The day after Solomon's fall, the Federation lines were practically buzzing.
Every corridor, every hangar, every bridge chair seemed to vibrate with the same electricity: they'd actually won, and they hadn't just scraped by. They'd broken Zeon's fortress.
Revil allowed himself the smallest hint of satisfaction.
Oreki Houtarou sat beside him reading three reports at once and already irritated by all the morale broadcasts.
"People celebrate too early," he muttered, flipping a page without looking. "Zeon still has A Baoa Qu."
Revil let him complain. At least Oreki complaining meant he wasn't catastrophizing out loud.
Meanwhile, Gary Lin wasn't anywhere near the celebration decks.
His Strike Gundam was docked on a maintenance rack, armor still scorched from Dozle's rampage the previous day. Engineers swarmed the machine like ants, and Gary sat inside the cockpit with a portable meal pouch he hadn't touched.
His system chose that exact moment to ping.
[Blueprints Unlocked]
— XXXG-01W Wing Gundam
— XXXG-01H Heavyarms Gundam
Gary stared. "You're dropping this on me now?"
[Yes. Because apparently you needed more things to not build.]
He rubbed his forehead. "There is no workshop. No time. No materials. We're literally still patching the Strike."
[Host, you could at least pretend to be productive. Even a half-conscious engineer in a broom closet could start pre-building frame segments.]
"I've been fighting nonstop."
[And yet somehow you still haven't made progress equivalent to a hamster with a welder.]
He exhaled sharply. "I beat Dozle Zabi."
[Amuro helped.]
"I KNOW."
He enlarged the schematic anyway. Wing's transformation mechanism practically begged to be tested. Heavyarms' weapons loadout was so stupid it was beautiful.
Too bad he couldn't build either.
A message came in from headquarters:
Re-organization meeting in one hour. Prepare for redeployment.
"Fantastic," Gary muttered. "More work."
[Tragic. Perhaps the Federation should pause the war so you can go shopping for metal.]
"Stop."
[No.]
He leaned back, letting the hum of the ship swallow the irritation.
Somewhere far from this hangar, Tanya and the surviving Zeon forces had already retreated toward A Baoa Qu.
Char and Griveous were being repositioned.
Gihren was screaming at advisors.
Kycillia was plotting.
Zeon was wounded but very much alive.
And Gary had two future Gundams locked behind build requirements he couldn't touch.
The system flashed one more message before going quiet.
[Host, try not to die before you build something impressive.]
Gary sighed, slapped the control panel, and climbed out of the cockpit.
"One thing at a time," he muttered.
Week later they marched to A Baoa Qu.
Tonight, he still had to survive his own system.
Char stood alone on the balcony of the Granada transfer deck, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. The metal floor vibrated faintly with departing transports, but he barely heard any of it.
He allowed himself the smallest, most private smile.
Dozle Zabi was dead.
Another fracture in the family he had sworn to erase. Another step toward settling the debt carved into his childhood. Not enough to satisfy revenge, but enough to feel the world tilt a little closer toward balance.
But the moment the satisfaction rose, Sayla's face pushed into the thought like a knife.
Her voice from yesterday's chaos still lingered in his head.
"Brother… stop this."
He dragged in a slow breath.
If he finished his purge of the Zabis… what then?
What would Sayla see in him once the blood dried?
He didn't have an answer. That irritated him.
"Char."
The voice came from behind.
He turned, expression sliding back into its usual calm mask.
General Griveous' hologram flickered into form from a wrist projector. The Elmeth's commander never wasted time with greetings.
"I received Gihren's mobilization orders," Griveous said, arms crossed. "A Baoa Qu is our next stand. You're being reassigned to operate with me on the approach front."
Char nodded. "Expected."
Griveous tilted his head slightly, a gesture that for him passed as curiosity.
"And I have a question for you. What will you do after this?"
Char blinked once. "After what?"
"After Zeon collapses," Griveous answered bluntly. "Or wins and becomes something worse. Either way, the war doesn't end cleanly. You, of all people, should know that."
Char's brows lowered a fraction. "Why ask me?"
"Because I've been watching," Griveous replied. "Where you go, conflict follows. Purpose follows. Revolt follows. Every path you take, something breaks or changes."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Following you… means never avoiding battle. Never avoiding struggle."
Char looked away toward the stars, jaw tense. "War follows me because Zeon is corrupt. Because the Zabis handed me no other path."
"That's not the whole truth," Griveous said. "Even when you stand free of Zeon… the fire in your eyes stays the same."
Char's smirk returned, but it was sharper this time, tinged with irritation and unwanted recognition.
"You make it sound like I drag the universe by the collar."
"You do," Griveous replied simply.
The Red Comet exhaled slowly, looking out at the void again.
"What I do after this war… I will decide when Sayla looks at me without fear. Not before."
Griveous studied him for a long moment.
"Hm. Maybe that's the first honest thing you've said in months."
Char turned back, mask restored, voice cool.
"And you? What will you do once A Baoa Qu ends?"
Griveous's answer was immediate.
"I'll follow the strongest trajectory. And right now, that trajectory is yours."
Char paused.
For once, he didn't have a ready reply.
Above them, a launch siren echoed through the station.
Preparations for the final battlefield had begun.
And Char, for all his plans and vendettas, suddenly found himself wondering not how the war would end—but who he would be when Sayla finally demanded he stop fighting.
You really love dropping characters into emotional confusion and then expecting them to function like a Windows XP machine on low battery. Fine. Here's your scene… written cleanly, without my attitude bleeding into it.
---
Shirogane Miyuki sat alone on the edge of the supply deck, the hum of the ventilation fans the only sound keeping him company. The battle at Solomon still replayed in his mind like a film he couldn't pause.
He had given orders. Real orders. Life-or-death ones.
And somehow… they worked.
Every formation shift, every timing call, every retreat and counterpush—he'd executed them almost flawlessly, as if some buried instinct had simply surfaced the moment the battlefield demanded it.
But now that the adrenaline was gone, the question he'd been avoiding hit him square in the chest.
How did I even do that?
He wasn't a Newtype. He wasn't a veteran. He wasn't even a mobile suit pilot.
Just a normal high schooler who suddenly coordinated units like he'd been born with a tactical computer jammed into his brain.
He rubbed his face.
"Ridiculous…"
A shadow fell over him.
A hand tapped his shoulder.
Miyuki turned.
Mikazuki Augus stood there, expression as flat and unreadable as ever. "You're coming."
Miyuki blinked. "Coming… where?"
"To the party."
Mikazuki said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Miyuki stared back, confused. "Why me? I don't pilot a Gundam. I just yelled at people through a console. That's it."
Mikazuki tilted his head slightly. "Your commands kept us alive. You got us through the gaps. Fighters don't fight alone."
Before Miyuki could respond, another voice called out from the corridor.
"Oi! Mikazuki! Quit stealing the new guy!"
Bright Noa appeared, waving them over with a half-smile that looked tired but genuine. "We're gathering everyone who kept this fleet from dying. That includes him."
Miyuki felt heat rise in his face. "I… really don't think I belong with Gundam pilots."
Bright snorted. "You're already there. Whether you believe it or not."
Mikazuki nodded once. "You gave orders that worked. That matters."
Miyuki looked between the two of them—the calm killer and the overworked captain—and something in his chest eased. Just a little.
"…Fine," he muttered, standing up. "But if anyone asks why I'm there, I'm blaming both of you."
Bright shrugged. "Deal."
Mikazuki turned toward the hall. "Food's getting cold."
And as Miyuki followed them, still wondering how in the world he had done what he did out there, he realized something strange:
For the first time since the war began, he didn't feel out of place.
Not completely.