The cool, synthetic hum of the command deck was usually a balm to Lelouch von Zehrtfeld's perpetually overstimulated mind. Three days had passed since the ostentatious victory party, a meticulously choreographed display of Zeon's growing dominance following the capture of General Revil. The euphoria among the ranks was palpable, a fragile peace treaty seemingly within grasp. Yet, Lelouch, ever the strategist, felt a prickle of unease.
His comm unit chirped, not with a standard transmission, but with the distinct, encrypted pulse of a covert channel. Selene. Her messages were always a harbinger of complication. He isolated the frequency, the screen before him resolving into a stream of densely coded gibberish before rapidly decrypting.
"The Federation won't bow. Watch Kycilia's operatives. They plan to twist this outcome."
Lelouch's gaze narrowed. Selene's words hung in the air, a chilling counterpoint to the celebratory mood that permeated the Zeon fleet. The message continued, a follow-up warning that solidified his burgeoning apprehension:
"The capture of Revil may have invited manipulation—not peace."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tracing the edge of his datapad. Manipulation. Selene, ever the realist, cut through the political rhetoric like a laser. The Federation was a wounded beast, yes, but dangerous in its desperation. And Kycilia… Kycilia Zabi operated in shadows within shadows, her ambitions as opaque as deep space. The general consensus was that Revil's imprisonment shattered the Federation's will. Selene implied the opposite: it was just the first move in a grander, more brutal game.
The Calm Before Collapse. The phrase echoed in his mind, a premonition that settled like a lead weight.
Miles away, in the cold, silent depths of an asteroid-based detention facility, General Revil remained imprisoned. He was silent, yes, but also too calm. Unnervingly so. His very presence, confined yet unbowed, was a silent testament to the Federation's enduring spirit—or perhaps, a carefully maintained facade. No desperate pleas, no angry outbursts—just a placid, almost contemplative silence that sent shivers down the spines of his Zeon guards.
Meanwhile, back in Zeon's orbital command, high above the blue marble of Earth, Tanya von Zehrtfeld, Lelouch's twin, was in her element. Her unit, the elite Special Operations Detachment, was undergoing its final synchronization with Zeon's Earth deployment grid. The intricate dance of data streams, target acquisition protocols, and atmospheric reentry trajectories filled the bridge, a symphony of organized chaos. Tanya moved through it with natural authority, her presence a quiet force amidst the technical clamor. Every soldier under her command was a finely tuned instrument, and she, the conductor.
For a brief moment, a lull in the intense preparations, Tanya stepped to the panoramic viewport. Her gaze drifted out, past the star-dusted velvet of space, to the swirling azure and emerald of the third planet. Earth.
That blue planet… I used to call it hell.
The thought was unbidden, a ghost from a past she rarely acknowledged, a past steeped in different wars, different battles, different iterations of herself. The memories were distant, fractured, like static on a dying screen, but the bitter taste remained. Her existence had always been defined by conflict, by the relentless pursuit of efficacy and survival. She had fought on its surface, under its skies, and now, here she was again, poised to descend.
Now I'm falling back to it again.
It wasn't a lament, not exactly. More an observation, tinged with a weariness that only those who have truly seen the abyss could understand. The Earth was a crucible, a stage for humanity's eternal, self-destructive dramas. Her purpose was clear, her orders absolute. Sentimental reflection was a luxury she couldn't afford, not when the fate of an entire war hung in the balance. Her crew prepared for war; her superiors prepared for parades. The gap between the two widened by the hour. She turned back from the view, her gaze sharpening, assessing the readiness of her crew. The calm before collapse. She felt it, a faint tremor beneath the surface of the universe.
Back on the command ship, Lelouch had immersed himself in data. Selene's warning gnawed at him. Kycilia's operatives. He began to cross-reference Kycilia's troop deployments, not just the large, obvious movements, but the subtle shifts, the reassignments, the unexplained supply requisitions. He filtered out the noise, seeking the faint signals of an anomaly. Most of the fleet was focused on consolidating their position, on celebrating. Lelouch was searching for the crack in the façade.
He pulled up the flight logs for all Zeon vessels, cross-referencing them against known Federation vessel signatures, looking for any unscheduled interceptions or unusual patterns. He expanded his search to include private sector vessels, those flying under legitimate civilian flags but with deep, often untraceable, corporate ties. The corporate sector was a known playground for covert operations, a labyrinth of shell companies and hidden agendas.
Hours blurred into a singular, focused pursuit. His fingers danced across the holographic interface, calling up schematics, manifest logs, personnel files. The Zeon military boasted a robust intelligence network, but it was designed to track the enemy, not internal dissent or cunning political maneuvering. Kycilia was a master of the latter.
And then he saw it. A faint blip on a deep-space sensor feed, logged as a routine supply run to a remote asteroid mining outpost. Its flight path, however, deviated. Not significantly enough to trigger an alarm for casual observation, but just enough to catch Lelouch's meticulous eye. The shuttle was unmarked, sleek, designed for speed and discretion. Its designation was a common commercial model, but its origin point was deep within a Zeon-controlled sector, close to a known hub of Kycilia's influence.
The destination sent a jolt through him. Revil's facility.
His breath hitched. An unmarked shuttle. Deviated flight path. Heading towards the highly secure prison facility where the Federation's grand general was held. The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying precision.
They're not keeping him prisoner. They're setting him free.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Selene's words echoed again: "...twist this outcome." Of course. If Zeon liberated Revil, it would be seen as a magnanimous gesture of peace, but also a strategic blunder, allowing a key enemy commander to rejoin the conflict. But Kycilia wouldn't do something so straightforward. If Kycilia was facilitating Revil's escape, it meant something far more insidious.
Releasing Revil would reignite the Federation's will to fight. It would negate the psychological victory Zeon had just achieved. But why?
Unless… unless she wanted the war to continue, but on her terms. Perhaps to prolong the conflict, bleed both sides, and eventually seize absolute power within Zeon. Or perhaps to discredit the current Zeon leadership, painting them as incompetent for losing their prize captive. Or, worse, to unleash Revil not as a general fighting for his nation, but as a weapon, a pawn in a larger game.
If Kycilia freed Revil, it would not be out of mercy or strategic error. It would be a deliberate act of chaos, designed to plunge them deeper into the abyss, to make the Calm Before Collapse truly live up to its name.
Lelouch's mind raced, connecting the dots. Revil's unnatural calm. Kycilia's shadow operations. Selene's urgent warning. This wasn't a peace treaty; it was a trap. And Tanya, down on Earth, was about to fall into the very heart of the storm Kycilia was brewing.
He had to act. But how? And who could he trust? The entire Zeon hierarchy was celebrating, blind to the impending deception. He was one man, armed with a single, damning piece of intelligence against an opponent who pulled strings unseen.
And if Kycilia succeeds, he thought grimly, the Federation will rise not as a crippled giant seeking peace—but as a rabid dog unleashed by its captor. Revil will not return as a prisoner freed, but as a symbol reborn. A martyr without dying. And Kycilia… she'll sell the chaos as strategy.
The true war was just beginning.