Side 3 hung in artificial twilight, the great cylinder's internal lights dimmed to simulate a night that no one inside truly felt anymore. Military traffic moved in tight, disciplined lanes. Warships rotated, resupplied, armed. Everything pointed toward A Baoa Qu.
Char Aznable stood on a quiet observation deck overlooking the docking field, helmet tucked under one arm. The Great Zeong was visible in the distance, half-shrouded by gantries and scaffolding, technicians crawling over it like ants preparing a god for war.
The comm panel chimed again.
Griveous.
Char accepted the channel without ceremony.
"So," Char said, eyes still on the Zeong, "we regroup at Side 3, lick our wounds, then march to the altar. Gihren always did enjoy symmetry."
Griveous's image flickered into view, standing somewhere stark and metallic—likely a briefing room. "A Baoa Qu is being fortified beyond doctrine. Minefields layered three deep. Reserve fleets pulled from every surviving sector. He's betting everything."
"And spending lives like loose change," Char replied flatly.
"Yes." Griveous did not hesitate. "Including ours."
Char's fingers tightened slightly on the helmet. "Then why call me? You already know the outcome."
Griveous studied him for a moment longer than necessary. "Because outcomes change when certain people are on the board. And you, Char Aznable, are one of them."
A faint scoff. "You give me too much credit. I'm just another pilot with a grudge."
"That is precisely the problem," Griveous said. "Zeon is no longer fighting for victory. It's fighting for validation. Gihren wants a myth—an ending where he can say Zeon burned brightly, even if it burned itself out."
Char's expression darkened. Images surfaced unbidden: Solomon breaking, Dozle roaring defiance, Sayla's face in the middle of battle—hesitation cutting through him sharper than any beam saber.
"And after A Baoa Qu?" Char asked quietly.
Griveous didn't answer at once.
"After that," he said finally, "Zeon as we know it ends. Either crushed outright, or hollowed into something unrecognizable. The Federation will claim peace. The people will inherit ruins."
Char turned from the viewport at last, crimson mask unreadable but voice stripped of mockery.
"And you? What will you do when the banners fall?"
Griveous's eyes narrowed slightly. "I intend to survive. To choose my battles, not be consumed by them."
Char laughed once—short, humorless. "That sounds suspiciously like treason."
"It sounds like realism," Griveous replied. "Which is why I'm asking you the same question."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by distant engine hums and the muted rhythm of Side 3's artificial night.
Char looked down at his gloved hand, then back toward the Zeong.
"I wanted revenge," he said. "I still do. But now…" His voice faltered, just enough to be human. "Now there's my sister. And a future that keeps slipping further out of reach the more I fight."
Griveous tilted his head slightly. "Then why continue?"
Char's answer came slower, heavier.
"Because if I stop now, everything that's happened becomes meaningless. Dozle. Solomon. Everyone who died believing in something—even a lie." He straightened. "I'll go to A Baoa Qu. I'll see it through."
Griveous nodded, unsurprised. "I thought you'd say that."
"But after," Char continued, eyes sharp again, "if Zeon survives—or even if it doesn't—I won't be Gihren's weapon. I won't be Kycilia's knife. I'll decide my own path."
A thin smile crossed Griveous's face. "That's why I called. Wherever you go after this… war seems to follow you."
Char smirked faintly. "Then let's hope I learn how to end it."
The channel closed.
Char remained alone on the deck, Side 3's false stars reflecting off his visor. Ahead lay A Baoa Qu. Behind him, ghosts. And somewhere beyond both, a future he wasn't sure he deserved—but wasn't ready to abandon.
Side 3's night cycle deepened, and in the quiet after the transmission ended, Griveous remained standing long after Char's image vanished from the screen.
He dismissed the aides in the room with a single gesture. When he was alone, he finally exhaled.
It wasn't strategy that had driven him to contact Char Aznable. Not entirely.
Griveous closed his eyes.
The world shifted.
For him, perception never stopped at instruments or reports. Ever since his awakening, space itself carried texture—emotional pressure, intent, unresolved will. Most people were dull echoes: fear, obedience, noise. Commanders like Gihren burned sharp but hollow, all ambition and no depth, like a furnace with no soul behind it.
Char was different.
Around Char Aznable, the currents bent.
Not in the crude, flaring way of battlefield Newtypes, but like gravity—constant, subtle, inescapable. Conflict clustered around him because people felt him. Allies projected hope onto him. Enemies fixated on him. Even chance encounters twisted into confrontations when he was near.
Griveous had sensed it the first time their paths crossed.
Char carried contradiction: hatred bound to restraint, vengeance chained to conscience. Those fractures resonated through the Newtype field like fault lines. Where Char went, tension followed—not because he sought it, but because unresolved worlds tried to resolve themselves through him.
A magnet.
Not for victory.
For collision.
Griveous opened his eyes and stared at his reflection in the dark monitor.
"I don't see the future," he murmured to no one. "I see people."
When he focused on Char, the impressions had been overwhelming: burning resolve wrapped around a core of hesitation—one name repeating beneath it all.
Sayla.
That single emotional anchor distorted Char's entire trajectory. It kept him from becoming a monster—and guaranteed he would never be at peace. Wars fed on that contradiction.
Gihren commanded armies. Kycilia manipulated shadows. Degwin mourned a past that no longer existed.
But Char Aznable?
He generated turning points.
Griveous clenched his fist slowly.
"If I follow Gihren," he said quietly, "I die in a meaningless blaze. If I follow ideology, I become blind."
He looked again toward the direction of Char's dock.
"But if I follow you," he continued, voice low, almost reverent, "I remain inside the eye of history's storm."
Griveous did not intend to worship Char. Nor save him.
He intended to observe him—because wherever Char went, the truth of the era was forced into the open. Lies collapsed. Masks broke. People revealed who they really were.
That was where Griveous believed he belonged.
Not as a hero.
Not as a loyalist.
But as a witness walking beside the man who drew conflict like gravity—until the universe itself was forced to decide what it wanted to become.
The corridor was dark, deliberately so.
Emergency lights were disabled. Cameras looped on blank frames. Even the faint hum of Side 3's internal traffic had been rerouted away from this sector. Lelouch had ensured it personally. When he moved, it was without witnesses—or meaning.
Char Aznable stood alone at the viewport, helmet under one arm, staring at the distant glow of docks preparing for A Baoa Qu. The reflection in the glass showed a man at ease, but the stillness was deceptive. His thoughts were anything but calm.
"You're careful," Char said without turning. "That already tells me this conversation shouldn't exist."
Lelouch stepped out of the shadows, coat settling around him like a curtain closing.
"No one is listening," Lelouch replied evenly. "No sensors. No observers. Not even Newtypes would notice this space unless they were already looking for regret."
Char finally turned. His eyes narrowed—not in hostility, but curiosity sharpened by instinct.
"Then speak," he said. "Before I decide you're wasting my time."
Lelouch did not hesitate.
"Come with me," he said. "Leave Zeon. Leave the Federation. Leave this war."
Char froze.
For the first time in a long while, surprise cracked through his composure.
"That's a bold suggestion," Char said slowly. "Especially from someone standing in Zeon territory."
"It's not a suggestion," Lelouch corrected. "It's an offer."
He raised a small device between his fingers. No insignia. No military markings.
"I have the technology to leave," Lelouch continued. "Not to hide. To go. Mars first. Permanent infrastructure. Independent industry. No Earth Sphere politics. No Zabi legacy. No Federation chains."
Char stared at him, expression unreadable.
"Mars," he repeated quietly. "You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't expect belief," Lelouch replied. "I expect recognition. You know when someone is lying to you."
Char did not answer immediately.
He felt it. That subtle pressure in the air—the absence of deception. Lelouch was dangerous, yes, but not because of ambition. Because of clarity.
"And after Mars?" Char asked. "You build a new nation? A new war?"
"No," Lelouch said flatly. "After Mars, there is distance. Time. Survival. Choice. Something this war denies everyone it touches."
Char laughed softly—once. There was no humor in it.
"You're offering me escape," he said. "At the moment Zeon is about to burn."
"I'm offering you freedom," Lelouch replied. "You've already killed one Zabi. History will remember that. What it will not forgive is if you keep feeding yourself to this cycle."
Char turned back toward the viewport. The docks glowed brighter now. Mobile suits being armed. Pilots boarding.
"A Baoa Qu," he said quietly. "The final act."
"You know Zeon will lose," Lelouch said. "Even Gihren knows. He just believes annihilation is acceptable."
"Yes," Char replied. "I know."
"Then why stay?" Lelouch pressed. "Why die for a lie you despise?"
Char was silent for a long time.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower—stripped of performance.
"Because if I leave now," he said, "this war ends without being answered."
He turned to face Lelouch again, eyes sharp, resolute.
"Because there are people still fighting who believe in something—however flawed. Because Sayla is still here. Because Amuro is still moving forward."
Lelouch's gaze tightened. "You don't owe them your life."
"No," Char agreed. "But I owe myself the truth."
He stepped closer, close enough that Lelouch could feel the intensity radiating from him.
"If Zeon falls," Char continued, "then it must fall knowing someone looked it in the eye and didn't run. Even if history calls me a villain. Even if I lose."
Lelouch searched his face, then exhaled slowly.
"So you refuse."
"Yes," Char said without hesitation. "Not because your offer lacks merit. But because if I leave now, I become a ghost who survived while others paid the price."
A pause.
Then, softer: "And I already carry enough ghosts."
Lelouch nodded once.
"I expected that answer," he said. "That's why I came in person."
Char raised an eyebrow. "Then why offer at all?"
Lelouch turned away, already fading back into shadow.
"Because when this ends," he said, "and the battlefield finally goes quiet, you will need to know that escape was possible—and that you chose otherwise."
He stopped at the threshold.
"When the war is over," Lelouch added, "Mars will still be there. If you survive."
Char watched him disappear.
Alone again, he looked back at the stars—at the path he had chosen, fully aware of its cost.
"Tempting," he murmured to the empty corridor.
Then, quietly, with iron certainty:
"But not today."