Chapter Title: Thunder Shall Answer
Date: Late January, UC 0079
Locations: Solomon Fortress & Zum City
---
TANYA VON ZEHRTFELDT POV
The void of space, an infinite canvas of cold stars, was about to be scarred by fire. Around the asteroid field of Loum, Zeon's armada hovered like a poised fist, ready to strike. Tanya von Zehrtfeld stood in the launch bay of the Great Degwin, her heartbeat as steady as the mechanical hum surrounding her.
Her Zaku II waited on the launch rail—sleek, dark green, and deadly. It wasn't just a machine; it was a promise. Of precision. Of dominance. Of survival.
"Tri-Stars are already squawking about their superior launch times," Mila's voice crackled through the comms. Calm. Teasing.
Tanya didn't look up from her pre-launch diagnostic. "Let them squawk. If they want glory, they'll have to fight us for it."
Colt, her chief mechanic, gave a final slap to the Zaku's leg. "You're green, mean, and ready, Commander."
Everything was moving too quickly, yet not quickly enough. The anticipation wasn't fear—it was calculation. Every variable of Loum spun in her head: asteroid patterns, enemy trajectories, potential flanks. She didn't fear death. She feared miscalculation.
And then he arrived.
The crimson Zaku glided silently into the adjacent bay, red like a fresh wound. Char Aznable. The infamous Red Comet. His movements were practiced, but his presence was like pressure in the room. He paused, helmet in hand, gaze veiled by his visor. Tanya met his eyes.
A nod.
No words. Just recognition.
That nod. A second of mutual awareness. She hated how her pulse skipped—not out of fear, but recognition. He understood the battlefield the way she did. That made him dangerous.
He plays a deeper game, she thought. One I need to understand before I get caught in it.
She boarded her Zaku. The cockpit sealed shut around her—a cocoon of control. Tanya exhaled slowly, her voice steady over the comms. "Vanguard Unit von Zehrtfeld, ready for launch."
Dozle's voice boomed through the battle channel. "All units—remember your purpose. FOR ZEON!"
The catapult slammed forward. Her Zaku launched into the black. Loum unfolded before her, a ballet of destruction.
Within seconds, Federation units filled her radar. Her squad opened fire in perfect rhythm. She moved through debris and laser fire like a ghost, every maneuver rehearsed, lethal.
"Target confirmed, Commander!" Mila shouted. "Magellan-class is burning!"
The thrill of success pulsed beneath Tanya's skin—but she tamped it down. This wasn't glory. This was necessity.
Then she noticed it: certain units breaking from formation. Unofficial patterns. Rogue Zeon units ignoring standard battle routes.
Kycilia. It had her scent all over it.
Tanya narrowed her eyes. What game are you playing, Ice Queen?
---
LELOUCH VON ZEHRTFELDT POV
The war room in Zum City was cold. Not in temperature—but in its emotional vacuum. Data pulsed through Lelouch's console in quiet waves of light: fuel reserves, supply lines, unit formations. It all looked clean. Orderly. Deceptive.
He stood beside Garma Zabi, who paced like a lion in a cage.
"I should be out there, Lelouch," Garma snapped. "I should be leading."
Lelouch didn't look away from the screen. "The front lines are metal and fire. Ours are silence and positioning. Both kill."
He adjusted the map overlay, revealing side-path movements of select Mobile Suit squads.
"They're not following Dozle's strategy," Lelouch murmured. "They're carving new paths, avoiding main fire lanes... heading for unlisted Federation depots."
"Initiative?" Garma asked, though doubt clouded his tone.
Lelouch's eyes darkened. "More like treachery. If these units succeed, they'll claim a separate victory. If they fail, the blame falls on Dozle."
Kycilia.
Always playing five moves ahead.
He leaned back, gaze turning introspective. Tanya was out there, fighting with everything she had. And here he was, peeling back lies.
He activated his secure link. Tanya's encrypted feed opened with a soft chime.
"Reading your flank activity now," he typed. "Something isn't right. Watch the Red Comet. He may not answer to Dozle. Or to anyone."
Her reply came seconds later: "Already watching. He moves like we do. That's either a strength—or a future threat."
Lelouch smirked. "Then we'll treat him like both."
The twins were galaxies apart, but their thoughts burned on similar wavelengths: suspicion, ambition, and the gnawing awareness that Zeon's war had turned into something far more dangerous.
Tanya guided the spear.
Lelouch steadied the hand that held it.
But thunder was not just coming. It was answering.
The universe was a canvas of silent, screaming light.
From the cockpit of her MS-06F Zaku II, First Lieutenant Tanya von Zehrtfeld watched the Federation fleet resolve from glittering specks into steel leviathans. Lasers, impossibly bright and violent, crisscrossed the void between the armadas—a death zone where physics and faith went to die.
The mantra of the Mobile Suit Corps echoed in her mind: Mobility is power. It was a fine sentiment in the simulators back at Side 3. But here, at the Battle of Loum, it felt like a prayer whispered into a hurricane. The void itself was fighting back—with shrapnel, with chaos, with cold attrition.
"Tanya, hard port. Missile volley inbound on your sector," came a crisp voice through the comms—one of the forward battle controllers coordinating from a nearby Zeon cruiser.
Tanya reacted instantly, her hands a blur across the controls. Her Zaku twisted in a sweeping arc, vernier thrusters flaring. The machine dodged cleanly, and the missiles screamed past—detonating against the fractured hull of a disabled Musai-class.
"This debris density is worse than projected," she muttered. "IFF tags are getting buried."
Her voice barely cut through the cluttered comms. "Acknowledge," the controller replied curtly. "Prioritize your sweep. Salamis-class cruiser at mark 2-4-9 is hammering Dren's squadron."
Her HUD lit up with the target. The cruiser's turrets vomited fire in all directions. Tanya's unit—the Geist-Einhüllende Division—wasn't meant for blunt-force clashes. They were precision killers. Ghosts.
"Colt, Weiss—on me. We're cutting through. No heroics," she ordered. "Keep clean angles. Lelouch, eyes on rear logs if you're still reading me."
There was a pause. Then a voice, cooler than the void, filtered in through her encrypted personal channel.
"I'm still watching," Lelouch von Zehrtfeld replied from Zum City—hundreds of kilometers away, buried in the sprawl of Zeon logistical command. Not a pilot. Not a field commander. But no less vital.
In a quiet ops room surrounded by fuel manifests and shipment projections, Lelouch had tapped into backdoor comms feeds, watching and listening. His job wasn't to fight, not directly. It was to understand where the real fighting meant something.
"You're flying into a pressure point. That cruiser's coverage overlaps with a Federation staging relay. If they're hiding anything, it's near there."
"Understood," Tanya responded. She didn't need real-time targeting data. Lelouch's insights were enough.
The Zaku team surged forward, using a drifting battleship fragment as cover. They burst from behind it in a synchronized sweep. 120mm cannons thundered, cutting into the cruiser's flanks. Weiss's heat hawk sizzled, bisecting a turret. The Salamis began to list, bleeding fire. It was efficient, ugly, exact.
But even in the satisfaction of victory, something shifted.
Three new IFF contacts appeared above the main battleplane—moving fast.
"High-speed approach. Three units. Black-and-purple—" Tanya's words caught.
The comms filled with recognition.
"The Black Tri-Stars," someone whispered.
Even Lelouch, listening from afar, muttered through the static: "Gaia. Ortega. Mash. They're making their move."
The infamous trio descended in perfect formation, their Zakus blurring with speed. One fired. One dodged. One killed. A perfect Jet Stream Attack.
They didn't disable. They annihilated.
A Magellan-class battleship was torn apart in seconds. The press drone that hovered nearby caught every frame—high-fidelity footage destined for Side 3's evening broadcasts. Glory was theirs. The kill was theatrical.
"Media's already picked their legends," Colt muttered, bitterness seeping in.
"Let them," Tanya replied, cold and steady. "We don't need an audience. Just a clean vector."
She fired on a fleeing Saberfish. The fighter disintegrated.
Then something else appeared.
A lone contact, moving at untraceable speed. Not a trio. A single storm. Red, sharp, and silent.
"Commander-type…" Weiss said, hesitating.
Her HUD flickered. MS-06S. Red.
"Char Aznable," Lelouch whispered from his feed. "They're calling him the Red Comet."
He wasn't supposed to be there. Not on this front. Not unsupervised. But there he was—blazing through Federation crossfire like a ghost made real.
Char didn't dodge; he anticipated. He didn't aim; he struck. One Zaku against dozens of turrets, capital-class batteries, and beam nets—and they couldn't touch him.
He decapitated a Salamis with one slice to the bridge. Then he used its exploding hull to mask a boost jump. Another warship died 90 seconds later. His kill rate wasn't measured in minutes. It was in commanders erased.
"He doesn't maneuver," Tanya murmured, eyes transfixed.
"He dances."
Her comm crackled again. Not Lelouch this time—command channel.
"New gap detected in the Federation line. Red Zaku created breach. Main Zeon units advancing. Geist Division, follow and exploit."
Tanya exhaled.
"Understood."
The red figure vanished into the firestorm, off to claim his next kill—and his next headline. Let him. Let the Tri-Stars and Char Aznable carve names into the stars.
She and Lelouch were something else. He moved pieces. She delivered judgment. Silent. Invisible. Exact.
And Loum wasn't done bleeding yet.