The air in the shuttle cabin was thin and recycled, humming with the low, constant thrum of the engines. It wasn't loud—more vibration than sound, resonating through the steel bones of the vessel and into the minds of its passengers. Outside the reinforced viewport, space stretched out in a black velvet sprawl, pinpricked with stars and the distant, glinting skeletons of Zeon's expanding war machine.
Inside, austerity reigned—bare metal, harsh lighting, two forward-facing seats. Lelouch and Tanya von Zehrtfeld occupied them in silence. Across from them, two uniformed Zeon guards stood by the main hatch, still as statues, their expressions unreadable. Their presence wasn't excessive—it was deliberate. Watchful. Contained.
Tanya's gaze swept the sterile compartment, catching the reinforced locks, the lack of external viewports, the impassive stance of their escorts. "This isn't a transport," she murmured, her voice low and cool, barely above the engine's murmur. "It's containment. They're watching for what we'll do under pressure."
Lelouch didn't look at her, his reflection faint in the scratched viewport. His expression was neutral, the posture of someone at rest—though Tanya knew better. "We passed their test," he replied evenly. "Now they determine if we're assets… or anomalies."
The silence that followed was tense, but not unfamiliar. It was the same silence that had settled between them during the breach simulation on Granada—an exercise, a trap, or both. They had outmaneuvered it, predicted it. Now they were being moved—not rewarded, not debriefed. Repositioned. Like pieces.
Tanya's thoughts flicked back to Selene's warning. They watch everything. Always. Even what you don't think matters. The last time they'd seen their sister, she had stood not as family, but as liaison for Kycilia Zabi's military development corps. Selene had issued no comfort, only instruction: compliance or consequence.
"Selene said the box matters," Tanya muttered, more to herself than to Lelouch. "Not just how you get out of it… but how you behave inside."
"She's right," Lelouch said. "They're not just assessing effectiveness. They're measuring control. Predictability."
His gaze shifted from the viewport. "They want tools. Reliable ones. With symbolic value. They're not just building weapons, Tanya—they're building narratives. The sort that keep soldiers loyal and citizens inspired."
Tanya's mouth tightened. "So we're test subjects for an image."
"They've done it before," Lelouch continued, keeping his voice low. "Look at their internal programs. Test units, experimental squadrons—whatever they're planning, they want prototypes. And not just of mobile suits."
He didn't say it, but Tanya understood. This was the prelude to something bigger—something Zeon wasn't talking about openly yet. A new doctrine. A new kind of war.
"Do you think they see us as that?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Prototypes?"
"They're still deciding," Lelouch said. "We're not in the myth yet. Not like the pilots they parade on recruiting posters. The White Wolf. The Black Stars. They're still being built. We're not behind the curtain yet. But we're on the short list."
Tanya leaned back, arms crossed, eyes unfocused as she processed his meaning. There were no official heroes yet—not in UC 0076. No mass conflict. Just brewing tensions, distant skirmishes, unspoken escalation. But the foundations were being laid. Zeon was preparing. And the twins—by design or accident—were caught in the gears.
"If they want us in their story," Tanya said at last, "then we'd better decide how we appear in it. Otherwise, we'll just be whatever they need us to be. Characters without agency."
Lelouch turned to her, his eyes dark and sharp. "Then we write our roles before they assign them."
Outside, the shuttle glided through the void, drawing closer to the silver sprawl of Granada. Inside, the guards didn't move. The lights didn't flicker. But the energy in the cabin had changed—no longer silent resignation, but something colder. More deliberate.
Not containment. Calculation.
And somewhere, far from the shuttle's sealed interior, at a terminal inside the Zeon Military Academy's command block, Ken Bederstadt sat in the dim glow of a classified comms station, his report transmitting securely.
> "Performance in the Granada incident: controlled, unsanctioned adaptation. Resulted in rapid neutralization of threat variables. Breach scenario utilized as designed. Response exceeded simulation expectations. Von Zehrtfeld twins demonstrate independent initiative, low institutional dependency, and non-linear threat modeling."
He paused, typing one last note.
> "Recommend continued observation. Long-term potential: high-value assets. Long-term risk: unknown."
The message was marked priority encrypted and sent to its recipient: Kycilia Zabi.
Granada in one of the Chamber
The screen flickered, casting artificial light across the cavernous interior of Dozle Zabi's private command chamber within Granada Base. The grainy glow of a battle simulation played out, two figures rendered in low-polygon mobile suit silhouettes darting through the void, their movements sharp and decisive. Amidst beams and debris, the duel unfolded with brutal grace. A sleek Zaku model arced through a minefield of virtual shrapnel, striking with clinical precision. Its partner, a prototype suit with enhanced maneuvering jets, moved like a phantom—covering blind spots, coordinating suppressive fire, executing non-verbal commands with synchronized rhythm.
The screen froze on the victory display. Two cadet IDs: V-Z 01 and V-Z 02.
Dozle Zabi, massive even while seated, exhaled through his nose with something that might have been amusement—or anticipation. His rough features tightened in thought as he studied the still image. Surrounding him were several high-ranking officers and analysts, gathered to review what was more than a routine academy performance. Shin Matsunaga stood slightly apart, arms folded across his white armor, watching silently.
"This footage," Dozle began, voice like shifting stone, "was flagged and delivered to me through Special Intelligence Liaison. Selene von Zehrtfeld made the initial recommendation. Kycilia confirmed it deserved attention."
He tapped the console again. The simulation rewound and played a brief sequence: Tanya's Zaku flanking a mock enemy, then Lelouch directing a kill-box maneuver.
"Look at them. The girl—precise, surgical. The boy—command presence from the cockpit. Instinct and logic, merged."
One young officer nodded, clearly impressed. "Exceptional response time, my Lord. Zero unnecessary movement."
Dozle's eyes gleamed. "They remind me of Char. Not the flash—but the flow. Strategic control, clean execution. They don't chase glory—they pursue victory."
Matsunaga's voice cut across the room like a saber's hum. "Simulations are soft lies. They can't simulate fear. They can't simulate blood. The twins did well in a box. I'll believe it when I see them operate under fire."
Unfazed, Dozle turned to him. "You will, Matsunaga. The twins are en route to Granada now. Officially for advanced training. Unofficially—they're here to earn their place. Not through rankings or theory, but through grit. You'll watch them. Closely."
Matsunaga didn't nod. But he didn't protest either.
---
The shuttle hissed as its ramp extended into the waiting hangar. Industrial lights bathed the space in crimson and shadow. The air was thick with machine oil and ion residue. It was not a greeting—it was a warning.
Lelouch von Zehrtfeld descended first, his cadet uniform perfectly pressed, eyes scanning every inch of the unfamiliar terrain. Tanya followed silently, her presence smaller but sharper. Both moved like observers entering enemy territory, not assigned personnel.
A small welcoming detail stood ready. The officer at its head, a Major with a rigid posture and forgettable features, stepped forward.
"Cadet von Zehrtfeld, Cadet von Zehrtfeld," he recited. "Welcome to Granada Base. Lord Dozle Zabi extends his confidence in your capabilities. Your records have preceded you."
Lelouch bowed slightly. "We are honored by the assignment."
Tanya said nothing more than necessary. "Ready for orders, sir."
But their eyes weren't on the officer.
Near the shoulder of a parked Zaku, partially concealed in shadow, stood Shin Matsunaga. Not in parade uniform, but in full white combat gear, arms folded, expression unreadable. He said nothing, but he didn't look away either.
Tanya caught the cold prickle down her neck. This wasn't oversight—it was deliberate placement. An unspoken message.
Selene was right, Tanya thought grimly. The real evaluations wear armor, not ribbons.
Lelouch's mind raced. The simulation footage was bait. Their transfer was the snare. This wasn't advancement. It was a trial. Dozle Zabi's gamble. Matsunaga's crucible.
The Major continued detailing logistics—quarters, orientation, maintenance schedules. Neither twin truly listened. Their focus remained locked on the silent man in white.
If Dozle's faith was loud, Lelouch mused inwardly, Matsunaga's silence was louder.
They exchanged a glance. Just a flicker. But it carried the weight of a pact:
We are here to win. Not just in combat—but in the eyes of those who write the history of this war.
Behind them, the shuttle sealed shut. Ahead of them, Granada's steel corridors awaited. The Wolf watched from the shadows, patient.
The real test had begun.