

Behind them, the killer Gundam tears free from the wreckage, its frame sparking as it gives chase.

Casval’s eyes narrow. He calculates the threat instantly—the machine isn’t just following. It’s hunting.

.....

Amate loses sight of Shuji. One moment he’s there—then he’s gone.

She stumbles forward and crashes through a tiled ceiling, plummeting into a vast room below. She tries to land with some grace, but she’s no cat. The landing is awkward, but thankfully, she’s unhurt.

Gravity, it seems, has decided to start working again.

Great.

“Where’s Shuji?” she mutters, dazed. She’s landed squarely on a stage in what looks like an auditorium. At least the seats are empty.

Then she realizes she’s not alone.

“Huh. Who are you guys?” she blurts, eyeing the strange pair flanking her: a wild-eyed woman in a purple mask on one side, and a blond man in a green suit on the other.

Before either can answer, the wall behind the stage explodes inward.

GFreD bursts through, sending debris flying.

“Shu-Chan!” Nyaan shouts over the chaos.

Amate’s heart lurches.

Of course. Why wouldn’t a killer Gundam crash the party?

“We’ve got to go!” the man yells, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward stage right.

“What—?” she starts, but her protest is swallowed by the noise. She floats after him—just before the floor vanishes beneath her.

She falls. Again.

This time, into a ventilation shaft.

As she tumbles into darkness, one thought rises above the rest:

The Yomagn'tho Corn Maze is a flying death trap in space.

.....

"We're falling!"

The wind whistles around them as they drop into the shaft. Shirouzu doesn’t flinch. His grip on the GQuX pilot is firm and gentle, even now.

He’s already calculated out how to land without hurting either of them.

Then comes the voice.

What is this, bring-your-date-to-work day? the presence snarks, gliding alongside them. Haro keeps pace, whirring softly.

Shirouzu doesn’t respond. He never does.

She’s older than your usual type, huh? Amuro chimes in, smug.

Shirouzu rolls his eyes.

Why does everyone say that? My fanbase spans demographics. Teen girls just... cling harder.

Uh-huh. Like you didn’t know that already? That’s literally how we ended up in this mess.

Shirouzu scoffs.

I didn’t seduce Lalah. If you were there, you'd know that.

No, I didn't have to be there to know that. But the way you looked at her probably convinced her otherwise. You knew exactly what you were doing.

Amuro, ever the over-analytical guide, has proven useful. Shirouzu allows himself a sliver of hope that Amuro is right about this path. Returning Lalah to her world is imperative.

One less devotee orbiting his existence.

Apparently breathing near someone is seduction now, Shirouzu mutters.

With you? Yeah, kinda is.

Lalah’s relentless and reality-defying attention isn't just exhausting, it's invasive. Disrespectful. She crossed into this universe for him. A final gambit.

But she will not win.

He hadn’t mislead her. He feels no guilt for not returning her affections.

Why should he?

Still can’t get over yourself, Amuro says, dry and amused.

Still can't get a date? Shirouzu fires back. He is that nerd teenager from '79 after all.

They're only halfway down.

Amuro's only been in his head for—what, less than a year? The plan to infiltrate the Yomagn'tho Solar Ray project was sound. Shirouzu admits that without Amuro’s engineering brilliance, it would have taken longer.

I’ll take that as a compliment, Amuro remarks. You’re not all that, you know.

Screw you, Shirouzu replies. Amuro hears everything.

Tirza Lionni had been impressed.

Too easily.

Not that it mattered.

She was a stepping stone.

The real target was Leo Lionni, the lead developer of Yomagn'tho.

Shirozou gave him what he wanted: admiration, deference, the illusion of mentorship.

Both met their end at the hands of GFreD. How ironic.

There's still another obstacle, he mutters, wind clawing at his jacket.

You’re planning to eject someone from the universe. Forgive me for wanting a few safeguards.

It’s not an execution. It’s a correction.

His voice cuts sharper now.

She doesn’t belong here.

Neither do we, technically.

We’re not the ones rewriting fate with our feelings.

Amuro doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. You really think this’ll work?

It has to.

Shirouzu’s grip on the pilot is still firm and gentle mid-fall.

If it doesn’t... she’ll keep following me. Through every world. Every version of me.

I can’t breathe with her shadow always there.

You could’ve just told her that.

I did.

She didn’t listen.

The silence stretches.

Then Shirouzu hears Amuro sigh.

Alright. Let’s finish this.

Glad you’re finally on board.

Don’t get used to it.

Wouldn’t dream of it.

Now for the next phase, Shirouzu murmurs, for Amuro’s benefit alone.

The next phase, Amuro echoes, his voice a whisper in the dark.

The wind lessens.

Below them, the light shifts—cool brown bleeding into grey.

Shirouzu adjusts his grip on the pilot.

No more detours, he thinks. No more shadows.

Let’s end this.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Amate drifts through the vast ventilation shaft, dwarfed by steel walls that gleam with the sterile sheen of modern engineering. The man in the suit guides her downward, calm and composed, as though the sheer drop beneath them is of no consequence.

As the wall of the next ventilation shaft approaches, he shifts with precision, placing himself between her and the landing. They touch down with a jolt. His arms catch her effortlessly, like it’s second nature.

Her cheek brushes against his chest. He’s warm. Still. Holding her as though she might shatter.

There’s something in the way he holds her—an instinctive protectiveness that reminds her of Casval, not just in manner, but in the memory of a dance they shared in her dreams.

“Are you alright?” he asks. His voice is clear and refined—obviously someone who doesn't lose control.

She looks up. Fair skin. A sweep of sun-kissed blond across his brow. And those eyes—so vividly blue they seem unreal. He’s handsome, yes, but it’s the tenderness in his gaze that lingers.

He's like the living, breathing version of Casval.

“You saved me,” he murmurs, still cradling her. “Thank you for that.”

That voice. It's hard not to miss how similar it is to Casval’s... but older, smoother. A boardroom version perhaps, based on the suit.

Would it be strange to ask him to quote Shakespeare?

Her mind lingers on a single line Casval recited before she passed out: “What’s mine is yours… and what is yours is mine.” That same cadence echoes in this stranger’s voice.

“And you must be the pilot of the Gundam QuuuuuuX, aren’t you?” he adds, as if commenting on the weather—yet still holding her like she’s made of glass.

She blinks, easing back. “Yeah, but... who are you?”

“Who. Who. Who are you,” Haro chirps at her side.

Something flickers behind the man’s eyes—like Kira-Kira. There’s a scent, faint but familiar, that reminds her of Shuji. But it’s not the same.

His scent also lacks the crisp elegance of Casval’s cologne—nothing ever quite compares. This... is close. But not lovely in the same way.

He doesn’t let go. Just watches her, arms resting loosely at her waist, as though searching her face for something lost.

.....

A sudden crackle fractures the stillness.

A humming glow swells to life below them in the depths, white-hot at its core and haloed in rose.

“It’s begun,” he says, calm as ever.

“What’s begun?” she asks, breath catching.

The sphere expands. Light floods upward, washing over them in waves. At its heart—something humanoid.

“Hey! That’s the Red Gundam!” she gasps, chest tightening with awe.

Before she can move, the glow sweeps over them like stardust. And when it fades—he’s changed.

His suit is gone.

In its place: the crimson regalia of a Zeon Captain. High-polished boots. Long white gloves. A black cape trimmed in gold filigree. Epaulettes that swish in the breeze.

"Huh?!"

The helmet and the mask can only mean one thing.

"A red Zeon uniform?!"

It’s like something from a dream.

“Does that mean you’re... Char, the Red Comet?”

Casval’s older brother... is Char? And he never told her?

He glances down, flexing gloved fingers, bemused. “I never imagined this could happen. But I suppose this must be how she remembers me.”

The sphere dims. At the base of the shaft lies the Red Gundam. Nonfunctioning.

Amate pushes downward, heart pounding. “Shuji!”

The cockpit is empty.

“He’s not here,” she breathes. “Shuji, where are you?”

The Captain lands beside her, peering into the cockpit.

“You mean Shuji Ito?”

She turns sharply. “How exactly do you and Shuji know each other?”

He nods, voice drifting into distance. “He proved to be far more of a Newtype than I had anticipated. So perhaps it was no mere coincidence when he appeared before me. I had hoped he might join my cause.”

He adds, no change in tone. “But he’s rather preoccupied with the girl sleeping in the Rose.”

His gaze sharpens, locking onto hers. Searching.

“Tell me. Do you have feelings for that boy?”

The question lands like a stone. Her cheeks flush. Haro lets out a bashful chirp.

She doesn’t answer. But the silence speaks for her.

.....

He turns away, slipping into the cockpit with the ease of old habit—like he’s done it a thousand times in a thousand lives.

“You see, unrequited feelings,” he says over his shoulder, “have a way of driving people into corners.”

She frowns. “What does that mean?”

The Gundam answers for him. Its systems hum to life. Lights flicker across the console like stars blinking awake.

“This world we live in...” he murmurs, “is one where she should not exist.”

He takes the controls. The cockpit swivels.

“And I have no choice but to remove her.”

Her breath catches. The words hit like a slap.

“Remove her?”

But the cockpit seals before she can reach him. The hiss of the lock is final. The Red Gundam’s violet eyes blaze to life.

“No! Wait! I don’t understand! What do you mean, remove her?!” she cries, stumbling back as the launch kicks up a storm of debris.

.....

The roar drowns her out. The Red Gundam vanishes up the shaft like a comet escaping gravity.

Amate stares after it, stunned. The air is warm and dusty.

Her thoughts blur. For a moment, reality doesn’t quite hold—colours seem off, like someone adjusted the world’s contrast. She pushes off the ground, trying to steady herself.

She floats there, heart pounding, until the silence becomes unbearable.

“I’ve got to save Lalah,” she mutters, kicking off hard toward the ventilation shaft where she left GQuX.

Casval would never—never—harm Lalah.

He might despise the Zabis. Might burn the whole regime to ash.

But Lalah?

He’d never touch her.

Would he?

She swallows hard, eyes narrowing.

I need him to talk to his brother.

.....

“Hello,” says a voice. "Turn left here."

Amate startles. It’s not Casval. The tone is unfamiliar—calm, distant, but not unfriendly. A presence she hadn’t noticed until now.

She should’ve caught it sooner. The scent in the air is unfamiliar, though not unpleasant. Likely the wind from the ventilation shaft masked it.

She's grateful for the assistance. The Yomagn'tho Corn Maze had her stumped again.

Amate floats left, up the next ventilation shaft as directed. It's less windy in this one.

“Machu,” the voice continues, soft and deliberate. “My name is Amuro.”

“Amuro…” she repeats, catching her breath. Talking and moving is usually not this difficult. The voice has her rattled.

“I was a Gundam pilot. Like you.”

“A Gundam pilot,” she echoes again, unsure.

“Do you always repeat things?” His tone is measured, with just a flicker of humour. “And no—don’t say ‘always repeat things’ because I said it.”

A blush creeps into her cheeks. Only slightly mortified.

“Why are you here?” she asks, recovering.

“Because you were about to ask Casval questions he can’t answer.”

A gust of air swirls her hair upward, and she blinks against a sudden draft. The shaft smells faintly of ozone and lubricant.

“About his brother?”

“Right...” he replies, hesitating. “Casval doesn’t have a brother.”

“But I met someone who looks exactly like him. They must be related.”

“I can explain that,” he says.

This ventilation shaft is not long and the end is in view.

"You'll need to take the left turn," he instructs.

"Wow, no surprise," she muses. "Another ventilation shaft."

He lets out a small chuckle, before continuing with his explanation.

“It all begins with the Kira-Kira. You’ve been inside the Kira-Kira, correct?”

“Yes,” she says, hesitant because she's not sure where this conversation is going.

“Have you ever seen anything—or anyone—at its core?” Amuro’s voice is gentle but curious. “If so, you’ve glimpsed what Newtypes call ‘The Other Side.’”

“Hmm,” she replies thoughtfully.

“Before I continue,” Amuro says, still steady, “tell me what you know about it—please.”

“I know there are multiple versions of reality,” Amate says. “When I was on Earth, I met Lalah. She’d seen herself on the Other Side. I mean, versions of herself.”

“Good.” Amuro’s tone shifts slightly—approving, almost like a professor acknowledging a correct but incomplete answer.

Amate likes the way he speaks—measured, thoughtful. Like someone’s sharply dressed young academic.

“Oh, really? Thanks.”

Amuro makes a sound—half sigh, half chuckle. “You’re broadcasting. Try not to.”

“You can read my mind?”

“Only if I let myself,” he says with a touch of regret. “I try not to.”

The air shifts slightly, a subtle signal. “Let me continue.”

She nods.

“The versions of Lalah on the Other Side are real to her,” he says. “And she’s not the only one. We all have versions of ourselves there—possibilities mapped across universes. Sometimes we exist. Sometimes we don’t.”

Amuro pauses, breath steady, tone quieter now.

“If we’ve died—or were never born—then there’s nothing. Just absence. Looking for yourself in that emptiness… can be dangerous. Especially for Lalah.”

Amate listens carefully.

“She’s drawn to that world,” he explains. “What she sees there is… more fulfilling. More vibrant. And she keeps returning—because compared to this world, it feels like a promise she can’t stop chasing.”

“I get that,” Amate murmurs.

“Now imagine being able to change your life—based on what you see there.”

Amate draws a sharp breath. “Oh. I get it now.”

“What do you get?”

“Lalah. She’s always seeing these tragic endings. On the Other Side, a Zeon officer rescues her. She’s in love. She’s ready to fight for him, and die for him. But his fate—”

“—never changes,” Amuro finishes softly. “He always dies. Killed by a man in a white mobile suit.”

“She loves him too,” Amate adds, almost to herself.

“Interesting,” Amuro says, and clears his throat again.

“There might even be a universe where the red mobile suit wins. But that’s just theory.”

Amate nods. “Okay…”

He waits. "You'll need to go through these doors to get to the next room."

Amate tries to open them, but the hinges are at odds with the frame. She gives it a good push and it opens with a large clatter.

.....

"Lady Kycilia, thank goodness, you're safe!"

Nyaan’s voice cuts through first—laced with sincere concern. She leaps from GFreD and sprints to Her Excellency. Shuji observes from his usual distance, a silent witness in a world that Nyaan inhabits.

Kycilia stands tall, arms locked at her sides. “What are you even doing down here? What about the operation?”

Nyaan lowers her eyes. “I don't know why, but for some reason, I started feeling really sick...”

Then, a hesitation:

"I, uh, is there actually someone inside the Rose of Sharon?"

Shuji exhales—quietly. The question strikes somewhere deep. It lingers but is quickly replaced by what unfolds.

Kycilia arches an eyebrow. “So you feel a little nausea, what of it? Once this is over, no one can hold you back, and you shall have true freedom at last.”

He listens from the periphery. Kycilia’s tone is sharp and impatient. She’s evaluating Nyaan’s words and finding them wanting.

“No, that can't be it,” Nyaan ponders. “Lady Kycilia said she started this operation because of the man she was talking to.”

Char. Shuji names him silently. Of course it’s him. Kycilia's drawn to him—perhaps unreasonably. Shuji stores the information, a detail folded alongside many others.

The conversation is halted by the sound of a loud metallic clatter overhead.

“Machu?” Nyaan’s surprise pierces the moment. Machu is floating by in the gallery. The door that had been unloosed floating behind her. And, of course, Haro follows.

“That girl from earlier—” Kycilia snaps, drawing her sidearm.

“Machu, get away,” Haro warns.

“You stand with Char! You die!” Kycilia’s shouts as her finger tightens on her weapon.

Shuji catches the memory replaying in Nyaan’s mind. Machu, the subway, that decisive kick. She remembers. She respects it. The courage to stand up for someone when no one else will.

That well-placed kick was remarkable. He almost smiles.

A shot rings out.

Kycilia stumbles but stays on her feet, blood smearing her gloved palm. Machu vanishes into shadow.

Her fury pivots. “What is the meaning of this?”

“No,” Nyaan stammers, backing away, trembling as she holds the pistol. “Lady Kycilia, I didn’t mean…”

Shuji watches tension coil in her. He’s memorized this look—the way fear paints her eyes in icy-hot hues. He never forgets it.

Kycilia fires.

GFreD’s hand slams down, intercepting the blast.

Nyaan stares in disbelief, then runs. Shuji exhales as she climbs into the cockpit—the mobile suit responds instantly.

She’s safe.

Kycilia disappears down the hall, retreating, but far from defeated. The air hums with unfinished things.

Shuji's gaze lingers on the Gundam. Nyaan is alive. For now... that's enough.

.....

"Will she be okay?" Amate asks the presence of Amuro still hovering nearby.

"Yes, she's fine."

"You're sure?"

"As certain as one can be when one has a Gundam-kappa on hand to assist."

"Oh," Amate says, before smiling. That response is definitely an understatement. Maybe something more than 'Oh' would be appropriate.

He chuckles.

She takes a deep breath, floating onward toward the end of the hall outside the auditorium.

Not surprisingly, once through the door and another, they're back in a ventilation shaft. This one doesn't appear as long, but the wind has picked up. They must be getting closer to the earlier impact zone.

“Going back to Casval’s brother…” she says finally.

“There is no brother,” Amuro replies, calm but firm. “What if I told you Casval and Char—the Red Comet—are the same person? That your Casval… came from the Other Side.”

“I knew it.” Amate’s pulse quickens. “Not that he was Char, because who could've guessed that, but… I knew he didn’t belong here. He’s missing too much history.

"He still hates the Zabi's, and no one would blame him, really. He also hides his surprise at new technology well, like GQuX, but it's as if he’s forgotten everything since the war. Or he just wasn't present.”

“Exactly,” Amuro says. “I’m in the same situation. I knew him. Char. Well—Casval. Sorry. That name’s always felt foreign to me. We’re five years out of sync, and I can’t explain why.”

Amate frowns. “But Lalah’s the constant?”

Amuro nods. “Seems that way."

"Casval bears no resentment toward her. But Char? He does,” Amate points out.

“I’ve grown to understand Char,” he says carefully. “Casval and I—agree to disagree.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Amate says, half-smiling. “If they are the same person.”

He remains silent.

“We’re almost at our destination, so I’ll make this quick. The difference between Char in ’85 and the one I knew in ’79?”

He pauses, obviously looking for the right choice of words.

“You’d probably like the older version. He’s better. He treats me like a peer. He lets people in. He’s evolved—become more compassionate. Honestly, I’d never have guessed that possible.”

Amate says nothing.

“But the young Casval you know? He keeps everyone at a calculated distance. To him, people are liabilities. He’s fossilised by memory—driven by revenge. That obsession will destroy him.”

“He’s got good points too,” Amate replies.

“Sure. Sure he does,” Amuro says—though his tone is far from convinced.

She hesitates. “But Char, I mean the older version,… he seems determined to remove Lalah.”

“There’s a reason for that, too.”

Amate finds GQuX precisely where she left her mobile suit. Wreckage blankets the surrounding area, the remains of the crash still fresh. A sharp wind whistles through the debris—possibly a leak—but with no alarms sounding, she assumes it’s safe. For now.

Haro appears, and the hatch hisses shut.

Amuro's presence disappears, and he's given her a lot to think about.

Ahead, her destination looms.

.....

The Red Gundam hovers at the rim of Yomagn'tho, its sensors aglow with static. Amuro hangs back, watching Shirouzu hold court over the unfolding cosmic mess like he’s at a gallery unveiling a painting only he understands.

“A mobile armour built for Newtypes,” Shirouzu announces, “outfitted with the Alpha Psycommu, but it was never built.”

Amuro raises an eyebrow. “It wasn't built because Char hijacked the RX-78 in ’79. Some of us remember history.”

Shirouzu keeps speaking, utterly unfazed. “And instead that Alpha Psycommu was installed in this Red Gundam. And yet, this mobile armour, that was never built, is very clearly here in front of us.”

Amuro mutters, “Wouldn't be the weirdest thing around here.”

Shirouzu gestures toward the shimmering machine. “And there should only be one Alpha Psycommu in this world, but two exist. The two Psycommus are resonating, and it is that instability, that's causing the Rose Girl to produce Zeknovas in this world.”

“Therefore,” he says flatly, “she must disappear from this world before it's too late.”

Amuro crosses his arms. “You know who else should disappear from this universe before it's too late?”

Shirouzu doesn't blink. “Definitely you.”

“You know you’ve got a problem when you start arguing with yourself in full monologue.”

“I knew you were back,” Shirouzu says without turning. “No one else smells like mothballs and condescension.”

Amuro sniffs himself instinctively. “That’s rich, coming from a man who bathes in projection.”

Shirouzu actually chuckles. A rare thing—because he only seems to laugh at his own jokes. “The resonance created by having two Alpha Psycommus has to be stopped.”

“It's not just the Psycommus,” Amuro echoes. “The multiple Chars is more than anyone can take.”

“But once we return the Rose Girl to her rightful place,” Shirouzu says, tone softening, “this may all resolve.”

Amuro sighs. “I just want to live in the universe where Char doesn’t exist.”

Shirouzu arches an eyebrow. “Imagine the peace in the one where you don’t.”

Amuro grins despite himself. “You’d be lonely.”

Char, or the alternate versions of the man who do not belong in this universe, is the figurative white elephant in the room neither party wishes to acknowledge.

And, for the sake of having finally found a friend in a long-time adversary, something he had never thought possible—Amuro lets it go.

Again.

.....

Amate spots the Red Gundam hovering just above the Rose of Sharon. Her heart skips—she knows she has to act fast. Char, the Red Comet's voice crackles through the comms, talking about Lalah disappearing, and that’s all the push she needs.

“This is what the Yomagn'tho was made for,” he declares.

“I don’t think so!” Amate shouts back, her voice fierce with conviction. “I won’t let you hurt Lalah—she’s important to Shuji!”

“The Gundam QuuuuuuX,” Char calls out.

Without hesitation, Amate dives in, piloting the GQuX straight toward the Red Gundam. But just before impact, a force drives them apart—something unseen, yet powerful.

A shimmer of light appears between them.

“What’s that?” Shirouzu asks, his voice tinged with awe.

“Shuji!” Amate gasps, eyes wide as the ghostly form of the young man materializes before them.

His hair floats in that soft, wispy way it always does, and his gaze is fixed solely on Lalah, still nestled within the Rose. The thorn-like lines on her suit begin to glow faintly. Slowly—achingly slowly—Lalah’s eyes flutter open.

“It can’t be,” Shirouzu breathes.

“It’s Lalah,” Amate whispers, her voice trembling with wonder. “She’s waking up.”

Lalah’s eyes sparkle with the Kira-Kira, and in moments, the light envelops them all.

.....

“This marks the beginning of a true Zeknova,” Comoli says.

Casval nods slightly. It’s a reasonable conclusion—one he’s already reached—but hearing it aloud gives the moment a certain gravity.

She steps away from her usual post by the observation window on the Sodon's command deck, and moves to the Operator’s console, her expression focused.

“But this Zeknova is unlike any we’ve seen before,” she continues. “It’s believed to be a phenomenon where energy is exchanged across fractured boundaries between universes.”

Casval watches her with quiet appreciation. There’s something captivating about the way she speaks when she’s in her element—precise, analytical, and utterly absorbed.

“Only three Zeknovas have ever been recorded,” she adds. “Solomon. Side 6. A Baoa Qu.”

He listens, letting her lay out the facts. She’s thorough, and her reasoning is sound.

“In each of those cases, energy flowed outward—from our universe to another. But this time, it’s reversed. The energy is coming in.”

Casval folds his arms, thoughtful. Her analysis is sharp, though perhaps a bit too linear. Energy doesn’t always behave in such binary terms. Nature has a way of defying neat explanations—like the bidirectional synapses in a jellyfish, where signals move in unexpected ways.

Still, she’s right to be intrigued. So is he.

What exactly is crossing over from the other side?

Whatever it is, it’s not ordinary. And it’s only just beginning.

.....

“I just want to make sure she doesn’t get hurt,” Shuji murmurs gently.

“I feel the same,” Char replies, now without his helmet. His hair floats even more elegantly than Shuji’s—if that’s even possible. “But if the Rose Girl keeps distorting this world, we’ll have no choice but to correct it.”

“She’s doing it to protect you,” Shuji says, his voice soft but firm.

“All the more reason,” Char answers, calm but resolute.

Shuji’s expression tightens. If you didn’t know him, you might miss the veiled anger in his stance.

“But that reality is about to end,” he says quietly.

Char blinks, stunned. “Who in the world are you?”

A flicker of something—uncertainty? memory?—crosses Char’s features. For just a second, he wasn’t the Red Comet. He was someone real.

“The truth is... I’m from the other side.”

Amate floats in place, stunned. Her thoughts race, but she can’t find words.

Shuji turns to face them both.

“This creation of hers—this world of yours—I’m here to destroy it.”

The Kira-Kira pulses again, brighter, stronger. Amate clutches the controls, heart pounding. She has no idea what’s coming next.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

The Rose of Sharon pulses as it strains to remain anchored in Machu's universe. It casts an eerie glow over two historic rivals suspended above it within the bulb-shaped hollow of Yomagn'tho.

Char waits in the Red Gundam, mask on and pose perfect, as his irritation mounts. Impatience is not usual for him, he's calmer than this, so he looks to the structure to ground himself.

A moment of appreciation then. Amuro’s engineering is, admittedly, impressive. Elegant, even.

Who wouldn’t be impressed? Amuro says, allowing a small sigh to escape. A build for the ages.

Those overdone ventilation shafts, Char adds smugly. Kept the development team busy with calculations and revisions. No time to question the scope—or the cost overruns.

Sure. That's what got it done.

I would tell you a construction joke, but I'm still working on it.

That's so bad, Amuro says, chuckling.

How long did you have to wait to say that one?

Surprisingly, not long at all.

Amuro chuckles.

.....

Shuji Ito lingers near Nyaan, careful not to intrude. She’s seated alone in GFreD, tucked into a quiet recess along the outer edge of Yomagn'tho’s frame. It’s the kind of place someone chooses when they don’t want to be found—a perfect hiding spot for being sad.

He wishes there were something he could do to ease her burden. If there were, he’d do it without hesitation. But words aren’t his strength. Not like Casval, who can dress up any thought in layers of poetic nonsense, or Amuro, who can break down a phenomenon to its particle behaviour. Shuji didn’t cross over from their side with that kind of fluency. Not that he ever spoke much to begin with.

So his presence stays close, silent, listening.

The other Shuji—the one from the Rose Lady’s universe, the one he calls Machu's Shuji—speaks with cold certainty about destroying the world Nyaan calls home. Shuji listens to every word, memorizing the cadence, the intent, the threat.

He’ll stop him. Whatever it takes.

He gets the word from Amuro, the man with the plan. The man who always seems to know what to do.

And before he leaves, he glances at Nyaan—because even if he can’t say it, he wants her to know she’s not alone.

.....

The equipment aboard the Sodon hums with quiet efficiency—a tolerable backdrop, Casval supposes, if not for the incessant commentary from the bridge crew.

“Feel anything, Ensign Comoli?” Captain Rassit asks, her tone far too casual for Casval’s liking. “You can see things the rest of us can’t, isn’t that right?”

Casval’s jaw tightens. He detests this line of questioning. Comoli is not some parlour trick to be summoned for the amusement of lesser minds. She is his favourite because she's disciplined, perceptive, and brilliant.

Their impertinence will not go unanswered.

“I can’t tell,” Comoli replies, her voice calm and measured. “Unfortunately, it’s not convenient.”

Polite, Casval notes with a flicker of approval. He himself would have been far less charitable.

Predictably, the staff are preoccupied with who is fighting whom, as if that matters. Ignoring them, Casval turns his attention to the Rose.

The ghostly version of Shuji hovering above it gives him a sudden violent headache. It forces him to remember why he dislikes Shuji so much.

.....

Side 7. The prototype Gundams. Ensign Shuji Ito in the 01, fleeing back into the colony as Casval, delighting in the hunt, gave chase in the newly-acquired 02. Back then, Shuji Ito moved like prey, so skittish and frightened. His piloting was reflex, not intent.

And yet he had escaped. Used his stillness to stay hidden.

It wasn't a problem in their universe until it was.

Shuji had been there with Amuro when he tried to draw the Witch away from Artesia. Shuji in the 01 Gundam. Standing. Fighting. A soldier with just one job: to stop the Red Comet.

And he did.

And when he did, Ensign Ito came along for the ride with Casval, Amuro, and another into this universe in Lalah's Zeknova.

He had forgotten there was a fourth pilot, but who it is, remains a mystery. His mind is missing a chunk of memory like someone took a bite out of it.

The fourth… I ought to remember who it was. Yet every time I try, her voice disappears first.

His musings are interrupted by a familiar mental nudge—Amuro. The man wants a word. With him and Ensign Ito, no less.

.....

Shuji's ghostly silhouette hovers near the Rose, its glow outlined against the interior walls of Yomagn'tho.

“Don’t get in my way, Shuji,” Char commands. Then, with the confidence that has always come naturally to him: “Whoever comes from the other side, I intend to send them back.”

When you’re ready, Amuro’s voice murmurs in his mind.

Proceed.

Amuro activates a single quantum bit. The reaction is immediate.

.....

Lights along the equator of the Solar Ray Project flicker to life, one by one, until the entire ring blazes with energy. The station groans, then begins to split free of the surrounding asteroid, fully revealing the Rose within.

“Char, what are you trying to do?” Amate’s voice cuts through the tension. Her confusion is obvious in her voice.

“Once the gate opens,” he replies coolly, “I’ll send the Rose Girl back to where she belongs. This is why I had them build Yomagn'tho.”

Amate stares, stunned. Her shock deepens as the spectral Shuji murmurs, “If someone can cross from this side… someone can cross from the other side too.”

“Shuji!” she cries, but it’s too late. He’s already stepped into the portal.

......

The Kira-Kira is a kaleidoscope of brilliance that gentles Newtype minds. Casval stands amidst it, listening as Amuro outlines the plan with the composed authority of a scholar.

The forms of Casval and Shuji Ito shimmer, semi-translucent, their eyes aglow with the same spectral light that pulses from the Rose of Sharon. Casval is composed and cuts a sharp silhouette. Ensign Ito, predictably, looks like a child trying on his father's uniform.

Casval frowns.

“Island Iffish?” he asks. The name is a relic. In the world he, Amuro, and Ito came from, the colony in Side 2 was dropped on Earth long ago. Completely obliterated, but never forgotten.

“Yes, I’m certain,” Amuro replies, his voice calm but firm. “Side 2 develops advanced Endymion Gundams in that universe.”

“Side 2. Understood,” Shuji says, voice flat.

Not a request. A decision.

Casval doesn't reply. He just watches. His discomfort sharpens—not because Shuji’s changed, but because maybe he has.

“When you arrive, she’ll be there too,” Amuro continues. “Be sure to bring her back. We owe her.”

“Beg your pardon. Who? And what do we owe?” Casval asks, but the question is swallowed by the shift.

In an instant, they are no longer among the Kira-Kira. They float in the breach at Solomon just before a minor Zeknova blossoms into being. And then, they are gone.

.....

It's smells like a mechanic's garage in the otherwise immaculate Island Iffish Gundam Research Facility. Floodlights cast long shadows across the steel platform where four advanced Gundams rest in silence, like sleeping titans.

Shuji Ito and Casval step onto the platform, and there is no clanging against the metal, no shadows cast on the walls, just the presence of two Gundam pilots.

This outing should be fast.

Casval, sharp-eyed and composed, surveys the Gundams with a calculating gaze. He notes how the Ensign's gaze is calm, half-lidded, as if tracing something only an artist can see.

"There you are… Gundam Beta," Casval says, in a Newtype conversation which only Ito can hear.

"Tau’s calling me. I can feel it," Shuji replies.

They move toward their respective machines—but a flicker of movement catches Casval’s eye. A figure in a light-coloured pilot suit is climbing into the silent Gundam Sigma.

Like Ensign Ito and Casval, she is also a presence.

"Stop!" he shouts. "What are you doing?" He's not mistaken. He'd seen her tampering with the Gundams. And now she's making her getaway?

The figure turns. A small woman—middle-aged, with a black pixie hair cut, and a smile that makes you think she's happy with the way the cookies she's baked turned out.

"Hmm," Shiiko Sugai replies, unperturbed.

Before anyone can react, time stops and suddenly, they’re no longer on the platform.

The three float in a shimmering void, surrounded by fragments of memory and light. The Kira-Kira pulses with energy.

"We came here to acquire the power," Casval begins. "To fight a Gundam that uses the technology that exists here."

"And you need these Gundams to do it?" The Witch asks with a kindness that she uses to mask what seems to be an inside joke. But to Casval, she's the same deceitful adversary he's seen before. How ironic that she should be here.

"They’re the only ones that can sync with us," Ensign Ito offers.

"I didn't expect to see someone so young," she says with a giggle.

Casval smooths his features and hides his disgust at her phoniness. The way Shiika always tries to disarm her opponents into thinking she's helpless when he knows she isn't. Mistrust pervades in all universes it seems.

"You help us," Casval says, beginning what he hopes will be a smooth negotiation. "You get what you came for."

The Witch’s expression softens. She looks away.

"Perfect," she says, still pleasant. "I've done what I needed to do. I’m coming. I've got nothing left anyway."

They return to the platform.

The Witch walks away from them, silent. Casval and Shuji exchange a knowing glance because there's a history.

In their universe, the Red Gundam piloted by Casval had killed her Mav and in Machu's universe, Machu's Shuji had ended her life in Clan Battle. Casval remembers both incidents well.

The three climb into Beta, Tau, and Sigma. The Gundams power up—lights flare, engines hum.

Security forces rush in, but stop dead as the Gundams rise seemingly on their own.

The Commander looks up, awestruck. "Let them go. We can’t stop them. They'll fry us."

The Gundams leave the facility unbothered and travel in a V-formation back to Solomon.

......

The portal pulses—once, then again—before something bursts through. It’s fast. Too fast.

A white Gundam, unlike anything Amate’s ever seen, streaks into view. Its armour gleams with an eerie, unnatural light, and its eyes blaze with cold, merciless fury.

“What is that thing?” she breathes, heart skipping.

The White Devil moves with terrifying elegance. As it raises its beam sword, the Rose of Sharon trembles beneath its presence.

Even the Red Gundam’s lights flicker erratically.

Char’s voice crackles through the comms. “What’s this? Is the Alpha Psycommu afraid?”

Amate doesn’t know about GQux, but she can’t lie to herself—she’s scared. Really scared.

Shuji’s voice cuts through the static, calm but heavy. “The real Gundam has arrived. There’s no going back now. It’s telling me: I will kill the Rose Girl, to end this world.”

“Shuji!” Amate cries, summoning Kira-Kira with a surge of will.

In an instant, she and Shuji are floating together—just the two of them. It feels right. Like it’s always meant to be this way.

“You would kill Lalah?” she asks, her voice trembling with disbelief. “But why? I thought she was important to you, Shuji.”

It doesn’t make sense. Not to her. There has to be more to this.

Then, like a dream unspooling, Lalah’s memories begin to play—holographic images flickering past too quickly to grasp.

“What am I seeing?” Amate asks, eyes wide.

“Her memories from another life,” Shuji explains gently. “Events from the other side. To us, they’re like mirages. Or dreams.”

She spots a familiar shape. “Is that the Rose of Sharon?”

“In that world, it was called the Elmeth.”

The vision sharpens.

Char, in the Red Gelgoog, shouts, “Lalah, this is no time to fool around!”

The Red Gelgoog and White Gundam clash in a fast-paced altercation. From Lalah’s perspective, the battle is chaos. She senses danger—Char is too close.

A smaller craft appears. Before Char can strike, Lalah screams, “Captain, you can’t!”

In a Newtype flash, Char sees Artesia, his sister, at the helm.

The vision fades. The White Gundam is ready. It detaches an appendage, takes aim.

Before the Elmeth can be obliterated, the Red Gelgoog intercepts the blast—first with its glove, then with its entire body.

Char is destroyed.

Lalah’s scream echoes through the vision. “Captain!”

Then silence.

Amate watches, stunned, as Lalah—an immensely powerful Newtype—activates the Alpha Psycommu in her grief. Her sorrow births new universes, each one a desperate attempt to create a world where Char survives.

“And yet,” Shuji says softly, “in every universe, Char is killed by a White Gundam. Again and again. Each time, it breaks her. The despair distorts the universes until they collapse. After countless cycles, she arrived here, the world you know.”

“The world I know?” Amate echoes.

“Yes. And if Char pilots the Gundam in this one…”

Visions flash—Char discovering RX-78-02 on Side 7. A moment etched in history.

“…then he won’t be killed. He’ll live on. But Lalah will never meet him here. That’s the world she chose.”

“Lalah…” Amate murmurs, heart aching. The thought of never meeting the one meant for you—it’s unbearable.

“But now,” Shuji continues, “Char is rejecting this world. That pain will destroy her. Her heart will shatter, and this universe will collapse… taking the other side with it. That’s why I have to end it. I have to kill her before she wakes up.”

“Huh?” Amate blurts. That leap in logic is immense.

“I’ll erase this universe. Make it like it never existed. Just a dream she had. But even then, she’ll probably make another. She always does. All to protect Char. The one she loves.”

“But… I don’t…” Amate stammers. It’s irrational, but she can’t find the words to argue.

“With my own hands, I’ve ended her life more times than I can count. I just want to protect her heart.”

The Kira-Kira connection snaps as Char’s voice booms, “Shuji! Such childish nonsense!”

To an outsider, maybe it does sound childish. But Amate isn’t so sure. There has to be another way. There has to be.

.....

The Red Gundam’s sensors flare just as Char senses the shift. It's a palpable spike of danger, sharp and deliberate.

With a brief vent of pressure, the Red Gundam rises through the opening of Yomagn'tho.

“Lady Kycilia?”

He locates the Chivvay instantly. Its weapons are locked on his suit. Predictable.

“For scheming on Zeon to this degree, I really have to commend you, Char,” Kycilia's voice drawls across the comms, simultaneously smug and brittle.

In spite of himself, he sees it—her memory unspooling. The first time she saw him: a golden field, Casval and Artesia running with the wind in their hair, their father lifting Artesia skyward like something divine. And Kycilia, ever the zealot, watching wistfully from a distance, imagining motherhood might not be quite so repugnant if the children were perfect.

He doesn’t remember the day in question, not precisely. But he does recall the way Zeon Zum Deikun always adored Artesia so openly.

The memory dissolves. They both return to the present.

“Yet, even after all these years,” she snarls, “the bloodline of Zeon Zum Deikun is nothing but a nuisance to the world at large.”

Char smiles thinly in his seat. The familiar venom is almost reassuring.

“Char, after I exterminate the old human race on Earth,” she proclaims, “it's I who will create the era of Newtypes you wanted so badly.”

Ah. She’s still clinging to the delusion that she understood the Newtype ideal better than he did.

Char still believes in that ideal, but the unfortunate business with the Rose of Sharon has forced him, temporarily, to shelve the dream. Circumstances.

He tenses. The Chivvay should have fired by now.

It doesn't.

Instead, a more immediate threat arrives, forcing the attention of command staff elsewhere. A familiar silhouette.

“The Kikeroga?” he murmurs. “Challia Bull?”

Of all people. And Challia seems haunted as if some gnawing dread were as real as the controls beneath his hands.

“Lady Kycilia, prepare to die!” Challia’s voice cuts in, less dramatic flourish than a practical verdict.

The Chivvay veers hard to starboard, nearly colliding with a Side 6 battleship. Trapped, Kycilia orders it destroyed. The vessel erupts under fire. Debris. Smoke. A dislodged Zaku tumbles, cannon wrenched from its grasp.

Kycilia pivots again, intent on the greater threat—until she sees him. Again.

“The Red Gundam—?”

The surprise in her voice is more satisfying than it should be. She hadn’t accounted for him. And that is her final mistake.

“You were a commendable superior,” Char intones, lifting his salute with calculated grace.

“But now you may rejoin your brother.”

He fires.

The beam cannon strikes the command deck in a single, elegant motion. The Chivvay is engulfed in flame. Just like that, Kycilia is no more.

Was she really a commendable superior? Amuro's voice floats in, always the analyst.

It could be interpreted that way.

Char pauses, then.

Definitely a purple person.

Good grief, Amuro replies with a strangled laugh.

That’s awful.

Effin' awful.

Kindly hand me that bazooka. I'd like to go quietly.

Char laughs—genuinely. Against all reason.

.....

The White Gundam hovers in front of the Rose like it's hesitating. And maybe it is. Maybe he is.

Amate floats just ahead in GQuX, breath caught in her throat, trying to read the subtle tension in Shuji’s stance.

“To protect Lalah’s heart…” she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the hum of her cockpit. The words he said still echo inside her. They don’t sound like someone ready to destroy anything.

Her thoughts drift in half-second flashes of memories. Text messages lit on her screen:

Let’s get the Beginning.

The rose is blooming.

Odd clues. They’d felt random then. They feel like lifelines now.

It’s always been about getting the Beginning, the Alpha... to stop this endless cycle of destroying universes?

So the Rose of Sharon could bloom? So Lalah could awaken? Truly awaken.

That was the mission. That was her mission.

“No way,” she says aloud, sharper now, heart racing. “Lalah would never want this! And Shuji—you wouldn't either!” She clenches the controls tighter.

“No matter what it takes, I’ll stop you!”

Somehow, she has to get to him.

The battle ignites in an instant. GQuX surges forward, colliding with the sheer brilliance of the White Gundam. Energy meeting energy. Her breath catches every time their machines clash, but she doesn’t falter. She can’t.

Shuji’s skill is effortless, his movements graceful and precise.

Still, Amate holds him off.

She parries a blazing arc, slips inside a sweep, counters with a sharp burst that rattles his side armour. She knows she’s outmatched, but she’s also annoyingly stubborn.

Now is not the time for second-guessing.

“Come on, genius boy,” she mutters under her breath with a faint grin. “Let’s see how you handle someone who knows all your favourite moves.”

Another strike. Another parry. She meets him blow for blow, heart pounding, and it's not from fear, but from the ache of trying to reach someone she still believes in.

....

“Machu! Shuji!”

Nyaan exhales, relief flooding her as confirmation settles in—they’re alive. Somewhere.

What once felt like amazing guesses or strong instinct is now certainty. Her Newtype senses aren’t abstract dreams. They’re real. Tangible.

She’s not crazy.

Lady Kycilia had her tested.

Right now, she feels the clash between them. A growing tension. Machu and Shuji, caught in a fight that pulls at her heart.

She needs to find them.

GFreD detaches from its sheltered point on Yomagn'tho’s frame, drifting purposefully toward the centre. Drawn by feeling alone.

There they are. GQuX and the White Gundam locked in fierce combat. Machu holds her ground, nimble but straining against the White Gundam’s strange, rigid movements. She’s barely keeping pace.

Then a voice, familiar and distorted, cuts through the comms.

“Before Lalah fully wakens again, I have to finish this. You need to stand aside.”

It sounds like Shuji. It is Shuji.

Nyaan doesn’t wait.

The moment she sees her chance, GFreD slips between them, gliding in like a falcon. She lifts her arms between the two suits, calm and unwavering. Like a referee breaking up a heavyweight bout.

“Shu-Chan, is that you in the white mobile suit?” she asks gently. “Machu, why are you fighting Shu-Chan?”

She closes her eyes. A subtle mental nudge. An invitation.

In an instant, she’s with Machu. A Kira-Kira space flickers into being, her signature cascade of blue and violet sparkles dancing in the stillness.

“The last thing I’d ever want is for you to kill each other,” she tells Machu, voice full of quiet conviction.

“The three of us planned to see the ocean,” Machu answers, the memory is more than a dream.

“You remember our promise, Machu?”

“For that to happen, Shuji must be stopped. Nyaan, let's join forces.”

Her heart aches at the thought. “But I let everyone down,” she says. “I ran away. I did something awful.”

The guilt still clings to her. A Baoa Qu is gone. A Zeknova to remember.

“You’re wrong,” Machu replies. “All that says to me, is you survived on your own, Nyaan.”

The kindness catches her off guard. It feels like sunlight through cracks.

“Let's be Mavs,” Machu says, her hand finding Nyaan’s. “We'll fight together.”

“Machu!” Nyaan cries out, a rare burst of unguarded joy. Her best friend—back. By her side again.

And with her, anything feels possible.

The two Gundams reach for one another—and grasp hands. Together, they rise.

The sparkles fade slowly. Nyaan can still feel Machu’s fingers in hers as the real world reasserts itself.

They’re back in more ways than one.

.....

“It’s the Alphaciders,” Char remarks, voice even, effortlessly brushing aside Challia Bull’s confusion about the Newtype reaction they just felt.

“So, Captain—was it the girl inside the Rose of Sharon you were truly after?”

“Mm-hmm. It would seem that in this universe, her desires shield me from harm,” Char replies.

How Lalah bestows divine favour via adolescent yearning is metaphysical bullshit. He should be in charge of his life.

The battle between Challia’s Kikeroga and his own Red Gundam is momentarily suspended while GFreD and GQuX engage the White Gundam with reckless abandon.

There's nothing to be gained if either he or Challia were to intervene directly in the battle of the big guns, the outcome would border on cataclysmic.

And so, naturally, it becomes time for philosophy.

“In a world so hopelessly distorted,” Char muses aloud, “I doubt the age of Newtypes will ever come to be, thus I will see to it that this omnipotent being is removed from this world. Only then will we be able to lead humanity, but only after that...”

“Maybe you’re right,” his opponent concedes. And with that, he opens fire.

“Challia Bull,” Char breathes, amused by the melodramatic flourish. The man does love a tragic overture.

“The Zabi family is no more,” Challia states. “We fully support Lady Artesia to lead Zeon.”

Char agrees. How could anyone find fault with Artesia. Sweet, earnest Artesia. If only Zeon deserved her.

The Kikeroga and Red Gundam exchange fire, neither gaining on the other. Char has no intention of destroying Challia, his intention is to stop this nonsensical fight.

“I finally see it now,” Challia continues. “It would be too dangerous to let you lead Zeon. Just as Lady Kycilia almost did, you'd eventually purge the Earth of all human life. The emptiness within you reveals it all.”

“You're speaking as if you've seen the future,” Char replies coolly, not because he believes Challia, but because he finds the accusation laughable in its presumption.

But the thought did occur to you, Amuro chimes in, ever the inconvenient philosopher.

Yes, Char admits inwardly.

Only a fool never considers every possible outcome.

But in time, he realised the truth: insight without compassion is a curse. And Newtypes were meant for something better.

The battle slips into rhythm—feints and counters like fencing on a cosmic scale. Kikeroga lunges. Red Gundam dances back. A pivot. A parry. Char yields—just slightly.

Cheer up, Char, it could be worse, you could be stuck underground in a hole full of water. You know I mean well. Amuro comments.

That’s dreadful, Char says, trying to keep a straight face.

The presence chuckles.

.....

The Beta, Tau, and Sigma Gundams descend into the outskirts of Solomon silent, gleaming and uninvited.

Casval turns, instinct alight. Above, Omega plunges, weapons bared. A Heat Hawk in search of a head.

The clash is brief. Searing light, flashing blades. The powerful Gundam has no problem taking on three opponents.

And, just as Omega lifts its sword to strike the Witch in Sigma, Casval intercepts. Beta Gundam locks onto Omega and almost lazily casts it aside.

Later.

A moment before the Zeknova ignites, the space in their corner of Solomon thickens like smog in a temperature inversion.

Casval feels it first: the pull behind his eyes, the hum beneath Beta’s core. This is no mere light jump. It’s a folding of space and time.

Then—

A flash of a Zeknova, swallowing their figures in the wave of a singularity. Beta, Tau, and Sigma vanish in a silent flare.

.....

Machu’s Solomon vibrates.

The same corner of space ripples as though the universe was getting messy before cleaning up again.

The vortex opens.

Three mecha-shaped streaks fall outward from a dark well into starlight.

And then they emerge.

Casval. Shuji Ito. The Witch.

No longer simply pilots.

They are fused with their powerful Gundams, monstrous warriors sculpted from metal. Kira-Kira glows in their eyes, displaying each pilot's exceptional human intelligence made better.

“We’re not done yet,” Casval declares, his voice modulated, clear as crystal. Beta surges forward toward Yomagn'tho, ready to go into battle with a power unseen in this side.

“Let’s finish this,” Ensign Ito answers. He draws a blade of light, and for a fraction of a second, Casval falters.

That voice. It isn’t the boy’s.

Aside from being metallic, it's now deeper, and more commanding.

He casts Ito a glance, not openly, of course, but Newtypes seldom need to look to see. The composure is new. The stillness is not.

He watches quietly, unnerved, and lets Tau drift slightly too far ahead in formation.

Tau moves at the speed of my thoughts.

So does Beta, Casval replies, aware that his tone comes across as a warning.

He exhales and looks ahead. To Shuji Ito. To whatever this version of him has become.

Try not to disappoint me, he says, and launches forward.

They have a world to save.

.....

Of course he’s all aristocratic intellect and poise, Amuro thinks. Even when he's beautiful diamond-edged alloy, he’d never accept anything less.

That’s always been Casval: entitled, strategic, and a tragic legacy carrier. But now he is something more.

Amuro’s chest tightens.

Gundam Beta looks like the machine that could end it all.

Their minds brush for a moment.

Still judging? Casval mutters across the connection, tinged with disdain.

Always, Amuro replies.

.....

Somewhere within Yomagn'tho’s chaotic sphere, the White Gundam hangs in place—unnervingly still.

"That's it. I'm out of time," Shuji declares, as the otherworldly mobile suit transforms.

"Wow," Amate exclaims, unable to believe her eyes. "Is it invisible?

"Did it leave?" Nyaan asks.

As if in answer to their questions, the White Gundam swats GQuX and GFreD away. They recover quickly.

"It's here," Amate says, because she can feel it.

"We just can't see it," Nyaan says, as she swipes at open space.

They continue to battle against the cloaked, phase-shifted Gundam, whatever term suits it. And when GQuX or GFreD happen to land a wildly improbable strike, its silhouette snaps into brief existence.

It could have finished this already, Amuro thinks. And yet—it hesitates.

That hesitation is what draws his attention more than the machine itself. It's not indecision; it's restraint mirroring an inner reluctance.

Amuro beckons the five Gundams into the Kira-Kira, the perfect private spot to give the assembled pilots their orders.

First GQuX and GFreD arrive—battered, but holding steady.

And now, three new arrivals enter the ring.

Good. We have the shape. Now we need the structure.

.....

Amate’s breath catches.

Her eyes fall first on the gunmetal giant, crowned with singularities that pulse at its shoulders.

Beta. Casval.

The regal posture. That calm, insufferably elegant precision. It couldn’t be anyone else.

A grin flashes across her face before she can hide it.

He came. Of course he did.

He’s always shown up when it mattered.

Then her gaze shifts left.

Sigma. White-and-blue. Gliding like a ghost.

Amate’s eyes narrow.

She knows this unit. Or at least, she’s supposed to.

The Witch. Shiiko Sugai.

But she shouldn't be here—not in this world. Not now.

Amate's fingers tighten into fists. It’s not anger. Not exactly.

More like… reflex.

Something about Shiiko always felt off. Calm, pleasant, even disarming—but behind that, an unreadable silence. A woman who lived for revenge.

What revenge is she seeking now?

Amate lets out a slow breath. No time to figure it out. Not yet.

Her attention slides to the final Gundam.

Tau. Red-gold. Etched in glyphs. Holding its blade too easily.

It moves like a leader. Not flashy. Not uncomfortable with being the best.

That could be anyone.

Amate feels Shuji. But something's wrong.

The nod of the head isn’t his. The stance isn’t his either.

And just as she leans in, trying to place it—

Nyaan exhales, quiet and clear.

“…That’s how Kuuro used to stand.”

It hits Amate like a chill. She glances at GFreD.

Nyaan is watching Tau closely. Not moving. Not questioning. Just watching.

The way the left shoulder tilts. The way the Gundam turns, foot pushing slightly before take off. Tau’s posture isn’t a copy—it’s reminiscent. Familiar in the bones.

Whatever’s in that Gundam… it’s not just Shuji, although they both feel it's Shuji to the core.

Amate can’t explain it. Neither can Nyaan.

But something old has joined them.

.....

“We’ll need to end this childish attack soon,” Casval says, his tone brooking no dissent. “Before the White Gundam's true intentions overtake that hesitation.”

Amuro nods. “Correct. And here’s how we’ll do it.”

He lays it out: four pilots—Casval, Shuji, Shiiko, and Nyaan—will form the base of a tetrahedral trap. An energetic pyramid, each Gundam tethered by phased beam-lines. Containment by geometry.

"Electric fencing, by any other name."

The holographic display shows the outline of a tetrahedron with irregular sides moving rapidly to form one with equilateral sides.

"Once enclosed, the pyramid begins to collapse inward."

The display updates to show the pyramid shrinking and containing the White Gundam.

“And GQuX?” Shiiko asks.

Amuro glances toward Machu’s unit. “When the formation locks, Machu will engage the White Gundam directly. She’ll be the spear.”

Amate’s voice cuts in, sharp with focus. “But how will I know where it is? It’ll still be too wide a zone.”

Amuro looks from one Gundam to another before smiling to ease the tension in the space.

“Nyaan will mark it,” Amuro answers. “Her Kira-Kira spectrum in ultraviolet will reveal the outline. Briefly, but enough.”

The pyramid's interior is bathed in ultraviolet Kira-Kira, causing the surface of the White Gundam to reflect brilliantly, like a white T-shirt under the black lights of a dance club.

He adds, almost as afterthought: if GQuX falters, the pyramid will contract, compressing the White Gundam further. If that fails, all four will engage.

The pyramid shatters and all four points, where Nyaan and the three Endymion Gundams stood, move in and begin attacking.

The space falls silent.

“Any questions?”

"We end it now," Casval states, as if it's fait accompli.

Amuro’s gaze lingers a moment longer on the display where the White Gundam might be hiding. Still frozen. Still waiting.

He answers quietly. “Together.”

.....

Nyaan takes up a position on one side and the three Endymion Gundams—Beta, Tau, Sigma—whisk by like arrows shot from the future to form a blockade around the Rose.

Casval unveils Beta’s full potential and waits for the others to get in position. The lights of the formation shimmer outside his panoramic field as the tetrahedron comes together. Newtype precision and scientific achievement on full display.

Nyaan, though lacking in experience, catches on quick. Her fighting stance reveals training drilled into Gundam pilots at the Zeon naval academy. Rookie training, but sufficient.

"Well done, GFreD," he calls out.

His remark seems to have caught her off guard and she stammers, but doesn't reply.

That plan was elegant. Functional. Predictive. Difficult to improve. Which, naturally, annoys him.

The fact that it came from Amuro annoys him more.

"You have something to say?" Amuro asks, as if in reply to Casval's thoughts.

“I admit,” Casval says, voice dry, “it’s a sound structure.”

A pause. Not for dramatic effect—though he’ll allow it to read that way.

“Amuro, I expected something sufficient. This… borders on graceful.”

.....

Somewhere in the ether, Amuro arches an eyebrow, though Casval can’t see it.

“Thanks for the rousing endorsement,” Amuro says, deadpan.

But his voice softens as he checks the telemetry—Casval shifting into his designated position without protest.

He’s actually following the plan. It’s such a subtle thing, but Amuro notices. Casval could have undermined it. Could have modified something just to be contrary. But he didn’t.

And somehow, that support—so backhanded, so him—makes the plan feel more real.

More possible.

Amuro exhales. “Glad we’re aligned.”

“Temporarily,” Casval replies. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

Their connection tapers off, but the sentiment lingers. Amuro feels it.

Not trust. Not quite.

But mad respect. From him.

It matters more than he will admit.

.....

Nyaan’s ultraviolet Kira-Kira arcs outward like a flare, threading light between the four anchor points. The tetrahedron begins to form—lines tightening like drawn breath.

A hum rises beneath Amate’s feet. An acceleration heavy with purpose.

This is it.

Then the White Gundam strikes fast with deliberate aim. Its bits burst outward, arcing like a net of blades.

GFreD moves first. Funnels snap into place, intercepting two attackers mid-course. Nyaan's path wobbles for half a breath—but she realigns cleanly, trusting her instinct.

Amate can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

The beam sword in GQuX’s grip lights up. She doesn’t need to think—she’s synced with her mobile suit and their resolve is focused on the same end point.

Beta spreads wide above. Casval’s singularities unfurl with cool precision, stabilizing the structure.

Amate watches the pattern hold. Of course he has it measured to the micron.

More attacks come from the White Gundam as it tries to loosen the points of the tightening pyramid.

But before the bits can reach Sigma, Casval shifts, just one calculated motion, and Beta’s gravitational wells ignite like flares. The White Gundam's attack collapses into itself, torn apart by crushing force.

Amate watches, wide-eyed. He read the pattern before it formed. Like he's already ten moves ahead. Like he is the Red Comet.

Tau's hammer sweeps wide—not flashy, but an effective low counterattack. Amate can sense it now: Shuji, if that is Shuji, is moving like someone with something to prove. Or someone to protect.

His actions allow Nyaan to release another round of ultraviolet Kira-Kira.

Casval's reaction to Tau's precision in formation catches her off guard. Composed. Dangerous. Still unfamiliar.

If and when they get through this, she'll have to find out why he reacted like that.

.....

The Gundams dance faster around the suddenly clear target. Amate takes a breath because they are now harder to hit.

Shiiko doesn’t waste a word and returns fire. Sigma's bits arc behind the White Gundam and strike with pinpoint precision. That icy grace hasn't dulled one bit.

Amate exhales, a quiet laugh on the edge of disbelief.

They showed up. Every one of them.

“It’s working!” she blurts. “We’re holding it in!”

And for a moment—for just that moment—they are more than pilots. They’re a shape made of will.

The pyramid pulses. The trap holds.

The White Gundam grows in size filling the pyramid. The trap strains to contain it.

Then the real fight begins.

.....

Amate’s thoughts flicker, uninvited but welcome, to moments she’s shared with Casval.

“I believe in you,” he’d said, clear and direct, like it cost him nothing. “And I believe in ambition. Especially the ambition of someone strong enough to realise it.”

He’d declared her the hero of the story.

And it gave her strength. Not because she needed permission—but because it mattered that he saw it too.

“....And though the path ahead is uncertain, you are not alone. You have your wits, your will, and an excellent sense of doing what’s right.”

Casval always knew how to say the thing that hit straight to the heart, with just enough grandeur to keep it from sounding sentimental. He'd never doubted her when it counted.

She’s always known he was in her corner. Even if it came wrapped in sarcasm and superiority.

She’s grateful for that, their time together.

What had he said about gratitude again?

It involved where she had started in life. She knew she had advantages.

“…perhaps gratitude is warranted,” he’d said, thoughtfully. “If you recognise the privilege, that’s a start.”

But of course, he couldn’t leave it there.

“Continuously defending privilege may eventually become tiresome,” he’d added, with that faint little curl of smug amusement in his voice.

Amate chuckles softly to herself. That was so Casval.

And somehow, even now, with everything hanging in the balance—when it might all collapse if they succeed—she finds comfort in that memory.

A moment of levity, an anchor of belief.

And besides Casval, yes, there are so many people to be grateful for in her life.

But one especially.

She draws a breath and leans forward. Whatever comes next… she’ll face it. With wits, with will.

And with an excellent sense of what’s right.

.....

From across the field, Nyaan watches—breath caught, eyes wide.

She doesn’t speak. Not at first.

Just watches Amate scale that blinding titan with nothing but determination.

Something stirs behind her ribs. A kind of stunned joy.

She’s really doing it.

GFreD edges closer, holding position.

Then softly, over the comms—barely a whisper—

“You got this, Machu…”

And louder:

“Go, Machu! Keep going!”

It isn’t strategy anymore. It’s not about tactics or traps.

It’s belief. Raw and sudden and loud.

GQuX climbs higher.

And Nyaan—for the first time since Side 2—lets herself believe in winning.

.....

The White Gundam tries to hit at GQuX like swatting a mosquito, but GQuX easily escapes and continues climbing toward the neck.

The moment they make contact, Amate gasps.

She is inside the Kira-Kira with Shuji.

"I still want to protect Lalah's wishes," Shuji says softly, perhaps recognizing imminent defeat. "One day, I'll bring the world she dreamed into reality. That's why I..."

"My life was so confined until I met you," Amate confesses. "But you opened my eyes to an entire sparkling world of freedom, shining bright like the Kira-Kira."

She pauses, but now there's nothing to lose.

"Somebody like you, shouldn't give your heart away like that."

It catches Shuji off guard.

Her mind flashes back to Casval asking, "Were you even paying attention to his relationship with the Red Gundam?" Amate had ignored him, convinced that Nyaan was her only rival.

"You love Lalah, don't you? You're paintings were always full of the sparkling Kira-Kira like the ones where Lalah came from."

"But the Gundam says this is the only way to protect Lalah."

GQuX appears behind Amate in the Kira-Kira. It's face lit up. It's not happy, but not mad either.

"I can't bear to see this," GQuX says, a booming metallic sound. "The Gundam taking Lalah's life again."

"Who is that?" Shuji asks.

A view of a swan flying over the water at sunset appears before them. A belief in karma with a life lived according to dharma.

"I know Lalah well enough to be sure," Amate says, "she'd never want you to do this."

"She doesn't need you to protect her, Shuji," she continues with conviction. "Someone who can't survive without being protected, wouldn't be able to call themselves a real Newtype!

With her growing strength, she won't need anyone's protection either, as she journeys to becoming a true Newtype.

Somewhere in Yomagn'tho, Lalah's eyes flutter open. The Rose of Sharon fully awakens with Shuji's realisation there is no reason to protect Lalah anymore.

Shuji smiles.

"I've travelled through countless worlds always chasing after Lalah," he explains. "It looks like that journey's at it's end."

"I've never met someone like you. Maybe this whole world was created just for us to meet. I kinda like to think so," he says, with a small shrug.

He smiles that smile that Amate loves.

"Thank you, Machu. I love you."

Amate rushes forward and kisses him. She hugs him tight. She loves him too.

.....

The Red Gundam and Kikeroga lie dormant, staring each other down across the vacuum of space. Their battle, for now, has settled into a stalemate—luminous wreckage hanging around them like frozen breath.

Char had fired deliberately off-centre, a show of restraint rather than weakness. He hadn’t intended to destroy Challia outright—only dissuade.

So when the Kikeroga exploded, it genuinely surprised him. Not enough to unsettle, but certainly enough to raise an eyebrow.

Seconds later, the illusion was undone. It had been a decoy. The real Kikeroga emerged from above, far less impressed with Char’s mercy.

He moved to evade, naturally, but the Red Gundam took the full brunt of the incoming blast—a precision hit. Frustrating. The Red Gundam, once an extension of his will, now sputtered at half-function. Still, his return shot clipped the Kikeroga hard, evening the field, if not the tone.

Now, both of them sit in silence—two royal figures atop crippled thrones, watching the storm beyond unfold. The White Gundam and GQuX dance ahead in violent orbit.

Then, Challia speaks. His voice, even in stillness, always has an agenda.

“Like the Rose of Sharon, the Omega Psycommu is made with OOParts from the other side.”

Not a question. A nudge.

Char doesn’t rise to the bait. “It was designed as a triggering system to produce a Zeknova in the Red Gundam’s place.”

“Has the Omega Psycommu, or rather, the Endymion unit been awakened?” Challia presses.

Yes. But Char doesn't answer. That subject falls squarely in Amuro’s maddening domain. Let him wax poetic about awakening.

Still… he watches. Thinks. Weighs.

.....

And so here they are. Again.

The Endymion Gundams and GFreD scatter to safety. In a last single, breathless moment, the tetrahedron holds—tight and unyielding—with the White Gundam caught inside, as Machu drives the final blow home.

He stays silent watching GQuX decapitate the White Gundam. Not many sparks. Only silence.

A dangerous pulse of satisfaction swells in his chest—thankfully, brief. It manifests in a single thought.

If only…

Amuro’s voice cuts in. Smirking in tone.

Not on my watch.

Watch this, he adds. I'm sending them on to a new life. They each deserve another chance.

The portal reopens. Just wide enough for the three Endymion Gundams to vanish through it—one last theatrical flourish. Their previously detached Core Fighters peel away, spiralling toward Earth. The portal snaps shut behind them.

Then the Rose glows—brighter than it ever has—then expands into a Zeknova that surges outward like a cleansing wave. Yomagn'tho fractures, its frame convulsing before it vanishes in a final storm of light and dark.

It's her final act, Amuro says.

Is it really? Char asks, ever the sceptic.

Yes, Amuro replies, confidently.

Lalah's dream has finally ended, he adds, and she won't have to spin up another universe. The cycle is broken.

They sit in silence.

Amuro adds, more philosophically. When I die, I want to be cremated.

A dramatic pause, then. It'll be my last chance to have a smokin’ hot body.

Amuro laughs.

Char puts a gloved fist to his mouth, in an attempt to avoid laughing.

He shakes his head. Sadly, Amuro's dad joke well has run empty.

Sorry about that, Amuro chirps.

Ever since we started building those Yomagn'tho ventilation shafts, I'm left with only inside jokes.

A pause.

Another attempt to keep from laughing. Then.

Kill me now.

Char finally gives in and laughs.

.....

The aftermath drifts. Burning fragments. Glittering pieces of the technological age.

Char registers Challia’s question distantly.

Did the Rose go with them?

Yes. Presumably. It would be dramatic, fitting—just her style.

He remains quiet and glances down. His red Zeon uniform, the one he wears like a signature, has been replaced. He now wears Shirouzu’s suit. A symbol, perhaps. He doesn't need to save anyone anymore, no matter how much they may hope and dream.

The last Kira-Kira sparkles dissolve.

Over the comms: “Captain, what do you plan to do next?”

Char tilts his head, considering.

A new life unfolds before him. Uncharted. Untamed. One mercifully free of Lalah’s guilt-ridden chokehold.

“Good question,” he replies. “Perhaps I’ll try to lead a life that won’t make you want to kill me.”

Because if Challia’s vision of the future is worth anything—he’ll try.

Char disengages the Core Fighter from the Red Gundam’s shattered frame and banks toward Earth.

He doesn’t look back. Just lets himself smile.

A new beginning awaits.

....

One voice had broken through—soft, spectral, unmistakably hers.

“Thank you, Miss Newtype from this side,” Lalah had said.

And then she was gone.

Amate gasps—a sound torn from somewhere deep.

She bends forward in the cockpit, breath catching as everything crashes in at once.

She stopped him. She sent him—Shuji—and Lalah back to the other side.

The universe remains.

But not unchanged.

Beside her, no trace of the Rose of Sharon or Yomagn'tho remains. Only the still and quiet of space.

Through the comms, Nyaan’s voice wavers. “Where’s Shu-Chan? Did he go back to the Other Side?”

Amate can’t answer.

She’s sobbing now, shoulders trembling. Each breath is shallow, useless.

There’s a hole in her chest. Not metaphor, not sentiment, simply absence.

And it hurts.

Haro chirps beside her in GQuX, voice small. “What’s wrong, Machu? Are you hurt, somewhere? Why are you crying?”

She hears the sound of her own ragged breathing, too loud in the silence.

Everything's wrong, is what she'd answer Haro, if she could speak.

That sometimes, doing the right thing doesn’t feel heroic at all. That she would do it again. That she hopes she never has to.

She sobs louder, not intentionally, but she can't help it.

And, yes, she hurts. In the space where Shuji filled her life with hope and the hope for a future together.

But she doesn’t say anything.

The tears will stop eventually.

Just not today.

.....

Chapter Text

.....

Dawn breaks over the horizon in Earth’s upper atmosphere.

The Core Fighters descend like falling stars, streaking through the dark sky in silence. The Zeknova has passed, leaving no trace of the battle—only the quiet of space.

Casval, Shuji, and Shiiko glide in formation. No longer spectral. No longer hybrid.

Suddenly human.

Suddenly alive.

During her time on Island Iffish, Shiiko had ample access to the Gundam cores. She left no sabotage—nothing obvious.

Instead, she seeded each Gundam with a latent Endymion Reversal Process code, set to activate the moment they shed their armour and flew solo.

They believed Endymion tech cured the identity drift. They believed the DNA lockouts were airtight.

But I know better.

I gave Tau the Kuuro key. Not just his bloodprint. His gait. His pause between words. His tactical doubt. His fear of water. I wrapped them around Shuji like a chrysalis around a caterpillar.

“We made it,” I say aloud, lips tingling from the altitude. The words are hollow and sweet.

Shuji answers—“We’re back. And this time... we’re staying.”

You won’t.

Not as yourself. Not as the boy who stabbed her in the back because she could expose him as the entity from the Other Side.

Soon, when you look in the mirror, you’ll see him. When you say your name, you’ll flinch. “Shuji,” you’ll answer. But “Kuuro” is who will turn.

The Red Comet remains silent. Of course he does. He’s calculating something behind that maskless expression. Always plotting. Always five steps into some future no one asked for.

Let him.

She’s not finished.

Shuji first. Casval soon.

Not today. But the current always bends toward her in the end.

Shiiko tilts her Core Fighter east, wings slicing through the morning haze—toward Japan, toward ghosts, toward the place that once denied her a name.

This time, she returns with one of her own choosing.

.....

The Pacific Northwest is misty most days along the coast since he's been here. The rainforest boasts some of the tallest trees he’s ever seen—nothing like them exists in the colonies. With moss draping over everything, noisy birds overhead, and wildlife thriving in the undergrowth, he finds himself invigorated.

Casval has been splitting his time between the Earth, the Moon, and the colonies, and the day he’s been waiting for has finally arrived.

Comoli Harcourt is on vacation, and they’ll run into each other by chance in the small town she calls home.

He’s always wondered who the fourth person was in the portal that sent him, Shuji, and Amuro to Machu’s universe.

It turned out to be Comoli. Not the Comoli who exists here, but the one from the other side.

It explains his affinity for the new Comoli—an attraction that’s hard to deny.

The Comoli he knew, the one from there, had been lost in transit, according to Amuro. Not like a parcel lost in the mail, but a whole person lost in the ether between here and there. Her essence was incomplete. She couldn’t make the journey, no matter how much Lalah tried.

Rather than burden him with grief, Lalah wiped his memory and sent them on their way—almost five years later. Then, in an act of gratitude, the Lalah from the Rose of Sharon filled in the missing pieces.

Flag Lieutenant Comoli Harcourt. A blossoming romance built on getting her riled up and him laughing like it was nothing—which, usually, it was. Always a stickler for protocol. So young. Much younger than the Comoli he meets here. And beyond cute. She had everything: beauty, brains, and great breeding.

The Comoli in this universe just needs longer hair, and that’s about it. Otherwise, she’s perfect too.

Casval leans over the dock, watching jellyfish drift effortlessly in the waves. They’re fascinating—two types: the clear, common ones, and the red, more dangerous kind.

He has no plans to touch either. Just lean over and enjoy.

Until the mist starts rolling in.

.....

Comoli doesn’t have a reason for being on the dock.

She told herself she needed groceries. Maybe she planned to walk the seawall. Maybe not. Either way, her feet have brought her down the hill and toward the shoreline, her boots landing solidly on the damp wood.

The air smells of salt and cedar. Gulls circle something out past the breakers. It’s quiet—just tide, rope creak, and the hush of fog closing in.

She tells herself it’s nothing. Just a whim.

And then she sees him.

Tall. Blond. Sunglasses that catch the light just so. A sleek leather jacket and expensive footwear—far too polished for this part of town. He’s the kind of person who’d look wealthy in ordinary clothing. It’s that undefined something.

He gazes at her like she’s the one thing he hasn’t lost.

“You…” he says, voice low, precise. “You seem different.”

She lifts an eyebrow, half amused. Not flustered.

“Have we met?”

It disarms him more than she expects. He lets out half a laugh—something caught between reflex and recognition.

“Pardon me,” he says, smoothing his cuff. “You remind me of someone.”

She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. His gaze tracks the motion like it means more than it should.

“You keep watching me,” she notes—plainly, not accusing.

He could lie. He doesn’t.

“Force of habit.”

She studies him. Calm. Curious.

They introduce themselves. His name is Quattro and he’s a tourist looking at jellyfish in the harbour.

“Well, I haven’t eaten,” she offers, with a smile that’s casual but clear. “And if you’re going to keep watching me, you might as well do it over dinner. There’s only one restaurant here worth the time—and I have a soft spot for shellfish.”

He agrees without hesitation. She leads.

.....

The restaurant is overpriced—wood panelling, wide windows, and real linen tablecloths. The waiters are discreet, always ready to refill your glass without being seen.

They talk shop. Piloting. Weaponry. Armaments. It’s comfortable—technical, familiar. They speak the same language, even if there’s a game of sparring underneath it.

He’s polite and clearly knows more than he lets on when it comes to tactics.

Somewhere between the oysters and the king crab, the conversation begins to settle.

After coffee, silence emerges—not empty, but full. Lingering. Charged.

.....

They leave just before close. He offers to walk her partway. She doesn’t mind. The mist has thickened again, wrapping around the town like a second tide.

At the edge of the main drag, she slows. Stops.

He doesn’t kiss her.

And she understands why.

He’s here—but only just. Some part of him still tangled in something unfinished. A memory. A name. A woman she’s never met but has somehow been measured against.

She’s never brought it up. But she knows the signs. The double takes. The way he almost says:

You remind me of... or You resemble...

But he swallows it every time. And so she says nothing.

They’ll probably never meet again, which is sad—but inevitable, given their line of work.

He did remind her of the Red Comet. That easy smile. That engaging personality. But she didn’t ask.

Char Aznable would have been four years older than her. And Quattro is about the same age.

Odd that she noticed that.

.....

Casval stands at the city centre, his gaze fixed on the statue ahead. It’s unmistakably Amuro Ray—immortalized in his Earth Federation pilot suit, one hand resting on a helmet, the other poised at his side. The figure towers above the square, carved in weathered stone yet vividly alive in memory.

How did you meet your fate in this universe?

For a moment, he considers the possibility—that in this world, Amuro was the one who was defeated.

“You were worthy, Amuro Ray,” he murmurs. “You still are.”

.....

He continues walking, up the sloped road toward Comoli’s cottage, a folded invitation tucked into his coat pocket and a question he still hasn’t properly rehearsed. He’s certain they’ll find each other by accident today.

And there she is.

She’s walking straight toward him, head high, pace steady—as if she’s known all along that he’d be waiting.

“Good morning,” he calls, his voice carrying that polished, neutral warmth he’s perfected. “I was hoping you’d join me for brunch, if you’re free.”

But she doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

She’s already watching him—really watching—as though part of her no longer sees the man standing on the misted street, but someone else entirely.

“You’re here to see me,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I’d like to know why.”

His gaze holds hers.

“Yes, I’m here to see you,” he replies, then clarifies. “I knew you before. A version of you.”

And for a moment, time folds inward.

They’re in a sparkling Kira-Kira together.

He thinks of her—the other Comoli.

The one from before.

Images rise between them like memory surfacing through water.

She’d been impossible to miss. Always standing just behind Captain Dren, posture blade-straight, hair twisted into a perfect regulation coil. Her eyes missed nothing: supply loads, shuttle maintenance, the uneven set of Dren’s boot laces.

Flag Lieutenant. Bright, precise, by-the-book. She could quote doctrine from memory. But there had been something else too—something alive behind the pageantry. A flicker.

He remembers walking onto the bridge mid-cycle, halfway through one of Dren’s theatrical updates about a wall mount and an overly ambitious mechanic. He hadn’t said a word.

He didn’t need to.

His presence tilted the room. Dren stumbled mid-sentence.

And Comoli looked up.

It wasn’t the glance. It was the hold. Two seconds. Too long for protocol. Too short for accusation.

And yet, in that gaze—admiration, tucked behind professionalism. A challenge, maybe. He’d always liked challenges.

The rest comes in fragments: passing her in corridors. The first time he saw her with her hair down.

The way she’d narrow her eyes when he left reports unsigned.

The way he came up behind her to see what she was gazing at from the command area viewport.

Laughter, stifled and reluctant, when he teased her just far enough.

Warnings given in quiet places: Always have a failsafe. Always have an escape.

He ignored it once. And that’s all it took.

Solomon. A blinding exit. The Red Gundam hit. Comoli in a glider, too close to the blast. “Captain!”

And then—

Nothing.

That voice still echoes sometimes. Like the sound of your ear in a conch shell.

But not now.

That version of her lives in his periphery. This Comoli—this one in front of him—grounds him.

So Casval lets the past settle quietly into its box. Not forgotten. Simply… shelved.

.....

They leave the Kira-Kira and return to the street.

Comoli holds his gaze a beat longer than decorum usually allows.

Not challenging. Just… searching.

Then, to his surprise, she smiles—small, genuine, and uncalculated, like she isn’t trying to prove anything.

“Thank you,” she says. “For telling me.”

That’s it. No dramatic revelation. No clever deflection.

Just honesty.

And then she steps forward and folds her arms around him.

A hug.

Brief and warm, infinitely grounding.

He blinks. Doesn’t move at first. His body knows how to brace against fire, betrayal, recognition, even grief—but not this. Not quiet affection, unearned and freely given.

He exhales slowly. His chin rests lightly against her hair, and for a moment, the storm of memory quiets.

She draws back only slightly, her hands resting against his coat.

“We’ve both lost people,” she says softly. “But I’m not here to compete with her. I’m here… if you want me to be.”

Casval looks at her. Really looks.

No ghosts. No echoes. Just the person standing in front of him, offering something real.

He doesn’t trust feelings. Not his own. Not entirely. But in this moment, with the fog curling around them and the tide whispering below—

He doesn’t pull away.

“I do,” he says. “I do want that.”

And this time, he means it.

.....

Folder: Personal Entries
Holder: Comoli Harcourt

I woke before sunrise. Not all the way—just enough to feel the warmth at my shoulder and the weight of the blanket that hadn’t been there earlier.

He must’ve covered me. Quattro. Casval. Or whoever he truly is beneath the careful calm.

At some point, I shifted, and my hair fell across my face. I know it did. Because when I opened one eye, barely, I caught his hand moving away—the back of his fingers brushing lightly along my temple. Just once. No flourish. No claim.

He didn’t know I saw.

It wasn’t rehearsed. Just instinct.

That’s what stayed with me.

.....

I think he’s trying. Honestly trying. But there’s a woman he remembers, and I’ll never be her. I’m not naïve about that.

I can hear the echo of her in the way he sometimes pauses before he laughs, or in the way he watches me like he’s cross-referencing a ghost.

Do I resent it?

No.

If anything… I envy her.

Because wherever she is—or was—she got to be seen by him first.

She made an impression that memory couldn’t scrub out, even across universes.

That’s not nothing. That’s love, or at least some glimmer of it.

And yet, despite everything—

He’s here. With me.

With the version of me who exists now. The one who gets seasick on a real ocean, and sings in the corridors when she thinks no one’s listening.

He covered me with a blanket.

He brushed my hair back like it mattered.

Maybe I’m not her. But for one quiet morning, I didn’t feel like second place.

I felt chosen.

And that… might be enough.

—C

......

They’re sitting by the window, the morning light still soft and indecisive. The tea between them has gone tepid, but neither seems to mind.

Comoli hands him her tablet, half-smiling but quiet.

“I don’t normally write things down. Not like that. But… I did.”

Casval reads. Not all at once. He takes in the first line, then a few more. The warmth in her words surprises him—and something else, too. Restraint. She hadn’t tried to be poetic. She’d just tried to be honest.

He exhales softly, thumb brushing the edge of the device before handing it back.

“You’re… remarkable,” he says simply. Then, as if remembering his posture: “More than.”

She arches a brow, amused. “That’s it? Just ‘remarkable’?”

He lifts his gaze, mouth quirking in the smallest, most dangerous smile.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “You’re beautiful. Confident. Intelligent. Killer sense of humour. Kind. And I could go on.”

Her grin sharpens just enough to be trouble. “Please do.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Affectionate. Adventurous—last night leaves no doubt. Honest—even when you don’t need to be. Supportive—in a way most officers never are.”

She’s quiet. Not because she disagrees, but because it’s the sort of thing no one’s ever said to her like that before. Clearly. Like an inventory he genuinely values.

He leans forward, eyes still teasing.

“Your turn. Say something flattering. I’m told it balances the dynamic.”

She pretends to think far too hard.

“Honestly? I don’t know you that well.”

“Harsh,” he says, hand over his chest.

“But…” she draws the word out playfully, “as a Gundam pilot, your kill rate was… respectable. Above average, at the very least.”

Casval actually laughs. Not his elegant chuckle. Not the diplomatic, press-release laugh. A real one.

“Well. There goes humility.”

She watches him. Something soft settles behind her eyes.

“You have a laugh I could listen to every day.”

He stills. Just for a moment.

It hits him harder than any praise ever has. Not because it’s grand. Because it’s quiet. And it gets to him.

That may be the moment he begins to fall in love with her.

And he doesn’t run from it.

Not right away.

.....

Comoli pilots the helicopter north along the rugged coastline, the rotors slicing through the smoky dusk. Casval sits beside her, eyes fixed on the horizon where the glacier looms—a pale, distant silhouette against the darkening sky. The stars will be out soon, and with luck, the aurora will follow. It’s the kind of night that once inspired awe.

“It used to be much larger,” Comoli says, her voice quiet over the headset. “Back when I first started chasing auroras. The damage isn’t isolated. It’s systemic. Coordinated neglect.”

Casval doesn’t respond right away. He gazes out over the fractured glacier field, assessing the scars left behind by decades of warming and retreat. The ice is thinner. Greyer. Dying.

“And the Earth Federation still insists it’s under control,” she says at last. “That the ‘transition is progressing.’”

He scoffs. “Lies.”

“We can’t fix the biosphere overnight,” Comoli replies. “But we can expose the cover-ups. The falsified reports. The corporate sabotage of restoration tech.”

“How’s that going?”

She exhales. “Badly.”

Casval shakes his head slowly. He isn’t surprised.

They land on a nearby mountaintop just as the first ribbons of green light begin to unfurl across the sky. The aurora dances above them—fluid, luminous, otherworldly. Its colours shimmer across the snow-dusted rocks, casting the world in hues of emerald and violet. Even now, in the shadow of collapse, Earth still manages to be beautiful.

From the isolation of the peak, Casval feels the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. The melting glaciers are only part of the story. There are forests turned to ash, rivers choked with toxins, displaced masses crammed into refugee camps by flooding. And still, the Federation pushes forward—expanding orbital mining, crushing eco-resistance, weaponizing climate tech for profit.

His expression hardens—not with anger, but with cold, unshakable resolve.

They won’t stop, he thinks. Not until there’s nothing left to exploit. They’ve made their choice. Now I’ll make mine.

“Time to head back,” Comoli says, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Casval replies, offering her a faint smile. “It’s time.”

But in his heart, he knows what that really means.

It’s time to make the Federation pay—for the Earth, for the truth, and for every life they’ve sacrificed in the name of greed.

.....

A day later, they say their goodbyes. She’s returning to the Sodon, and from there, departing immediately for Side 7 for the upcoming coronation.

It’s bittersweet. But Casval is relieved because he had the chance to let go of the ghost of the other Comoli, and to truly know the one he’s drawn to here.

For that, he's grateful.

He still has work to do on Earth. After that, he’ll return to space.

His next mission is classified, but the destination is the Moon. He’s been assigned to Anaheim Electronics. They’ve just christened a new ship: the Argama.

.....

Char hasn’t been on Earth long before he begins his search for Lalah.

Mumbai assaults the senses. The smog hangs thick in the air, a grey veil that clings to skin and clothing alike. Beneath it, the city exhales a scent so pungent it feels alive, as if it might rise up and speak. He finds it offensive, naturally—but fascinating in its persistence.

One acclimates to the smell, eventually. The crowds, however, are another matter. The press of humanity is relentless—bodies jostling, eyes watching, hands always too close. They swarm around him, these locals, as if he were some benevolent aristocrat come to dispense alms to the poor.

Alms. The word surfaces unbidden, and he turns it over in his mind with mild amusement. Antiquated, certainly. Not a term he typically employs. But it fits. There’s a certain poetry to it.

Check-in at the hotel proceeds without incident—one of the few civilised moments in this city—and he retreats to his room. But solitude quickly turns to tedium, and he descends to the bar, seeking distraction.

The only useful information he’s uncovered about the Kabas estate concerns the fire that consumed it. Lalah had worked there. Waiting for him, though she could not have known it.

The Char of old—the Red Comet—would never have set foot in such a place. The war had consumed him then, and he had revelled in it. Earth held no appeal, and he had no shortage of companionship. His reputation alone ensured a steady rotation of admirers. A girl in every port, as the saying goes.

But that was before Lalah.

Now, the pursuit begins. Where has she gone? His Newtype senses whisper that she is near, but they offer no precision—no comforting signal, no mechanical ping to guide him. Still, a drive through the city might bring her within reach.

He allows himself a small, private smile.

She is close. He can feel it.

.....

The taxi is adequate, though far beneath his standards. Still, it serves its purpose. He rides with the window cracked—not for the air, which is thick with diesel and dust—but to better attune his senses. Somewhere in this chaos, she lingers.

Mumbai unfolds around him like a fever dream. The city is a contradiction—gleaming towers rising beside crumbling tenements, luxury cars weaving past handcarts and barefoot children. The streets pulse with life, but it is a life he observes from a distance, as one might study an ant colony: with curiosity, and a touch of disdain.

He directs the driver toward the northern edge of the city, where the skyline gives way to sprawling encampments. Here, the pavement disappears beneath makeshift shelters—tarps stretched over rusted poles, corrugated metal balanced precariously atop crates. The air is heavier here, tinged with smoke from open fires and the sharp tang of refuse.

He steps out, ignoring the driver’s wary glance. The ground is uneven, littered with debris, but he walks with the same poise he would on a marble floor. Eyes follow him—some curious, others wary, a few hopeful. He offers none of them acknowledgement.

And then he sees her.

She stands in the full sun wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat, surrounded by children. They cling to her, these ragged little things, drawn to her calm like moths to a flame. One holds the hem of her yellow dress; another clutches her hand. She speaks softly, her voice barely audible over the din of the street, but the children listen as if she were reciting scripture.

Lalah.

She hasn’t seen him yet. Her expression is serene, touched with sadness, but radiant all the same. There is no trace of the war in her eyes—only compassion.

It unsettles him.

He watches her for a moment longer than he should. The Zeon Captain, reduced to a voyeur in the dust.

Then, deliberately, he steps forward.

“Lalah,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

She looks up. Recognition dawns slowly, and with it, something else—something warm. She smiles.

And for the first time since returning to Earth, Char breathes.

Those green eyes in that beautiful face captivate him instantly.

.....

The children are the first to notice him.

Their chatter falters. Small hands tighten around Lalah’s dress, and wide eyes turn toward the tall, pale figure approaching through the dust. He doesn’t belong here—everything about him says so. The pressed collar, the polished shoes, the way he moves like the world owes him space. Even the air seems to part for him.

One of the older boys, brave in the way only the young can be, steps slightly in front of her. Protective. Lalah places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, though her heart has already begun to race.

She knows that presence. That gravity. That voice.

“Lalah.”

Her name, spoken like a command and a confession all at once.

She looks up.

There he is—Casval Rem Deikun, Char Aznable, the Red Comet. Whatever name he wears, he is unmistakable. The same sharp eyes, the same impossible poise. But there’s something else now, something quieter beneath the arrogance. A hesitation. A searching.

She smiles, softly. Not because she’s surprised—she’s felt him drawing closer for days—but because he’s here. And because, despite everything, part of her is glad.

The children still cling to her, uncertain. She strokes the hair of the smallest girl beside her, then walks over slowly, her movements fluid and calm.

“You found me,” she says.

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks to the children, then back to her. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—discomfort, perhaps, or envy. Or maybe it’s just the dust in his eyes.

“I always do,” he replies, though the words lack their usual certainty.

She steps toward him, soft footfalls on the cracked pavement, and the children part reluctantly. One tugs at her sleeve, whispering something in Hindi. She bends to reassure him, then straightens again, facing Char fully.

“You don’t belong here,” she says gently.

“Neither do you,” he counters, but there’s no malice in it. Only wonder.

She tilts her head, studying him. “Maybe not. But they need someone.”

“And what of what you need?” he asks, too quickly.

Lalah’s smile fades into something more thoughtful. “I need peace.”

Char looks around—at the smoke, the noise, the children with hollow cheeks and bright eyes—and says nothing.

But he stays.

.....

Night settles over the city like a soft shroud. The noise fades to a low murmur—distant horns, the occasional bark of a dog, the rustle of wind through tarps. The children are asleep, curled together in clusters beneath threadbare blankets. Lalah moves quietly among them, checking on each one, tucking in a stray limb, brushing a hand across a fevered brow.

Char watches from the edge of the camp, leaning against a rusted pole. He’s removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. Dust clings to his shoes. He looks strangely at home in the dim light, though she knows he isn’t. Not yet.

When she finishes, she walks to him. He straightens, as if he’s been waiting for her.

They don’t speak at first. The silence between them isn’t awkward—it’s wonderfully peaceful. She stands close enough to feel the warmth of him, to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“You stayed,” she says.

“I told you I would.”

She smiles faintly. “You said a lot of things today.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And I meant them. Even when I didn’t understand what they meant.”

She looks up at him, searching his face. The sharp lines are still there—the proud cheekbones, the cool, assessing eyes—but something has softened. He’s not performing anymore. Not posturing. He’s just… here.

“I see you now,” she says. “Not the mask. Not the legend. Just you.”

He lowers his gaze, and for a moment, she sees the boy he once was—lonely, brilliant, angry. She reaches for his hand, and this time, he takes hers without hesitation.

“I don’t know what happens next,” she says. “But I know this: you’re not the man who walked away from everything. You’re not the soldier who only knew how to destroy. You’re the man who stayed. Who saw suffering and chose to help.”

He exhales, slow and quiet. “I don’t deserve that.”

“Maybe not,” she says gently. “But you’re becoming it. And I love you for that.”

The words hang between them, fragile and luminous.

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles—reverent, almost disbelieving. As if he, too, can barely believe this is real.

They sit together on the edge of the camp, beneath a sky hazy with stars. No war. No ghosts. Just two people, side by side, in the stillness of a world that—for once—doesn’t ask them to be anything but human.

.....

The morning sun filters through the haze, casting a golden sheen over the camp. The children are already awake, chasing each other barefoot through the narrow alleys between tents, their laughter rising above the city’s distant hum.

Lalah sits under an awning today, sorting through a small box of donated supplies—bandages, soap, a few packets of biscuits. She glances up when she hears a familiar voice, low and uncertain.

Char is crouched beside one of the younger boys—Sanjay, a quiet child with large eyes and a limp from an old injury. The boy clutches a battered toy plane, its wings bent, its paint faded. He holds it out to Char with a mixture of hope and caution.

Char takes the toy gently, turning it over in his hands. “This is a Zaku,” he says, almost to himself. “Or it was meant to be.”

Sanjay nods solemnly.

Char studies the broken wing, then reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small multi-tool—something sleek and expensive, clearly not meant for toy repair. But he sets to work anyway, carefully straightening the wing, tightening a loose screw with the tip of the blade.

Lalah watches from a distance, her heart full.

Sanjay leans closer, eyes wide. “You know about mobile suits?”

Char glances at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve piloted a few.”

The boy’s jaw drops. “Really?”

Char nods, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “But I think this one might be faster than all of them. Especially now.”

He hands the toy back. Sanjay cradles it like treasure, then throws his arms around Char’s neck in a sudden, impulsive hug.

Char freezes.

Then, slowly, he returns the embrace—awkward at first, then with a quiet, steady warmth.

Lalah feels her throat tighten. She’s never seen him like this. Not in her visions of the Other Side. Not even in their quietest moments together. This is something new. Something real.

When he stands, Sanjay runs off to show the others, holding the toy aloft like a trophy.

Char walks back to her, brushing dust from his hands. “He said it was a Zaku,” he murmurs. “I didn’t correct him.”

“You didn’t need to,” she says, smiling. “You gave him something better.”

He looks at her, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of them.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.

“You’re doing exactly what you should,” she replies. “You’re seeing them. You’re choosing to care.”

He exhales, and she sees it again—that flicker of vulnerability, of hope.

She reaches for his hand. “You’re becoming the man I always believed you could be.”

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

.....

Char sits alone in the bar of the hotel he’s returned to each night for the past month. The clink of glasses, the scent of spiced tea, and the low murmur of conversation rising and falling around him—all of it is familiar. Comforting, in a way. This is the world he once knew: polished, orderly, detached. A world of quiet indulgence and curated civility.

Not like the world he’s stepped into with Lalah. Not like the children.

Here, the suffering is invisible. There, it’s unavoidable.

He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, sighs, and leans back. He’s in the doghouse, as the saying goes. Lalah had sent him away—not with words, but with a look. A gesture. A silence that said more than any reprimand could.

It had started innocently enough.

“We should take a few days break,” he had suggested. “Go into the city. Enjoy the hotel together. A mini-holiday.”

She had looked like she might agree. There was a flicker of something—temptation, perhaps. But then, hesitation.

So he pressed on.

“Lalah, it’s impossible to assist every child,” he added, as if reason might soften her resolve. “We need to remember that.”

Her frown deepened.

“It’s reality,” he said, trying to smooth it over. “Don’t dwell on it. Now, will you come back to the hotel?”

That was the moment. He saw it in her eyes—the shift from disappointment to something deeper. A quiet, stunned kind of hurt. As if he’d said something that cracked the foundation of what she believed about him.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply lifted one arm and pointed.

Away.

And so he left.

Now, he sits in the bar, surrounded by the trappings of a life he once ruled, and feels the weight of her absence like a stone in his chest.

Maybe they do need time apart.

He’s not as selfless as Lalah. He knows that. He doubts anyone is. But still… he wants to be better. For her. For the children. For himself.

He just doesn’t know how yet.

.....

Char doesn’t look up when the chair beside him scrapes back. He assumes it’s another businessman, another tourist, another ghost.

Then he hears the voice.

“Well, well. The Red Comet, grounded and brooding. Should I be worried, or is this just your natural state now?”

Char turns his head slowly. Challia Bull grins at him, already halfway through stealing a peanut from the bowl between them.

“Challia Bull,” Char says, blinking once. “I thought you were in space.”

“I was. But then I heard you were sulking in a hotel bar, and I couldn’t resist.”

Char exhales through his nose. “I’m not sulking.”

“You’re drinking alone, in the middle of the day, in a hotel you’ve lived in for a month. That’s textbook sulking.”

Char almost smiles. Almost.

Challia orders a glass of wine—of course he does—and leans back in his chair like he owns the place. “So. What did you say to her?”

Char doesn’t answer immediately. He swirls the last of his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light.

“I told her we couldn’t help every child,” he says finally. “That we needed to be realistic.”

Challia winces. “Oof. Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“I didn’t mean it cruelly.”

“I know. But she’s not wired like you. Or me. She doesn’t compartmentalize. She feels everything.”

Char nods, slowly. “And I admire that. I just… I don’t know how to live in it.”

Challia sips his wine. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to try. That’s what she sees in you, you know. Not the soldier. Not the strategist. The man who’s trying.”

Char looks at him, surprised. “You’re being… unusually supportive.”

Challia shrugs. “Don’t get used to it. I still think you’re a pain in the ass. But even I can tell you’re not the same man you were.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then Challia adds, more gently, “You’ve changed, Captain. And not just for her. You’re not running anymore.”

Char stares into his glass. “I don’t know who I am without the war.”

“You’re someone who listens,” Challia says. “Someone who stays.”

Char finally lets the smile come. It’s small, but real.

“Thank you,” he says.

Challia raises his glass. “To old friendships.”

Char clinks his glass against it. “And second chances.”

.....

The bar’s television hums in the background, tuned to a local news channel. Char isn’t paying much attention—until he hears the name.

“—Garma Zabi, heir to the Zabi family legacy, has died in what authorities are calling a tragic horseback riding accident—”

Char’s glass stills mid-air.

Challia, seated beside him, glances up at the screen. “Wait. Did they just say Garma?”

Char narrows his eyes. The footage cuts to a grainy image of a sprawling estate, police vehicles, and a pristine white horse being led away.

“—Sources at the scene say no foul play is suspected—” the anchor continues.

Challia lets out a low whistle. “That’s… dramatic.”

Char doesn’t respond immediately. He sets his glass down with deliberate care.

“Garma was an exceptional rider,” he says, voice cool. “Trained since childhood. He had the best horses, the best instructors. He could ride blindfolded through a thunderstorm.”

Challia raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying this wasn’t an accident.”

“I’m saying,” Char replies, “that Garma Zabi doesn’t fall off a horse.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the name lingering between them.

Then Challia leans in slightly. “You think it was… you?”

Char doesn’t answer. Not right away. He watches the screen as the anchor moves on to another story, but his mind stays fixed on the one that just ended.

“Not me,” he says finally. “Not this version of me.”

Challia frowns. “Casval.”

Char nods once. “The one who left in the Core Fighter. The one who went to Earth, full of rage and purpose. He was consumed by revenge. The Zabis were his target. Garma was the last.”

Challia leans back, arms crossed. “You really think he’d go that far?”

Char’s jaw tightens. “He already has.”

Challia studies him for a moment, then says, “You wanted that once. All of them gone. We both did.”

“I did,” Char admits. “But not like this. Not anymore.”

There’s a long pause. Then Challia, ever the tactician in his own right, says, “So what now? You track him down? Give yourself a stern talking-to?”

Char almost smiles. “I don’t know. Maybe I just… accept it. That part of me still exists. Still acts.”

Challia lifts his glass. “To the ghosts we leave behind.”

Char clinks his own glass against it. “And the ones that won’t stay dead.”

.....

The bar has emptied out. Only a few patrons remain, hunched over drinks or murmuring in corners. The television is silent now, the news anchor’s voice replaced by soft jazz.

Char stares into his glass, untouched for the last ten minutes.

Challia watches him, patient.

“I used to think the Red Comet was a phase,” Char says at last, voice low. “A necessary mask. A tool to survive the Zabis. But now… I wonder if he’s still in me. Waiting.”

Challia doesn’t interrupt. He knows better.

Char continues, “He was pure. Focused. Ruthless. Everything I needed to be to survive that world. But he didn’t stop. Even when the war ended. Even when there was nothing left to fight.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped.

“I thought I buried him. But if Garma’s death was his doing… then he’s still out there. Acting. Killing. Wearing my face.”

Challia finally speaks. “You’re not him anymore.”

Char looks up, sharply. “Aren’t I? I wanted Garma dead. I wanted all of them dead. That desire—it doesn’t just vanish.”

“No,” Challia says. “But you’ve changed. You’re not chasing revenge anymore. You’re building something. Helping people. That’s not the Red Comet. That’s you.”

Char exhales, slow and shaky. “What if I slip? What if I become him again?”

Challia shrugs. “Then you fight it. Every day, if you have to. That’s what being human is. We’re not defined by who we were—we’re defined by who we choose to be.”

Char is quiet for a long time.

Then, softly: “Lalah sees the man I want to be. Not the one I was. I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“You won’t,” Challia says. “Not if you keep choosing her. Choosing this life.”

Char nods, slowly. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it settles—less like a storm, more like a shadow he can live with.

He lifts his glass.

“Damn the torpedoes.”

Challia clinks his glass against it and smiles. “Full speed ahead.”

They drink.

And for the first time in a long while, Char feels like he might be more than the sum of his ghosts.

.....

The sun is low when Char returns to the camp. The air is thick with the scent of cooking fires and the distant hum of traffic. Children dart between tents, their laughter echoing faintly, but he doesn’t see her among them.

He walks slowly, deliberately, as if each step is a question: Will she forgive me? Will she understand?

He finds her near the edge of the encampment, kneeling beside a girl with a scraped knee. She’s wrapping it with gentle hands, murmuring something soft and reassuring. She doesn’t look up when he approaches, but he knows she’s aware of him.

She always is.

When she finishes, she sends the girl off with a pat on the shoulder, then rises to her feet. She doesn’t speak.

“I was wrong,” Char says, voice low. “About what I said. About what I meant.”

Lalah turns to him, her expression unreadable.

“I thought I was being realistic,” he continues. “But I was being afraid. Afraid of caring too much. Of failing. Of becoming someone I used to be.”

She studies him, silent.

“I saw the news,” he adds. “About Garma.”

Her eyes flicker, but she says nothing.

“I think… I think it was Casval. The part of me I left behind. The part that never stopped wanting revenge.”

Lalah steps closer, her voice quiet. “And what do you want now?”

He meets her gaze. “To be better. Not perfect. Not redeemed. Just… better. For them. For you.”

She searches his face, and something in her softens. “You’re afraid of becoming him again.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you came back.”

He nods.

She reaches out, takes his hand. “Then you’re already winning.”

Char exhales, the tension in his chest loosening. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding it.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she says. “I just need you to stay.”

“I will,” he says. “As long as you’ll have me.”

She smiles, and it’s like the sun breaking through the haze.

“Then stay.”

And he does.

.....

A week later, the television in the hotel bar flickers again, shifting from Earthside news to a broadcast from space. Char’s gaze lifts instinctively, and there she is.

—Her Excellency, Lady Artesia Som Deikun has officially ascended to leadership of the Principality of Zeon—

Char leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Pride stirs in his chest—quiet, restrained, but unmistakable. She looks composed. Regal, even. She always had that in her.

If only…

He exhales. If only is a phrase that visits him often, and he lets it pass again without invitation. That life—her life—is no longer his concern. He made sure of that.

Still, he had sent her a gift. Challia Bull would deliver a rare Bombay cat, sleek and black as midnight. A gesture, not of reconciliation, but of remembrance. A hope that it might fill the space left behind by Lucifer, the cat she had loved so fiercely. Perhaps she could love again, even in that small way.

He smiles faintly, recalling the chaos Lucifer once caused. The cat had been a menace—spirited, territorial, and utterly unafraid of anyone, including him. Especially him. He remembers the day it squared off with Ramba Ral, of all people. Ral had tried to corral it, and Lucifer had made him earn every inch of ground. Char hadn’t loved the cat, but he had loved that his sister did. Unreservedly.

This new one should give Ral a challenge, he thinks. That alone makes the gift worthwhile.

But the warmth fades as his thoughts drift back to the slums he left behind.

The contrast is jarring. From the polished halls of Zeon’s leadership to the dirt-streaked faces of children sleeping under tarps. The social conditions that created such disparity aren’t just tragic—they’re systemic. Deep-rooted. And they won’t be solved by kindness alone.

He came here to study what had been done before. What had worked. What had failed. He’s seen enough to know that Lalah’s efforts, while noble, are a drop in an ocean. The scale of the problem demands more—vast resources, infrastructure, political will.

Maybe that’s where I come in.

He sighs, rubbing his temple. Every time they make progress—every time a child is fed, clothed, given a place to sleep—more arrive. Word spreads. Parents, desperate and broken, leave their children in the hope they’ll find something better with Lalah.

And who could blame them?

The best place for a child is with loving parents. But when those parents are starving, sick, or crushed by the weight of poverty, what choice do they have?

It’s a mess. A planetary failure.

Sometimes, he thinks Earth needs a reset. Wipe it all out and start again.

He exhales again, slower this time. Not with anger. Not even with despair. Just the quiet weight of knowing how far there is to go.

The gravity of the situation demands a clean slate.

Not while Lalah lives, of course.

But he can play the long game.

.....

The beach is everything Nyaan imagined Earth’s shores would be—glorious, sunlit, and strangely empty. The water is cold if you wade out far enough, but in the shallows, it’s perfect. The surf laps at her ankles, and the sunlight glints off the waves like scattered glass. Gulls fly overhead, filling the air with their caws—whatever it's called. She doesn’t mind not knowing. It’s enough to hear them.

No one else is here. The locals think they’re mad for coming—apparently, it’s winter. Winter? Nyaan glances up at the golden sky. There’s sunshine, and plenty of it. Everything feels warmer in this light, even if the breeze carries a chill.

Amate’s phone chirps. She silences it without looking. Nyaan suspects it’s one of her parents. She wonders what that must be like—to have a mother or father who still calls. If her own father had survived, she’d be overjoyed. Her mother left when she was too young to remember. Sometimes she imagines what it would’ve been like to have a mother—someone to guide her through all the strange, quiet things girls are supposed to learn.

Lady Kycilia had temporarily filled that role, in a way. But her care had always been conditional, shaped by what she needed from Nyaan. For a time, Nyaan basked in it, mistaking it for fondness—or at the very least, connection. She knows what love is, and that wasn’t it. Not even close.

Amate, by contrast, has the luxury of ignoring her parents.

“How come?” Nyaan asks, after a long silence.

“Hm?” Amate barely glances up. She’s never been one to care about obligations.

“Aren’t you going to see them?”

“I won’t bother them,” she says with a shrug. “I’m a wanted criminal, remember?”

Nyaan frowns. She doesn’t understand the logic, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she asks, “But we’ve made it to Earth now. Isn’t there anywhere else you want to go?”

“There is,” Amate replies, cryptic as always.

Nyaan tilts her head. “Don’t tell me—it’s wherever Shu-chan is?”

Amate doesn’t deny it. She just smiles faintly, the way she always does when she’s thinking of him.

“Because someday we’re going to see him again,” she says. “The Gundam said so.”

Right. The Gundam. Or more precisely, the Endymion unit within it. That kind voice that helped Amate defeat the White Devil. Nyaan remembers it too.

.....

Today is her last day on the beach. She says goodbye to the sun and surf in her heart.

She’s decided to follow the coordinates Lady Kycilia gave her. A strong, intuitive pull tells her it’s the right path. Hokkaido, in northern Japan. A chef there has agreed to take her on as an apprentice. She’ll learn traditional cooking—home recipes, ancestral methods, the kind of food that carries memory in its flavour.

From what she’s researched, it looks beautiful. Peaceful. It would’ve been a tragedy to destroy it with a Zeknova. And she had been so sure, back then, that it was the only way to bring Shuji back.

Now she wonders why she was so fixated on him. He clearly loved Amate. Maybe he was just stringing her along.

But she had been so sure.

Why?

.....

The memory returns, vivid and sharp.

GQuX had been pursued by five MP Zakus. She couldn’t shake them. A hit sent her mobile suit tumbling to street level, crashing beneath a bridge. She doesn’t remember how she got out of the cockpit—only that Shu-chan was there, catching her.

He looked at her with such kindness. She had clung to him, desperate. The authorities were closing in. They had nowhere to run.

Then Shuji glanced back at the Red Gundam.

“I think something’s wrong,” he said. “The rose is awakening. The Gundam said so.”

“Shu-chan!” she had begged. “Let’s run away. Just you and me. We can leave Machu and the Gundam behind. Let’s get out of here together.”

“Where to?” he asked, ever thoughtful, even as the world burned around them.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Somewhere we can both be free.”

That was the last time she saw him in his human form.

The Red Gundam began to shimmer—light gathering, intensifying. She had never seen anything like it.

“What is that?” she whispered.

“Shu-chan!” she cried again, but he was already gone in the Zeknova. She can still feel the debris on her face as the blast tore a hole in the street.

The Shuji they met after that wasn’t the same. Something had fractured. Or maybe something had awakened.

She still doesn’t know who spectral Shuji was.

“Nyaan, before you leave, I need you to hear this. I received a letter this morning…”

Amate unfolds the letter and reads:

.....

To Machu,

I decided today is the day. I’ll tell you everything. Or at least enough of it to make sense of what happened.

You deserve that much.

As I mentioned in our brief time together in Yomagn'tho, Shuji appeared beside me suddenly one day—then vanished with the Red Gundam in a manoeuvre so reckless it bordered on brilliance. The machine disappeared shortly after, buried in some forgotten junkyard on Side 6. He cleverly hid it, and not a whisper of my mobile suit was heard for a time.

He turned up weeks later in a hospital. Some protest gone wrong. He was barely alive. Barely remembered who he was.

I suspect memory loss. Convenient, perhaps. But more likely, it was a psychological escape. He became a painter. Traded war for colour. How quaint. How human.

But the Red Gundam—persistent as ever—called him back. The Kira-Kira haunted him. Or perhaps he haunted it. I’ve never been certain who controlled whom—Shuji or Lalah.

What I do know is this: my rejection of Lalah’s vision, of that romanticised eternity she offered, triggered something. A resonance. A recoil. And during the Clan Battle, a Zeknova emerged.

I believe that resonance, occurring in proximity to Psycho-Gundams, jolted Shuji’s memory back into place.

I don’t know what he remembers now. Or what he’s become. But if you find him again, Machu, be kind. He’s been many things. And he’s lost more than most.

—C

.....

They don’t say much at first. They rarely need to.

There’s a pause. Nyaan shifts her weight, then says, “You’ll be okay?”

Amate shrugs. “I’ve got the Gundam. And a mission. You know how it is.”

Nyaan smiles faintly. “I do.”

She hesitates, then steps forward and wraps her arms around Amate. It’s brief, but sincere.

“You’re my best friend,” she says quietly.

Amate hugs her back, just as briefly. “You’re mine too.”

They pull apart. Nyaan looks at her one last time, memorizing the shape of her in the grey light, the way her hair moves in the wind, the way she always looks like she’s already halfway to somewhere else.

“Tell Shuji…” Nyaan starts, then stops. “Never mind. Just… take care of him.”

Amate nods. “I will.”

And with that, Nyaan turns and walks away.

.....

The train to Hokkaido is long, but peaceful. She watches the landscape change through the window—cities giving way to forests, then to snow-dusted fields and quiet villages. It’s colder here, but the air feels cleaner, sharper. Like it’s trying to wake her up.

She arrives in the early evening. The town is small, nestled between mountains and sea. The streets are narrow and lined with wooden houses. Lanterns glow softly in the windows. It feels like stepping into a literal picture postcard.

The chef meets her at the station. He’s older than she expected, with kind eyes and a quiet voice. He doesn’t ask many questions. Just takes her bag and says, “You’ll learn. If you’re willing to work.”

She nods. “I am.”

That night, she sleeps in a small room above the kitchen. The futon is thin, the walls are papered, and the scent of miso and woodsmoke lingers in the air.

She lies awake for a while, listening to the wind outside, thinking of Amate, of Shuji, of the beach.

Then she closes her eyes.

Tomorrow, she begins again.

.....

The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of simmering broth and freshly steamed rice. Nyaan stands at the prep counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing daikon under the chef’s watchful eye. The rhythm of the work is soothing—precise, focused, quiet. Just the way she likes it.

She’s halfway through peeling a lotus root when a patron enters the restaurant. She glances up.

He’s tall, with dark hair and a quiet presence. He nods politely to the chef, then to her. There’s something familiar in the way he moves—measured, like a pilot walking across a hangar deck. Her heart skips.

Later, during the break, she finds him outside, sitting on the stoop out front. Snow falls lightly around them.

“You’re new,” she says.

He glances at her. “So are you.”

She smiles faintly. “Where are you from?”

“Side 2,” he replies, after a pause.

Her breath catches. She keeps her voice even. “That’s where I’m from too.”

He nods, but doesn’t elaborate.

“You don’t talk much,” she says.

“I’ve learned not to,” he replies. “People don’t usually believe my story.”

She tilts her head. “Try me.”

He hesitates. Then, quietly, “Maybe over dinner.”

.....

They eat at a small izakaya tucked between two narrow streets. The food is simple—grilled fish, rice, pickled vegetables—but comforting. They don’t talk much—don’t need to. There’s a strange familiarity between them, like a song she half-remembers from childhood.

Afterward, he walks her home. The snow has stopped, and the sky is clear. They pause at a terrace overlooking the town, the lights below twinkling like stars.

She turns to him. “You remind me of someone.”

He looks at her, eyes shadowed. “I get that a lot.”

“Were you a pilot?”

“Yes.”

“An ace?”

He nods once. “I was the best. Or so they said.”

She studies him. “Did you have someone like Lalah?”

His expression shifts—pain, memory, something deeper. “I did. She died protecting me. Against a White Gundam.”

Her breath catches. “The White Devil?”

“No,” he says. “Worse. A Gundam more powerful than anything in this universe. We destroyed it. But not before it took everything.”

She steps closer. “What was her name?”

He closes his eyes. “Ariel.”

Nyaan’s voice is barely a whisper. “And your name?”

He opens his eyes. “Kuuro.”

She nods slowly. “But you were Shuji once. Weren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t deny it.

The wind picks up, and her scarf flutters around them. He reaches out, gently tucking it back over her shoulder.

“I thought I lost everything,” he says. “But maybe… not everything.”

They stand there, side by side, in the cold night air, both pondering each other’s words.

.....

Suddenly, it’s not a cold night in Hokkaido, but a sparkling moment in the Kira-Kira. Nyaan floats with Shuji.

Images appear of a small-town gallery, tucked between mountains—possibly nearby.

Nyaan steps into a dream gallery, her boots echoing softly on the wooden floor. The walls are covered in murals—spirals of colour, bursts of light, and one unmistakable image: the Red Gundam, painted in silhouette dancing with GFreD against a field of stars.

“You made it,” a voice says behind her.

She turns.

Shuji stands there, paint on his hands, a faint smile on his lips.

“I knew it was you,” she says.

“I was always with you,” he replies.

She crosses the room and hugs him, and for the first time in a long time, she feels whole.

“But who are you? Where are you?”

“I’m really Shuji. And I know you see Kuuro out there. I’m sorry if it brings up sad memories.”

“How do you know about Kuuro?”

“I can see it in your face,” he explains. “I want to explain why you see him and not me—that is, Shuji.”

He pauses, and gestures for her to join him on a seat in the dream gallery.

“Before we worked our tetrahedron trap on the White Gundam, my presence was absorbed into Kuuro’s frame. He’s a good person, and a great pilot. I don't know how The Witch did it, but the atoms that made Shuji, well, they're gone."

She gasps.

"It's okay," he says, hugging her close. "I was a real person once, Nyaan, like the Shuji you knew on Side 6. Now I'm only me when we're here together alone.”

“I'll always find you here, Shuji? In the Kira-Kira.”

“Not for much longer. The Witch did something evil. I'm not sure how long my consciousness—”

“I felt something devious,” Nyaan interrupts. "I didn’t trust her, and I never will.”

“Who am I talking to?” Shuji asks, squeezing her hands. “Nyaan or Casval?”

Nyaan laughs.

“I missed you, Shuji.”

“I missed you too, Nyaan. I still want to go away together… but where we are is pretty nice, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Good. Because I want to stay close to you.” He smiles and adds, “I have a job—or Kuuro has a job—at Anaheim, so I’ll be close by. The moon is close, I think.”

Nyaan moves forward to hug Shuji, but the Kira-Kira dissolves, and they’re back in the real world—and she’s hugging Kuuro.

The smell of his leather jacket is familiar, and so is the strength of his arms.

She looks up into his face, and they kiss.

When they part, Kuuro’s voice comes out and asks, “We need to ask you a favour, and you can say no…”

.....

Casval watches the distant and cold stars from the cockpit of Beta Gundam [Ver. 85-02], his fingers steady on the controls, his breath slow and measured. Below him, Earth turns silently. Ahead, the battlefield waits—silent, suspended in the shadow of a derelict colony.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The plan is already in motion.

To his left, Nyaan in GFreD glides forward, her unit cloaked in reactive shimmer. She’s nervous—he can feel it—but she’s focused. She knows her role. She knows the risk.

Above, Kuuro in Tau Gundam [Ver. 85-07] descends like a blade drawn from the sky. His movements are precise, deliberate. Casval trusts him implicitly.

And at the centre of it all, drifting like a phantom, is The Witch.

Her Endymion Gundam is a marvel of design—sleek, angular, and wrong. It pulses with unstable energy, its silhouette sharp against the stars. Casval has studied the footage, the telemetry, the fragments of data they managed to scrape together. None of it prepared him for the real thing.

She built it in secret. No one knows where. No one knows who helped her. But it ends tonight.

He exhales, then speaks.

“Now,” Casval says calmly.

Nyaan moves first, scattering bits like falling stars. The Witch reacts instantly, her targeting systems locking onto GFreD.

“You again,” The Witch barks. “The soft one. The weak link.”

Casval’s jaw tightens. He angles the Beta Gundam upward, cutting off her retreat vector. She doesn’t see him yet. Good.

She lunges for Nyaan—predictable.

“Kuuro. Now,” Casval says with no urgency.

From above, Tau Gundam drops like a meteor. In one fluid motion, he draws the beam sabre from his back and drives it down into the Endymion’s shoulder joint. The Witch screams, her unit convulsing.

Casval doesn’t hesitate. He fires a precision burst into her thruster array, disabling her mobility. Sparks bloom across her hull.

Nyaan closes in, beam sabre extended. She tears through the Endymion’s chestplate, exposing the cockpit.

“You underestimated the wrong one,” Nyaan shouts.

The Witch tries to speak, but her comm cuts out. The Endymion shudders, then goes still as Kuuro finishes her off to be sure.

A controlled explosion follows—brief, brilliant, and final.

Casval watches the debris scatter, his heart steady. No triumph. No celebration. Just the quiet relief of a threat finally ended.

.....

The hangar is dim, lit only by the soft glow of maintenance lights and the occasional flicker of a cooling conduit. The Tau Gundam stands tall in its berth, its armour scorched, its joints still hissing with residual heat. Kuuro descends from the cockpit slowly, his movements careful, deliberate. His body aches, but his mind is sharper than ever.

He lands lightly on the platform and pauses, glancing back at his machine. The beam sabre is still clipped to the back mount—its blade extinguished, but the memory of its strike still vivid in his mind.

Too close, he thinks. A fraction off, and I would’ve hit Nyaan instead.

He exhales through his nose, grounding himself. The battle is over, but the weight of it lingers.

Across the hangar, Casval is already at the debrief table, helmet under one arm, posture rigid. Nyaan leans against the edge, sipping from a hydration pouch, her expression somewhere between relief and disbelief.

Kuuro joins them quietly.

“So… that’s it?” Nyaan asks. “She’s really gone?”

“Unless she had a twin stashed in another prototype, yeah,” Kuuro replies. “That was her.”

Casval doesn’t sit. He rarely does after a fight. His eyes are still scanning, still calculating.

“She was too dangerous to leave alive,” Casval says. “We did what we had to.”

“She called me the weak link,” Nyaan says quietly.

Kuuro offers her a small, reassuring smile.

“And you tore through her like a force of nature,” he says. “I’d say that’s a solid rebuttal.”

She smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“She was fast,” Nyaan says. “If we hadn’t boxed her in—if you hadn’t dropped in when you did…”

“Hey, that move’s becoming a signature,” Kuuro says. “Beam sabre to the back—classic Kuuro.”

He says it lightly, but inside, he’s still replaying the moment. The timing. The angle. The trust. He doesn’t take it for granted—not the precision, and certainly not the lives it protected.

“Let’s not make a habit of it,” Casval says dryly. “One misstep and you’d have taken Nyaan’s head off.”

“I had the angle,” Kuuro replies, but his voice is gentler than defensive.

Casval finally sits, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“She was working with someone,” he remarks. “That Gundam wasn’t built in a cave. It was engineered—refined. Someone gave her resources.”

“Any leads?” Nyaan asks.

“None,” Casval replies. “No serials, no traceable tech. Whoever helped her knew how to cover their tracks.”

Kuuro folds his arms, gaze distant.

“She fought like someone who knew she wouldn’t walk away. Like she’d already made peace with it.”

He doesn’t say the rest: that he respected her resolve, even if he despised her methods. That he wonders what kind of world creates someone like her.

“People like her don’t just appear,” he says. “They’re shaped. Forged.”

A silence settles over them. The kind that follows something irreversible.

“So… what now?” Kuuro asks.

“We stay alert,” Casval says. “We prepare for whoever comes next.”

“I thought I’d feel more… relieved,” Nyaan says softly.

“You will,” Casval replies, confident. “Eventually.”

He stands again, looking out toward the stars beyond the hangar’s observation window.

“For now, we rest,” he says. “Tomorrow, we start asking the hard questions.”

Kuuro nods, but his thoughts are already drifting—toward the unknowns, the hidden hands behind the Endymion, and the quiet fear that this victory is only the beginning of something darker.

But first, some alone time with Nyaan. Shuji was a lucky guy. Being with Nyaan is wonderful.

.....

Casval knows even before he arrives that he will leave without looking back.

He knows Amate is no longer the young woman she was when he first saw her. Back then, she was hope personified—bright-eyed, full of conviction, a spark in the dark. Now, she seems caught in a loop of waiting. Waiting for something to change. Waiting for someone to return. Waiting for a future that may never come.

That kind of waiting eats people alive, he thinks. And if I know anything about people—especially women—it rarely comes without turbulence. Emotional spirals. Universe destroying grief. No thanks. Save it for the girl friends.

He exhales through his nose—not unkindly, just tired.

Maybe he was drawn to her at first because she reminded him of his Comoli—same age, same fire, same willingness to build something new. A partner, not a passenger. Someone who could keep pace with him.

Now, with Shuji in the picture—however distant, however unresolved—there’s less room in Amate’s life for someone new. That’s the baggage she carries.

Again. No thanks.

What he wants now is different. Not necessarily someone younger. Age doesn’t matter. What matters is stability. Security.

A partner who is emotionally steady, fully committed, and focused on building something real and lasting—rather than someone caught in cycles of uncertainty or emotional turbulence.

That’s all.

Should be easy enough.

Flattering though it is, he doesn’t necessarily need someone who will throw their life away to save his—but it helps.

.....

The grove is quiet, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world where the war hasn’t yet reached. Twilight filters through the trees, casting long shadows across the mossy ground. Casval sits beneath a broad cedar, his coat draped over his knees, his eyes on the fading sky. Amate joins him, settling beside him without a word.

They don’t need to speak right away. The silence between them is full of understanding.

“I’m glad I met you,” Casval says at last, his voice low but steady. “In all of this… you were a light.”

Amate smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you were the storm that cleared the sky.”

He chuckles softly, then grows quiet again. After a moment, he turns to her.

“There’s a story I want to tell you. One last story.”

She nods, and he begins.

“There was a warrior named Aravan,” he says. “From an old Indian epic—the Mahabharata. He was the son of a great hero, but not destined to live long. Before a great battle, he was told he would die. But he asked for one thing first—not glory, not power. Just to be remembered. To live, even briefly, as a whole person. To be seen.”

Amate listens, her expression softening.

“The gods granted him a single night,” Casval continues. “A night of life, of love, of meaning. And when dawn came, he gave himself willingly to fate. His sacrifice turned the tide of the war. But more than that, it made him immortal—not in body, but in story.”

He looks out at the horizon, where the stars are beginning to appear.

“I used to think I was the hero,” he says. “Then I thought I was the weapon. But maybe… I’m just someone who made a choice. Like Aravan.”

Amate’s voice is quiet. “And what will your story be?”

Casval doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he beckons her inside the Kira-Kira.

.....

The soft glow of sparkles floats around them. The world feels suspended—just for them.

Casval stands near the centre of the room, dressed in the Zeon royal mantle that fits him too well for someone who claims to hate formal wear. His hair is neatly combed, his posture relaxed but alert. He smells faintly of his cologne—the one Amate has come to associate with safety, and with endings.

She forgets everything else. She’s radiant in a deep blue dress that catches the light like water. Her hair is pinned back, her eyes bright with something between joy and sorrow.

Casval steps forward, offering his hand.

“Dance with me?” he asks, voice low, almost shy.

Amate blinks, stunned. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move—because she’s been here before. In dreams. In half-sleep. In the quiet moments between battles, when she imagined him asking her just like this. And in every dream, aside from the very first, she said yes.

She smiles, heart aching. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He pulls her gently into his arms. His hand rests at her waist, the other holding hers with surprising grace. The music is faint—just a soft instrumental playing from an old speaker—but it’s enough.

They sway together, slow and steady. She leans into him, feeling the strength in his chest, the warmth of his body. His arms are solid, grounding. She closes her eyes.

This is what I’ll miss, she thinks. His cologne. His voice. His arms. And—his dance moves.

She chuckles softly.

“What?” he asks, amused.

“Nothing,” she says. “Just… committing this to memory.”

He doesn’t press. He just holds her a little closer.

They don’t speak for a while. There’s nothing left to say that won’t break the moment. Their plans, the future—they all fall away. For now, there’s only the rhythm of their steps and the quiet promise in his touch.

When the song ends, he doesn’t let go right away. Neither does she.

“I’ll remember this,” she whispers.

“So will I,” he replies.

They both know this is goodbye.

And then the Kira-Kira dissolves.

He walks away, into the night—toward the future he’s chosen, and the storm he’s about to unleash.

— Epilogue II —

There’s a sound in Casval’s mind—ragged breathing, sharp and desperate. It cuts through the usual static like a flare in the dark.

What’s this breathing I hear? he wonders, narrowing his eyes. He rarely perceives Newtype activity so clearly, but this presence is broadcasting with startling intensity.

Amuro Ray? Lalah Sune? he asks himself, instinctively reaching for familiar names. To be heard across this distance, the source must be powerful.

But then he sees it—a vision, brief and vivid. A young man. Not Amuro. Not Lalah.

No, Casval thinks. It’s neither of them.

The Gundam Beta streaks toward Green Noa 1, flanked by his two lieutenants. The colony looms ahead, its outer shell gleaming under artificial light. With precision, they blast a controlled breach in the colony wall—quick access, minimal structural damage.

“Roberto. Apolly. We’re going in to capture the Gundam Mk. II,” Casval orders, voice calm but resolute.

They’ve finally located the source of the Endymion Gundams—a hidden factory nestled within the colony. The plan is simple: destroy the facility, and seize any Gundam units they find.

But they’ve been spotted. Time is short.

As they move through the colony’s interior, Casval listens—really listens. The young man’s thoughts are clearer now, like a radio tuned to the right frequency.

He glances over and sees a Gundam Mk. II standing over a Titan officer.

He hears laughter. Then a voice, sharp with defiance: “You look pathetic.”

Casval’s lips twitch. That phrase—it’s something he would say.

He leans forward slightly in his seat. “Apolly, stand down. He’s not an enemy.”

“But—” Apolly begins.

“That’s an order.”

“That’s right. I’m not your enemy,” the young man says over the comms. “I’m on your side.”

Then he proves it.

Casval’s eyes widen as the young man in the Mk. II disables a second Mk. II unit with surgical precision.

“What?!” he mutters, stunned.

He’s piloting like a veteran.

He watches a moment longer, then nods to himself.

“I think we can trust the Mk. II unit,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“Get in touch with Roberto,” he tells Apolly. “We’re leaving.”

They withdraw from Green Noa 1 with minimal resistance, the mission a success. Two Mk. II units—02 and 03—secured.

But more importantly, they’ve found something rarer than any machine.

A Newtype.

A strong one.

Kamille Bidan.

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