AN: Grant me your power stones!
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[Arizona, September 15, 2014]
The television flickered softly in the darkness of the room. Simon was slumped on his bedroom couch like a poorly wrapped mummy: a blanket covered him from head to toe, leaving only his face free to watch the screen and chew chips with the precision of a lazy reptile.
"Vinegar-flavored... who buys this crap?" he muttered, though he reached back into the bag anyway.
The digital clock read 1:32 a.m., and the UN meeting was still broadcasting. At that hour, his body—that damn almost-seven-year-old body—had been begging for bed for a while. But Simon wasn't going to miss the ending for anything in the world.
On screen, Stacker Pentecost was finishing his speech with a force only someone like him could project. He stood in front of a frozen image of a kaiju reducing a city to rubble. The marshal raised his voice as if the whole world was silently responding to him.
"And that is why we are here. This is the only question that really matters..." —the entire room held its breath— "...What does it take to grab these monsters by the throat and drag them back to hell?"
Simon blinked. A chill ran down his spine.
"Shit… I got goosebumps. Is this what people feel when they see Tom Cruise do a stunt?" he joked, snuggling deeper into the blanket as if it could protect him from the sheer epicness of the moment.
The camera then cut to the main hall, where a man stood up. Thin, wrinkled suit, nervous gaze. Simon raised an eyebrow and crunched another chip with calculated slowness.
"What a scientist cliché. The science teacher who's always late?"
On screen, someone introduced him as Doctor Jasper Schoenfeld. He cleared his throat and, with a still-shaky voice, asked permission to present an idea that—in his own words—could change everything. And then he began to speak.
Pentecost looked at the doctor with the kind of silence that splits history in two and said, as if summoning fate:
"Then step onto the stage… and present the idea that will save humanity."
"Boom!" Simon exclaimed. "How could you not get goosebumps from that? If that guy said 'hello' to me, I'd probably start crying after asking for his autograph."
Dr. Schoenfeld was now in full presentation mode, nervously pacing across the stage as he handed a USB drive to the guy running the projection. His hands trembled, but his voice grew steadier with every word. He showed the design of a prototype he called Jaeger, a combat machine the size of a skyscraper. Precise movements, overwhelming strength, modular defense... a steel creature built to answer the kaiju with equal brutality, but with human purpose.
One of the Eastern European representatives raised his hand, frowning.
"Is this… is this a combat robot?"
The doctor paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and shook his head.
"No. It's not a robot. Robots are automatons, machines that execute commands without a soul. This will be piloted. By humans. It's not a tool; it's an extension of the human body…" He looked toward the audience with a mix of nerves and conviction. "If you really need a reference word, it's more like an anime mecha than a military robot."
A wave of murmurs and genuine curiosity swept through the hall. Simon, still hunched over in front of the TV, burst out laughing.
"He said it! He actually said it! That guy just said 'anime' at the UN. Someone give him a medal."
The hall applauded. The project was approved. Limited funds would be allocated to develop a prototype. If it worked… the world would change.
Simon leaned back slowly, the blanket still covering him up to his nose. His eyes sparkled with the questions he now had to answer.
"What do I do now?"
It was official: the world had taken its first step toward a united front.
But he… he was still technically just a kid.
"I can't help," he murmured, staring at the ceiling. "Not like this."
He pressed his lips together. If he came forward with advanced technological knowledge, he could accelerate the conflict. Give one country an unfair advantage… What if that knowledge was used to crush others instead of saving everyone?
The Jaeger Project was the only thing all the countries had agreed on in years. And it had to work. Because if it worked… that meant only one thing to him.
He would know where to find his brothers.
Simon turned onto his side, tucking the blanket under his chin. He closed his eyes. He heard the hum of the television as it powered down.
"It would still be years... but they'd be in command of what would become known as humanity's last hope, Gipsy Danger. And if they're piloting it..." —his voice faded— "… I'd have to save my brother."
And with that, he let himself drift off to sleep, hope pulsing quietly beneath his skin. Tomorrow he would go see the Gundam again. But tonight, he just needed to close his eyes and hold onto the thought that he wasn't powerless.
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[Arizona, junkyard, December 20, 2014]
Simon grimaced as he looked through the dirty window of the abandoned bus he used as an improvised workshop.
"I'm still waiting for the damn snow," he muttered, wrapped in his sweater, his breath coming out in little clouds. Instead of snow, he had rust. And a mountain of scrap piled up like an altar.
He was in the junkyard, on the outskirts of town, working on his most ambitious invention to date: an artificial intelligence. A real one. Not a voice assistant with pre-programmed responses or a database with search algorithms. What he was trying to build was digital consciousness. A brain made of scraps and miracles. He called it Albion—and he had his reasons.
What he didn't have was a lab. Or grants. Or even a decent chair. He had a rusty screwdriver, a borrowed soldering iron from Snow—God only knows if it was actually borrowed—and a mind that didn't recognize the word "impossible."
The core was the hardest part. None of the computers in that junkyard had the capacity to handle the kind of architecture Albion required. But Simon wasn't just anyone. He had learned from the Gundam systems. He had seen its guts, studied every part, every line of code he was supposed to read. Thanks to that, he managed to create a primitive, but functional, core.
The body was a dysfunctional work of art: a motorcycle helmet with hand-glued LEDs, held together by motherboards assembled like radioactive Lego blocks. The sensors came from a surveillance system for chickens (yes, chickens). The processor, from a busted slot machine. Everything stuck together with electrical tape, faith, and the stubborn will of a child who knew more than most adults.
And of course, he needed more processors. A lot more. That's where Snow came in.
Snow, his weird classmate from elementary school who gave him candy and whose mother was his muse, helped him get the missing parts—they broke into the high school computer lab one night and took what they needed.
"Now I owe Snow a favor," Simon muttered as he soldered a cable. "Maybe she thinks we're soulmates just because I also stole something just because I wanted to."
For weeks, he fed it code. He taught it to distinguish voices, to respond to light patterns, to register key words… Because Simon had plans. And for those, he needed a network. An intelligence system to help him navigate a world not made for genius kids. Albion wasn't a toy. It was the first brick in a tower that would change everything.
And finally, after a couple of sparks, a buzzing sound. The screen, black for weeks, flickered. One line. Another blink. And then:
"Hello"
Simon froze. He blinked. A slow smile spread across his face, as if he had just told the universe a joke… and it had finally laughed.
And then, he started to laugh. Not a normal laugh. He laughed like a mad scientist in a midnight movie. He laughed like someone who had just stolen fire from the gods.
"It's alive!" he shouted, raising his arms like a gleeful lunatic.
The screen blinked again.
"I am alive."
Simon nodded, still with that grin on his lips, and replied with all the seriousness a child genius could muster:
"More or less. Don't get too excited. You're a miracle made of trash."
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Click
Simon closed the helmet lid with a satisfying sound.
Albion was officially offline.
Deactivated.
Asleep.
"You stay here, buddy," he said to the helmet as he placed it gently on a pillow stuffed with old T-shirts. "But not for long. As soon as I can, I'll make you portable. Something that fits in a backpack. A chip, a console, a talking toaster… whatever works."
He paused dramatically, then muttered:
"Maybe I'll even build you a body. Something with wheels. But if you start killing humans, I want you to know—I'll shut off your Wi-Fi without hesitation."
It was noon, and the sun beat down on the roof of the workshop.
Simon stretched, wiped the grease off his hands, and looked at his watch.
Time to "make Grandma believe I have a normal life."
He stashed the important stuff, locked the workshop with a padlock, and ran toward the house. At the door, his grandmother was waiting with a glass of lemonade and that classic look that said, "I know you're up to something, but you amuse me."
"Where are you going this time?" she asked, walking him into the house and setting cookies on a plate.
"I'm going to Snow's house," Simon replied, stuffing a cookie in his mouth and talking like a hamster. "To play video games. Or study. Whatever normal people do."
Grandma raised an eyebrow.
"Snow? The girl who's in love with you?"
"Exactly. Don't judge my social decisions. She's just a good friend."
At that moment, as if part of a master plan, the phone rang.
Simon picked up his phone, winked at his grandma, and answered:
"Snow! I was just telling my grandma I'm heading over."
The voice on the other end replied without skipping a beat:
"Uh-huh, I'm here. We're… um… doing biology homework and playing video games. With gelatin organs. Very educational and humane. No dissected frogs."
Simon said goodbye to Snow and flashed a triumphant smile at his grandmother.
She sighed in defeat.
"That girl would throw a hamster under a car for you," she muttered, shaking her head, though she couldn't help smiling back. "I just hope I live long enough to see your wedding. Even if it's over Zoom. With bad signal."
Simon pretended to be scandalized.
"Grandma!"
"What? Let me dream. I can't even see without glasses anymore. And if Snow cooks like she talks, at least you won't starve." She sighed, exasperated. "If she can make fries, you'll be just fine."
Simon laughed, threw on his backpack, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
"You've got my number in case you drop the TV remote and can't pick it up."
"That's not funny, Simon."
"Neither is the hamster thing."
A few minutes later, Simon was pedaling down the road toward the outskirts of town, backpack slung over his shoulder and a notebook in his pocket…
He wasn't going to Snow's house.
He was going back to Willow Creek.
On the way, he pulled out his phone and texted Snow:
>Thanks for covering me again. I owe you two. You're not gonna ask for anything crazy, right?
She replied with a sticker of two cats eating pizza.
Simon laughed to himself.
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A few moments later, Simon was now standing before the broken staircase in the psychiatric hospital's basement—the same one he had fallen through weeks ago. The same cold concrete. The same structure, crumbling with age.
Only now, he wasn't exactly the same person.
"You and I have met before," he murmured.
Simon stood at the edge of the abyss. The dark void below waited like an open mouth, but this time, Simon had no ropes, no hooks—not even a conventional plan.
He just took a step.
And let himself fall.
For a second, there was only wind and emptiness. The world spun around him, his stomach shooting up into his throat, and Simon screamed—though more from excitement than fear. Then, the impossible happened.
From his back, with a soft flash and a crackle like ice forming instantly, wings burst forth.
Wings made of brilliant blue light, like crystallized origami scattering shimmering particles. Every fold pulsed with energy, every flap gave off a low, vibrant hum.
Simon hovered mid-air, floating, arms spread wide with a grin that could've melted anyone.
"Oh, yeah," he said to himself. "I'm a freaking techno-firefly."
He slowly spun around, reveling in the sensation, and murmured:
"Willpower," he said with a half-smile. "That's the key word."
Now he understood why his first suit—the one that turned red—was so simple, minimalistic, and tech-forward at the same time. It wasn't due to limitations. It was because his own will and solid memories had shaped it that way. He had discovered the suits were only as strong as the faith he put into them. Clear ideas, even simple ones, gave rise to solid, functional constructs. Whereas that one time he tried to make an ultra-advanced suit with layers of armor, heavy plating, extra thrusters… well, it fell apart on the first hit like a poorly assembled toy.
At least it looked cool.
He looked at his wings again. It was no coincidence they resembled Vali Lucifer's Divine Dividing. He had unconsciously modeled them after the most enduring image from this new life—one that had lived in his mind since entering this world. Plus, he had actually thought through how wings would function to strengthen the construction. After all, Albion, the White Dragon Emperor, had always felt like more than just a cool name. It carried an idea of calm judgment, contained power, lethal intelligence.
[Insert Image]
Which is exactly why, weeks ago, he had given that name to his AI.
"Of course… Albion. It was always him," he whispered, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
He turned his head, eyes landing on his shoulder. There, as always, was his old companion: the plush dragon. The one that had been with him before the Gundam, before everything. The one that always seemed to be silently watching.
Simon narrowed his eyes. A spark went off in his mind. He finally understood.
"I know where you're going now," he said to the air, as if Albion were already listening. "You can't stay in that helmet forever, new friend… I think I just found the perfect place for you."
He smirked slightly, already sketching blueprints in his mind. The plush didn't move. Didn't speak. But to Simon, it was enough to imagine that—if it could—it might have nodded.
Shaking his head to clear those thoughts, he stretched out a hand.
The air vibrated softly, a stillness he had grown used to. Then, right in front of him, the Gundam appeared.
Its massive structure materialized with pinpoint precision, crouched on one knee, perfectly fitted within the half-collapsed basement.
As soon as the synchronization completed, he retracted his wings, and the red suit wrapped around his body with a controlled flash. The main screen in front of him flickered.
"Synchronization complete," said the system voice.
Simon took a deep breath. "Desync the link. I'm going to scout the area," he said, disabling motor control. Instantly, he felt the system's tension ease. He could now move freely inside the cockpit without the giant mimicking his movements.
Around him, circuits glowed a faint red. The electric hum was constant, but soft. He moved his hands across the floating screens until a series of commands led him to a forgotten section of the system: the main computer.
That was his target.
If he could understand how this core worked—if he could decipher the Gundam's computational architecture—he could replicate parts of it. Improve it. Integrate it with Albion. Make his AI not just think, but learn the way an interdimensional war machine would.
Simon grinned as lines of code began to stream before his eyes.
"Time to learn from the best," he murmured, diving into the data.
After all, the idea to create Albion hadn't come from a divine moment of inspiration—but from the silent heart of the Gundam. During one of his many secret explorations inside the sleeping giant, Simon had made a discovery that blew his mind: the Gundam wasn't entirely dependent on its pilot. Hidden beneath layers of encrypted code and redundant structures was an autonomous support system—a sort of rudimentary pseudo-AI designed to help manage the mental and physical load of piloting.
It wasn't a full consciousness, but it was a smart assistant capable of processing stimuli, anticipating movements, and—most importantly—learning from its pilot. That's why Simon had been able to move it so freely without suffering a brain meltdown. It wasn't just his brilliance or boldness—the Gundam had helped. It had compensated for his size, his lack of strength, his awkward, childlike body. The mecha had accepted him. And, in a way, protected him.
That discovery had stuck with him like a sweet thorn in his mind.
If a machine like that could do so much with an incomplete AI… what could he accomplish with a real one? What if he didn't just build a support system, but a companion? A network. An allied mind. Not just to pilot—but to think, anticipate, adapt.
The world had armies. He would have Albion.