Lelouch's office, usually a sanctuary of calculated order, now resembled a battlefield. The scattered chessboard, its pieces like fallen soldiers, mirrored the chaos gripping the solar system. The initial shock had given way to a cold, burning fury. Not the passionate rage of a hot-blooded youth, but the deep, corrosive anger of a strategist betrayed by the very principles he sought to master.
"We had machines. We had soldiers. And they dropped a world instead," he had snarled, the words tasting like ash. The echoes of Britannia, the endless wars for meaningless dominance, surged within him. He had sought a new life, a new purpose, only to find himself trapped in a cosmic re-enactment of history's bloodiest acts. Mass slaughter for dominance. This is not new. But I came to escape this.
The revelation of Kycilia's block on his clearance felt less like an insult and more like a carefully placed piece in a deadly game. Garma's briefings, even if they were little more than gilded propaganda, were now off-limits. Kycilia, the enigmatic Ice Queen of the Zabi family, was tightening her grip, or perhaps, covering her tracks. What did she stand to gain from such an atrocity, or what did she need to conceal?
Lelouch paced, his mind a rapidly shifting battlefield of contingencies. Accessing secure channels directly was out; it would betray his capabilities and invite immediate scrutiny. But information was a current that flowed, regardless of artificial dams. He had cultivated a network, however small, of junior officers and sympathetic data analysts who believed in a more honourable war.
He stopped before his blank terminal, not to log in, but to project a holographic map of Earth, or what was left of it. The continent of Australia, once a vibrant landmass, was a glowing scar. The scale was incomprehensible, yet disturbingly familiar. He looked at the vast, desolate stretches of space, at the distant, glittering pinpricks of light that were colonies and supply lines. The war was no longer about territory, or resources, or even ideology. It was about power, raw and unhinged. The Zabi family, once a unified front, was now a viper's nest, and Operation British was the poison that had begun to rot it from the inside out.
"Kycilia… what are you playing at?" he murmured, his fingers tracing the phantom outlines of disaster. "This isn't just about winning, is it? This is about control. Or perhaps, something far worse." He knew the Zabis were fracturing. Ghiren, the architect of this horror, was basking in a terrifying glory. Degwin, the patriarch, was surely drowning in the realization of what he had unleashed. Dozle, the warrior, would be sickened by the scale of civilian butchery. And Garma, poor, naive Garma, was a puppet on strings, manipulated by them all. Lelouch, however, saw beyond the Zabis. He saw Char. The Red Comet, ever the shadow. This moment of ultimate horror, of moral collapse, would be his greatest opportunity.
Far across the void, within the heart of the formidable space fortress Solomon, Tanya von Zehrtfeld stood before her own banks of screens, though hers hummed with controlled urgency, displaying hard data, not the censored narratives of Zum City. Encrypted emergency reports flashed with casualty numbers that defied comprehension – not just the staggering death toll on Earth, but the secondary effects, the ecological collapse, the sheer loss of infrastructure that would cripple the Federation for generations.
Unlike Lelouch's outburst, Tanya's reaction was a chilling stillness. Her face, usually capable of conveying a spectrum of sardonic amusement or focused determination, was a mask of cold horror. Her hands, clasped behind her back, were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. The air, a constant companion in the Zeon fleet, seemed heavier, tainted by the stench of planetary death.
Three billion souls… and for what? The question echoed not with despair, but with a profound, terrifying cynicism. She had always been pragmatic, viewing war as a necessary evil, a tool to achieve strategic objectives. But this… this wasn't strategy. It was an apocalyptic statement, a declaration of total contempt for life itself. The line between loyalty and horror had not just broken; it had been atomized.
She scrolled through a detailed analysis of the fallout zones, the atmospheric contaminants, the projected impact on global climate patterns. This wasn't just a tactical victory; it was a self-inflicted wound on humanity itself. And Kycilia allowed it, perhaps even orchestrated some of it. The thought was a bitter taste in her mouth. Her own loyalty to Zeon, once a matter of clear ideological conviction and pragmatic survival for the Zehrtfeld twins, now felt like a chain dragging her into an abyss of moral compromise.
A junior officer approached, saluting briskly. "Commander von Zehrtfeld, new requisitions from Admiral Dozle for immediate deployment to the front lines. He's furious about the lack of decisive follow-up on Earth. Wants to seize the initiative while the Federation reels."
Tanya nodded, her eyes still on the screens. Dozle, the honest brawler. His frustration was understandable. But to push forward now, after such an atrocity? It was like dancing on a grave. "Issue the orders," she said, her voice flat. "But prioritize mobile suit readiness above all else. We'll need every unit we can get. The Federation might be crippled, but a cornered animal is still dangerous. And the Zabi family… they are far more dangerous to themselves, and to us."
Her mind drifted to Lelouch. Was he seeing the same data? Was he feeling the same nauseating realization that their war was no longer about justice, or even survival, but an insane plunge into self-destruction? Communication with Zum City was always patchy, but now, it felt like a deliberate silence, a chasm between them. The Zabi infighting had become a gaping wound, threatening to consume everything.
Just then, a private, encrypted message blinked on her personal console. It was from a highly placed contact within Zeon's intelligence network – a contact Lelouch and Tanya had cultivated together. The message was terse, a single line: "Char Aznable, newly arrived at Solomon, has submitted a proposal to lead a 'localized scouting mission' around Side 5, citing concerns about Federation counteroffensives and resource convoy routes. Approval is still pending, but both Gihren and Kycilia have taken interest.. Approval pending from Ghiren's office. Kycilia is also interested."
Tanya's eyes narrowed. Char. The one man who played a deeper game than even the Zabis understood. He was moving, leveraging the chaos. This "reconnaissance mission" reeked of opportunistic ambition. He wouldn't be looking for survivors. He'd be looking for advantage, for leverage, for a path to his own agenda.
The true horror of Operation British wasn't just the three billion dead, but the moral vacuum it created, the space in which ambition and treachery could thrive unchecked. For the von Zehrtfelds, caught between the decaying ideals of Zeon and the rising tide of internal betrayal, the path forward was murky, perilous.
The sheer scale of the horror, coupled with the growing visible fractures within the Zeon command, left both Lelouch and Tanya at a critical juncture. The war was no longer about justice, if it ever was. It was about survival in a game where the rules had been rewritten in blood.