The Archangel was advancing toward the orbital debris belt that spanned all space sectors around Earth. (Numerous debris fragments had formed an elongated belt due to Earth's gravity, orbiting the planet like satellites along fixed trajectories.)
As in the original timeline, calculations showed that the wreckage of Junius Seven currently lay directly along the Archangel's path to Earth. With the Eurasian Federation's supplies barely addressing daily water needs, after discussions among Murrue and others, they ultimately decided to retrieve water from Junius Seven's remains.
After all, Junius Seven was the only nearby water source. Even if Reid now permitted the Archangel to resupply at the Star Palace Colony Satellite, changing course was impossible. Any turnabout would mean another battle with the two pursuing ZAFT Laurasia-class ships.
Though the Archangel had been well-stocked with ammunition at Heliopolis, several battles had depleted over half their reserves. A few more engagements would exhaust all physical ammunition—Valiant cannons, missiles, anti-air machine guns—rendering them inoperable.
Reid couldn't object—people couldn't survive without water. Relying solely on alcoholic beverages would undoubtedly cause countless problems aboard the Archangel later.
Truthfully, Junius Seven had always been a thorn in Reid's conscience. No matter how he rationalized it, he had participated in the attack on Junius Seven, having shot down the Recon ZINN to prevent its reinforcement of the main battlefield. While the outcome might have been unchanged, he'd still facilitated the nuclear strike.
Such was human nature—no amount of words could truly deceive one's own conscience.
Sometimes Reid deeply understood Patrick's hatred toward him. Putting himself in those shoes—if Ange had been visiting some colony satellite that got nuked—he couldn't predict what he might do.
But understanding didn't equate to acceptance. Since Patrick wanted him dead, Reid had no choice but to eliminate him first.
Yet ever since the destination meeting where Junius Seven was decided, Reid had inexplicably grown increasingly unsettled.
The closer they approached Junius Seven, the more pronounced this unease became.
Admittedly, Reid had experienced this sensation before—but only on battlefields, where the abrupt, intense foreboding signaled imminent mortal danger.
He trusted this sixth sense completely. Whenever the unease reached critical levels, Reid would instinctively evade drastically or temporarily withdraw from combat zones—a reflex that had saved his life multiple times. Ironically, this very talent had delayed his system's activation until the unwinnable Junius Seven battle.
This time differed. Reid's disquiet didn't spike abruptly but intensified gradually like a chronic illness.
As days passed, others noticed Reid's deteriorating mental state. Without any crew specialized in psychological studies, Ange could only insist he rest.
But how could Reid sleep in this agitated state? Even after getting barely two hours of sleep the previous night.
Fortunately, Ange showcased another of her talents at this moment—singing. In the original work, Ange's ultimate move, the Space-Time Cannon, was activated through song. So she actually had the talent of a songstress, though the system didn't display it in the skill column, much like Reid's peculiar sixth sense.
Thus, Reid inexplicably relaxed to the sound of Ange's lullaby and gradually drifted off to sleep.
In his dream, Reid felt himself approaching a realm of souls, where countless faint blue flames flickered visibly in the distance, and he was drawing closer to them.
Strangely, though Reid hadn't counted the flames, he instinctively knew their number—243,721.
Such a sensitive figure left no doubt in Reid's mind about what they represented.
Yet Reid found it odd. If vengeful spirits were seeking retribution, he had killed plenty of enemies on the battlefield. And if every participant in a war were to be haunted, it should be those he had personally slain who came for him.
What business did the vengeful spirits of Junius Seven have with him? He'd have understood it more if Gerard Garcia, whom he had recently killed, had come for revenge.
But in the dream, Reid had no ability to escape. Even calling out to the system yielded no response. He could only watch helplessly as he plunged into the blue flames.
Bracing himself for searing agony, Reid felt nothing as he entered the fire.
The next moment, his vision blurred, and he saw a young woman cooking in the kitchen while he waited at the dining table. Then, a white flash outside the window—boom—consciousness cut off.
Immediately after, his awareness seamlessly shifted. Now he was the one cooking when a deafening boom echoed—consciousness cut off.
Riding in an automated taxi—white flash, boom—consciousness cut off.
Playing on the lawn—white flash—consciousness cut off.
A nuclear warhead hurtling toward him—shattered protective glass—consciousness cut off.
The satellite wall rupturing—a gale lifting him violently—consciousness cut off.
And so on, endlessly...
After countless such moments, Reid finally mustered the will to open his eyes with his own body, jolting upright in an instant.
Dazed, he turned his head slowly, staring blankly at his surroundings for a long time, unsure whether he was back in reality.
After what felt like an eternity, Reid finally regained his senses and recognized the Archangel's infirmary. Ange was asleep on the bed beside him, likely having dozed off after exhausting herself while watching over him.
Then, his rationality kicked in. He immediately checked his body for any abnormalities and summoned the system interface to see if there were any unusual notifications.
Yet from moving his limbs to getting out of bed and performing a full set of stretches, everything confirmed he was physically fine. It was as if he'd simply had a nightmare and broken into a cold sweat.
In fact, his mind felt sharper than usual, and the earlier unease was gone... No, the unease was still there, but it had reverted to its initial, weaker state. Like a progress bar reset to zero, ready to start anew.
Just then, the noise of Reid getting up roused Ange. Still groggy, she forced herself to speak, barely awake.
"Reid~~ You're awake. How are you feeling? Still groggy?"
Reid looked at Ange with a pang of heartache, so he didn't reveal his true condition. Instead, he replied gently:
"Sleeping helped a lot. Probably just exhaustion from lack of sleep yesterday, compounded by the major battle that left me completely drained when I finally relaxed. Don't worry, I'm fine."
"But Ange, now that I've recovered, you should go back to your room and rest."
Ange nodded, her words seemingly unfiltered from drowsiness. Stretching out her arms adorably, she mumbled:
"Okay, Reid... carry me back...."
Seeing this, Reid naturally smiled, turned around, and crouched down to let Ange climb onto his back.
Truth be told, despite Ange's incredible strength, she wasn't heavy at all. For Reid, carrying her even a kilometer wouldn't be an issue. Moreover, Ange had quite the figure, making the ride rather comfortable.
What Reid couldn't see was Ange's face turning bright red on his back.
Only after being carried did Ange realize what she'd just requested. But it was too late to backtrack now, so she could only pretend to be sleepy while happily resting against Reid.
Reid genuinely thought Ange was tired, so while ensuring stability, he quickly carried her back to her room. After tucking her into bed, he lightly kissed her forehead before quietly leaving.
Unbeknownst to Reid, the moment he left, Ange instantly curled up like a boiled shrimp under the blankets, emitting embarrassed "mmph" sounds.
However, what Ange didn't expect was that after leaving her room, Reid—now fully awake with little drowsiness—was somewhat afraid that sleeping might plunge him back into that cycle of death.
Though from his firsthand experience of Junius Seven residents' final moments, most people died without realizing what was happening. But repeated deaths weren't something any sane person would want to experience.
The Archangel was currently in silent transit. Most crew members, having been confined to the mess hall during their stay at Artemis Fortress, hadn't rested well. Now, except for a few on duty, everyone was catching up on sleep.
So Reid headed straight to the mess hall, grabbing a beer from the fridge to calm his nerves and ponder why he'd experienced Junius Seven residents' final moments in his dream—something completely illogical.
Just as Reid selected his beer, Bargiruel's slightly teasing voice came from behind:
"Mr. Reid, you shouldn't drink alcohol so soon after recovering—even if it's just beer."
Hearing this, Reid casually grabbed two beers instead, turning with a smile:
"This counts as alcohol? This is just malt soda—can't you see the ingredients list specifies malt concentration?"
As he spoke, Reid offered one beer to Bargiruel.
While strict, Bargiruel wasn't always like a school principal. During off-hours, one beer wouldn't hurt. Accepting it with an eye-roll, she remarked:
"Is everyone from the Eurasian Federation as silver-tongued as you? No wonder your procurement lists include such questionable items..."
Her face faintly reddened as she seemed to recall the scene from hours earlier.
When Reid heard Bargiruel mention that box of adult content, he was truly at a loss for words and could only defend himself:
"Don't paint everyone with the same brush. The Eurasian Federation won't find another like me. Besides, didn't you dump that container into space? Though I should report that Captain Mu secretly pocketed a few magazines when inspecting the cargo."
With that, Reid popped open the zero-gravity-designed beer tab and gestured for Bargiruel to clink cans with him.
Bargiruel watched Reid's clumsy attempt to shift blame and sighed, tapping her can against his before taking a sip. Then she asked,
"Let's leave Captain Mu aside for now. Reid, how are you feeling? Earlier, you didn't seem right—it wasn't just exhaustion, was it? You reminded me of some veterans I've visited in mental health facilities.
They couldn't shake off that battlefield vigilance. The slightest noise would jolt them awake, and over time, it wore them down. Your symptoms are similar.
And this started after we decided to retrieve water from the Junius Seven wreckage. So, you..."
Bargiruel trailed off. She knew this topic was practically a stain on Reid's life—not something to bring up lightly.
Reid, however, wasn't as averse to discussing Junius Seven as she thought. As long as it wasn't someone provoking him maliciously, he could talk about it. So he stood and said,
"Let's not talk about this here. Let's go to the observation deck—the one where we check for foreign objects on the hull. Some things cling to the ship's surface without the system detecting them. The view's better there, with the stars."
Bargiruel didn't refuse. She didn't see the appeal of the same old cosmic scenery, but she figured Reid just didn't want others in the mess hall overhearing. So she followed.
They didn't run into anyone on the way. Once there, Reid seemed genuinely interested in the stars, raising his beer can toward a patch of space devoid of light, unlike the rest.
"That's where the debris field is, right? So much wreckage it blocks out the starlight. A star's light travels countless light-years to reach us, only to be blocked by scrap metal and rocks. Like someone tore a hole right through a masterpiece. What a mood-killer."
Bargiruel didn't know how to respond, so she just said,
"I hope the war ends soon. This war... never mind. We just need to do our jobs. The reasons, the goals—I don't really understand them."
Reid wasn't trying to discuss the complexities of war either. He was here to tell a story—to voice his thoughts.
"War is a damn ugly thing. Soldiers on the battlefield can't afford to overthink. Kill the enemy, or be killed. That's the rule I've lived by.
But now, out there, 243,721 souls are watching me in silence. They seem to ask: Were we your enemies? Would we have killed you? Why did you kill us?"
Bargiruel could see the helplessness and sorrow in Reid at this moment, but she had no idea how to comfort him properly. She could only resort to the most conventional words of consolation:
"You were powerless back then... You had no choice."
Reid merely shook his head in response, smiling bitterly as he said,
"I did have a choice. I could have flanked that Moebius carrying the nuclear warhead during the battle and taken it out with a single shot. That would have temporarily saved Junius Seven. The cost, of course, would have been my own life."
"But I wouldn't have done it. I've never been some kind of saint. Even if I were given the choice again now, I'd still stand by and do nothing, because I didn't want to die."
"Yet not pressing the button that destroyed Junius Seven doesn't mean I wasn't complicit. It doesn't mean I can console myself with a clear conscience, pretending those 243,721 unjustly dead should only be blamed on Blue Cosmos."
At this point, Reid seemed to have an epiphany. Perhaps the reason the vengeful spirits of the battlefield hadn't haunted him was because he'd felt almost no guilt toward them.
He'd always believed that once you took up arms and stepped onto the battlefield—even if you were conscripted against your will—you were a soldier. And soldiers should be prepared to be killed by the enemy, with no room for complaints. This was the mindset Reid adopted every time he entered battle.
As for the people he'd killed outside the battlefield, they were almost all like Gerard Garcia—individuals who had wronged him first. Even if there had been collateral damage in his retaliation, Reid still felt no remorse.
Only Junius Seven was different. The sheer number of lives lost was too vast for Reid to deceive himself into believing it was an unavoidable sacrifice. It was because of this guilt that these souls had come for him.
Of course, this still didn't explain why he kept reliving the final moments of the deceased in his dreams. But now, Reid found he was no longer afraid. If this was the penance required for him to forgive himself, then what did it matter if he repaid them with his life in these dreams? After all, it seemed harmless to him now.
However, while Reid's mood had improved, Bargiruel's had grown heavier. She realized that as the sole survivor of that battle, Reid might have been silently carrying the weight of Junius Seven's dead all along.
This trip to Junius Seven to retrieve water must have reawakened his guilt, which was why he'd suddenly become so despondent.
At this moment, Bargiruel couldn't help but feel profound pity for Reid—even though she knew this man's capabilities likely far surpassed 99% of humanity, she still found him pitiable.
So, almost as if possessed, Bargiruel walked over to Reid and gently embraced him, offering comfort:
"Enough, don't burden yourself like this. Think of happier things, think of those you want to protect. The dead shouldn't drag down the living."
Reid was completely stunned. Since when was Bargiruel this forward? At best, they were acquaintances—whether they could even be called friends was debatable—so why was she hugging him?
Yet the embrace was warm, and Reid found himself reluctant to pull away.
But the moment she finished speaking, Bargiruel seemed to realize what she'd done. She sprang back from Reid as if electrocuted, flustered as she stammered:
"Uh, no, don't get the wrong idea... When I was upset as a child, my mother would comfort me like this... So... Ah! Anyway, don't overthink it, I'm leaving."
After speaking, Bargiruel, who felt her own explanation was feeble, turned and fled the observation deck.
Reid didn't chase after her. Instead, he smiled faintly as he gazed at the starless void in the distance. Finishing his beer, he crushed the can into a ball, left the observation deck, and tossed it into a recycling bin before heading straight back to his room.
Reid had made up his mind. So what if it was 243,721 fleeting deaths, each lasting only an instant? He would endure them all. He wanted to see what would become of himself after experiencing every single one.
In truth, if Reid could open his character panel in his dreams, he would have noticed something. While he was reliving those moments of death, one of his skills—Spatial Awareness—kept flickering and alternating with another term. The word replacing it was just three characters long: [Newtype].
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