Lelouch walked alone through the maintenance spine of Side 3, the low gravity making each step feel lighter than it should have. Char's refusal replayed in his mind—not as a failure, but as a confirmation.
So that is your answer, he thought. Not loyalty to Zeon. Not hatred of the Federation. Responsibility.
He respected it.
More than that—he understood it.
He himself would not leave yet either. There were still knots to untangle. People to move. Consequences to settle before Mars could become more than a destination on a map.
A Baoa Qu would burn first.
As Lelouch disappeared into the transit lift, another corridor, not far away, carried a very different weight.
Char Aznable had removed his helmet, carrying it loosely at his side as he walked. The smirk from earlier was gone. In its place was a quiet, inward focus—a man already preparing himself for the final act.
That was when he noticed the boy.
The pilot stood rigid near a bulkhead, hands clenched at his sides, eyes darting every time a uniform passed. His normal suit was properly sealed, his insignia correct, but his posture betrayed him completely.
Fear, raw and unfiltered.
Char stopped.
"You're going to attract attention standing like that," he said calmly.
The boy flinched hard, spinning around. His face drained of color when he saw the red mask.
"I—I'm sorry, sir!" he blurted out, snapping into a stiff salute that only made him look more inexperienced.
Char tilted his head slightly. "You look more like you're waiting for a firing squad than orders."
The boy swallowed. His voice dropped, words tumbling out before he could stop them.
"I'm just… nervous. That's all."
Char studied him for a moment. Young. Too young. The kind of pilot Zeon had begun relying on when experience ran out faster than manpower.
"Nervous pilots don't survive long," Char said evenly. "Why are you nervous?"
The boy hesitated—then, inexplicably, spoke.
"I failed Lord Dozle."
The words hung heavy in the corridor.
Char's eyes sharpened. "Explain."
"I was assigned to Solomon's perimeter defense," the boy said, fists tightening. "When the Federation broke through… I froze. I hid. I didn't sortie. I told myself I was waiting for orders, but… I was scared."
His voice cracked, just slightly.
"Now Lord Dozle is dead. Everyone who fought is either gone or being praised. And I'm still here."
Char was silent.
"That fear would've gotten you executed if Dozle were alive," the boy continued, almost whispering now. "I know that. That's why I don't understand why I'm still breathing."
Char regarded him with a long, unreadable stare.
He's right, Char thought. Fear like that was once a death sentence.
Yet the boy still stood there—alive, shaking, confessing his cowardice to the last man he should have trusted.
"And why," Char asked quietly, "would you say this to me?"
The boy blinked, caught off guard.
"I… I don't know," he admitted. "You looked like someone who already decided how this war ends."
Char almost laughed.
Instead, he asked, "Your name."
"Tomoya Aki," the boy replied instantly.
"How old?"
"Seventeen."
Seventeen.
Char closed his eyes briefly.
Another child dragged into history's machinery.
"You're afraid," Char said, opening his eyes again. "That means you understand the value of your life. That already separates you from fools."
Tomoya stared at him, confused. "Sir…?"
"Dozle Zabi valued courage above survival," Char continued. "That made him powerful. It also made him predictable."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You survived Solomon not because you were strong—but because you were human."
Tomoya's breath hitched.
"That doesn't make you a hero," Char said. "But it doesn't make you worthless either."
The boy's eyes trembled. "Then… what should I do?"
Char straightened, turning away slightly, gaze drifting toward the distant glow of the docks.
"You're seventeen," he said. "That means the war will end before you understand why it started."
He looked back at Tomoya.
"Live long enough to figure it out."
Tomoya nodded stiffly, tears threatening but unshed.
"Y-Yes, sir."
Char placed his helmet back under his arm and began walking again.
As he passed, he added without looking back, "And next time you're afraid—make sure it's fear of losing something worth protecting."
The boy watched him go, frozen in place, heart pounding—not with terror this time, but with something dangerously close to resolve.
Char Aznable continued down the corridor, his thoughts heavy.
Children confessing sins they shouldn't have had to commit, he thought. This is the war you refuse to abandon.
Ahead lay A Baoa Qu.
Behind him, the ghosts kept growing.
And still—he walked forward.
Tomoya Aki had not planned to speak to Char Aznable again.
After that brief exchange in the corridor, he had tried to disappear into the background—maintenance levels, auxiliary hangars, anywhere the war did not look directly at him. But the truth refused to stay buried, and neither did the weight pressing against his chest.
Because Tomoya Aki was not just another frightened pilot.
He was the one Gary Lin had summoned.
Weeks earlier—quietly, without ceremony—Gary Lin had activated a contingency no one else in the Federation or Zeon understood. A single transfer. A single pilot pulled across circumstances by a system no one could see, carrying a ridiculous, almost unfair capability.
Instant mastery.
Any mobile suit Tomoya boarded, he understood it immediately. Balance, thrust vectors, weapon lag, neural feedback—his body adapted faster than veterans with decades of combat. Not through instinct alone, but through something closer to comprehension. As if the machine explained itself to him.
Gary Lin had called it a "perk," half-joking, half-exhausted.
Tomoya had called it terrifying.
That talent was what brought him to Side 3. What drew attention he never wanted.
Dozle Zabi had noticed him during a closed evaluation—Tomoya placed into an unfamiliar unit, expected to fail. Instead, he moved like he had lived in it for years. Clean maneuvers. No wasted motion. No panic.
Dozle had laughed, loud and thunderous.
"A natural," he'd said. "A weapon Zeon needs."
That was when Tomoya understood something very clearly.
If he stayed visible, he would never leave alive—except inside a cockpit headed toward death.
So when Solomon burned, when orders came down and alarms screamed, Tomoya hid.
He told himself it was caution. Survival. Logic.
But it was fear.
And when Dozle died, that fear curdled into guilt.
That was why he sought Char again.
He found him in a quiet staging corridor overlooking the outer docks of Side 3. The Great Zeong loomed in the distance, incomplete but unmistakable. Char stood alone, hands clasped behind his back, staring at it as if measuring something invisible.
Tomoya stopped a few steps behind him.
"Sir… Char."
Char did not turn. "If you've come to confess again, you're wasting your time."
Tomoya swallowed. "I didn't tell you everything."
That earned him Char's attention. Slowly, Char turned.
"Go on."
Tomoya took a breath. "I was Orphan in Zeon. I don't know how i Will eat tomorrow so i take test pilot hope i can accepted and that how lord Dozle notice me because… I can pilot anything. Instantly. Any mobile suit. It's like the machine teaches me."
Silence.
Char's eyes narrowed—not in disbelief, but calculation.
"So that's why Dozle recruit you."
"Yes." Tomoya clenched his fists. "And that's why I hid. If I fought at Solomon, I wouldn't have survived long enough to choose anything and i just want to live."
Char studied him carefully now. Not as a superior. Not as a judge.
As a mirror of something uncomfortably familiar.
"You're afraid of being consumed," Char said.
"Yes."
"And yet you're still here."
Tomoya nodded. "Because the war isn't over. A Baoa Qu is coming."
The name hung between them like a verdict.
Tomoya straightened, forcing himself not to look away.
"If you're forming a squad," he said, voice steady despite his shaking hands, "I want to join you."
Char did not answer immediately.
He turned back toward the Great Zeong.
"You hid when Solomon fell," Char said calmly. "Many died while you survived."
"I know," Tomoya replied. "That's why I'm asking now. Not to be forgiven. But to choose."
Char exhaled slowly.
"You're seventeen," he said. "Too young to carry the weight you're offering."
"I already do," Tomoya answered quietly. "Whether I fight or not."
That, finally, made Char smile—faint, crooked, dangerous.
"You realize," Char said, "that following me guarantees nothing but conflict."
Tomoya nodded. "I think… that's why I came to you."
Char turned fully now, standing face to face with the boy.
"You don't want a commander," Char said. "You want a direction."
"Yes."
Char considered him for a long moment. Then he spoke.
"A Baoa Qu will be the end of something," he said. "Zeon, the Federation, or both. I don't yet know which."
He stepped closer.
"If you join me, you fight knowing there may be no meaning at the end. No victory. Only consequence."
Tomoya met his gaze, fear still there—but no longer paralyzing.
"I'll take consequence over running."
Char nodded once.
"Very well," he said. "Stay alive until sortie. If you freeze again, I will not save you."
Tomoya bowed his head deeply. "That's fair."
As he turned to leave, Char added one last thing.
"And Tomoya—your talent is dangerous."
Tomoya paused.
"Not because it makes you strong," Char continued, "but because it makes others decide how you should be used."
Tomoya looked back. "Then I'll decide who I follow."
Char watched him go, thoughts heavy.
Another gifted child stepping onto the path of war.
Another reason A Baoa Qu would not end cleanly.
And somewhere far away—Gary Lin's system ticked quietly, unimpressed, already calculating how much trouble this would cause next.