Federation space was no longer reacting to war.
It was preparing to end it.
Across Luna II, Jaburo's forward command nodes, and the hastily reinforced staging zones near Side 3, fleets moved with mechanical certainty. Ammunition convoys docked and undocked without pause. Mobile suit racks were sealed, recalibrated, and armed for maximum output. This was not a desperate offensive.
This was execution.
At the center of it stood Tianem.
The veteran admiral studied the tactical projection of A Baoa Qu, its layered defenses already marked in red and amber. Where once Zeon's fortress had inspired caution, now it inspired calculation.
"Zeon has lost its shield," Tianem said calmly. "Dozle is dead. Solomon is gone. Their remaining forces are concentrated, exhausted, and politically fractured."
Around him, staff officers nodded.
On a separate platform overlooking the logistical network, General Revil observed the operation in silence. Cargo tonnage. Fuel reserves. Pilot rotation schedules. Everything was green.
"They'll hold," Revil said at last. "Tianem will win this."
An aide hesitated. "Sir… Char Aznable remains active. And there are reports of unusual Newtype resonance during Solomon."
Revil waved it away.
"Char alone cannot stop this. Nor can Newtypes without an army." His gaze hardened. "We are not repeating Loum. This time, Zeon has no miracle left."
He turned back to the logistics display.
"All Gundam pilots are to be deployed. No exceptions. A Baoa Qu will be decided in one strike."
Elsewhere, in a secured briefing room far from the command bustle, Lockon Stratos stood at the head of a circular table. The atmosphere inside was different—less ceremonial, more real.
These weren't admirals.
These were the ones who would be shot at.
Amuro Ray leaned back slightly, arms crossed, eyes already distant as if half of him were somewhere else. Mikazuki Augus sat rigid and silent, hands resting on his thighs, listening with absolute focus. Hikigaya Hachiman occupied a chair slightly away from the center, posture lazy, expression unreadable. Athrun Zala stood rather than sat, arms folded, gaze sharp. Samus Aran remained helmet-off but armored, composed, saying nothing. Gary Lin… wasn't really present.
His eyes flicked constantly to a translucent interface only he could see.
Lockon cleared his throat.
"Alright. This is it. A Baoa Qu isn't Solomon—it's tighter, denser, and built to kill anyone who gets careless."
He tapped the display, bringing up the fortress layout.
"Federation fleet will form a three-layer advance. Gundams will operate independently but in coordinated vectors."
Athrun spoke first. "Aegis takes close-in penetration. I'll breach internal corridors if needed."
"I'll support mid-range suppression," Lockon added. "Buster's role doesn't change—kill their guns before they kill us."
Samus nodded once. "I'll spearhead. Draw high-output units. Char, Elmeth, anything large—they'll come for me."
Mikazuki's voice was low. "Duel stays with Strike. We cover each other."
Amuro finally spoke. "Alex will react where pressure spikes. I'll respond to Newtype signatures."
All eyes shifted—briefly—to Gary.
"…Gary?" Lockon prompted.
Gary blinked, snapped back to the room.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll follow whatever formation you decide," he said absently. "Strike can adapt."
Hikigaya raised an eyebrow. "That's it? You're usually louder."
Gary shrugged, fingers still moving subtly in midair.
"Honestly? The outcome's already decided."
That earned him looks.
He continued, tone flat, almost bored. "Zeon doesn't have the numbers. They don't have Dozle. They don't have Solomon. Even if Char, Griveous, Lelouch, and Tanya were all in the same place—which they're not—it wouldn't change the strategic math."
His system chimed sarcastically.
SYSTEM NOTE:
Planning the future while ignoring the present is an efficient way to get killed.
Gary smirked faintly. "Relax. Multitasking."
He glanced at another invisible layer—data nodes labeled A.U.E.G., Titans, Axis.
"After this," he muttered, "the real war starts."
Athrun frowned. "You're assuming victory."
Gary finally looked up, meeting their eyes.
"I'm assuming reality. Federation wins. Zeon loses. The only variable is how messy the aftermath gets."
He paused, then added quietly, "Unless something completely insane happens."
No one laughed.
Because every pilot in that room knew exactly what "completely insane" looked like.
Lockon exhaled. "Alright. Rest while you can. Once we sortie, there's no reset."
As the meeting broke, Amuro lingered for half a second longer, eyes unfocused, sensing something distant—wrong—but impossible to define.
Far away, beyond charts and confidence, A Baoa Qu waited.
And somewhere between certainty and catastrophe, the final battle was already taking shape.
The briefing chamber aboard the Federation flagship was quieter than expected for a war council meant to end a war.
Not solemn—focused.
Admiral Tianem stood at the head of the long table, hands resting lightly against the edge as layered holograms of A Baoa Qu rotated slowly in the air. Defense rings. Kill zones. Estimated Zeon fleet remnants. Everything reduced to geometry and probability.
"This will not be Solomon," Tianem said evenly. "A Baoa Qu is compact, reinforced, and desperate. Zeon knows this is the end."
Around the table sat captains who had survived long enough to matter.
Bright Noa stood with arms crossed, posture disciplined, eyes sharp. He had commanded through chaos before—White Base, Solomon, losses that never left him. Shirogane Miyuki stood a half-step back from the table, hands at his sides, listening intently. He was younger than most present, not a pilot, not a strategist by training—but his fleet coordination during Solomon had been impossible to ignore.
Tianem continued. "Main fleet advances in layered pressure. We do not rush the interior. We crush their response capability first."
A projection flared—Federation battleships forming a massive crescent around the fortress.
"Gundam units act as mobile fire brigades," Tianem said. "Wherever Zeon commits elite force, they will respond."
Bright nodded. "White Base can support that. Our crew is used to high-tempo redeployment."
Shirogane spoke next, carefully but clearly. "If Zeon concentrates on one axis, they'll expose their internal corridors. But that only works if Gundam pilots receive real-time coordination, not delayed orders."
Several officers glanced at him.
Tianem studied Shirogane for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Agreed."
Bright gave Shirogane a sidelong look—quiet approval.
Before Tianem could continue, the room chimed.
An incoming priority call.
The emblem resolved instantly.
Oreki Houtarou.
Tianem gestured. "Put him through."
Oreki's image appeared, calm as ever, eyes already scanning the tactical layout behind Tianem as if he'd never left.
"Admiral," Oreki said. "I'll be brief."
"You have my attention," Tianem replied.
Oreki's gaze shifted—to Bright, then to Shirogane.
"These two," he said simply, "need to sortie with the Gundam groups."
The room stilled.
Bright blinked. "Sortie—as in—?"
"Boarding Gundam-command-capable ships," Oreki clarified. "Not piloting. Command proximity."
Shirogane stiffened slightly. "Advisor Oreki, I'm not a mobile suit pilot."
"I know," Oreki replied flatly. "That's why you're useful."
A few murmurs rippled through the room.
Oreki continued, unbothered. "At Solomon, Gundam pilots performed better when coordination came from someone who understood both battlefield chaos and human behavior. Not just orders—intent."
He looked directly at Tianem. "Bright Noa has proven this repeatedly. Shirogane Miyuki demonstrated it without formal authority."
Bright frowned. "You want us on the line?"
"Yes," Oreki said. "Close enough to feel the battle shift. Close enough to redirect Gundams before command lag kills them."
Tianem's fingers tapped once against the table. He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he asked, "Risk assessment?"
Oreki didn't hesitate. "High. Necessary. If A Baoa Qu turns into a Newtype-driven brawl—and it will—remote command will fail."
Silence stretched.
Then Tianem straightened.
"Permission granted," he said. "Captain Bright Noa, Commander Shirogane Miyuki—you will embed with Gundam sortie command."
Bright exhaled slowly. "Understood."
Shirogane hesitated for half a second—then nodded. "I'll do what I can."
Oreki gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "You won't need to do more than you already have."
The call ended.
As officers began reorganizing the briefing, Bright glanced at Shirogane.
"Looks like we're going back to the front," he said dryly.
Shirogane gave a nervous, crooked smile. "I was hoping my contribution ended with maps."
Bright's expression softened—just a little.
"In this war," he said, "it never does."
Far from the chamber, engines warmed, hangars opened, and Gundams stood ready.
And now, the people meant to guide them would be closer than ever—whether they wanted to be or not.
Gary Lin finally had a rare moment of silence.
No alarms. No Dozle roaring in his ears. No Newtype pressure bending space around his cockpit. Just him, the dimly lit maintenance bay of the Strike Gundam, and the translucent system interface hovering in front of his eyes like it owned his soul.
"System," he muttered, arms crossed. "Status."
A familiar, irritatingly cheerful prompt appeared.
> AVAILABLE POINTS: SUFFICIENT FOR HIGH-TIER BLUEPRINT PURCHASE
Gary raised an eyebrow. "Huh. So I finally crawled out of poverty."
The system, of course, offered no congratulations.
A catalog unfolded in front of him—pages of mobile suits, schematics rotating in pristine detail. His eyes immediately locked onto the obvious temptation.
Wing Gundam.
Clean lines. Buster rifle. Atmospheric dominance. Symbolic as hell.
"Classic," Gary said. "Reliable. Overpowered enough to scare generals."
His gaze slid sideways.
00 Gundam.
Twin Drives. Quantum nonsense. A walking violation of physics.
"…That thing rewrites battlefield rules," he muttered. "Also rewrites logistics, sanity, and probably causality."
Another flick.
Exia.
Lean. Close-combat monster. Surgical brutality.
"I like you," Gary admitted. "But you're a bit… personal. And I already have enough people trying to stab me."
Then his finger stopped.
Try Burning Gundam.
He stared.
"…Wait a second."
The model spun proudly, glowing joints, absurd mobility, screaming 'super robot energy' in every frame.
"System," Gary said slowly, suspiciously. "Isn't Try Burning Gundam a Gunpla?"
> CONFIRMATION: TRY BURNING GUNDAM ORIGINATES FROM GUNPLA FIGHTERS CONTEXT
Gary squinted. "So… toy."
> CORRECTION: GUNPLA ARE MINIATURE REPRESENTATIONS OF FUNCTIONAL MOBILE SUITS
"…You're telling me Gunpla are just scaled-down Gundams?"
> AFFIRMATIVE
Gary leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "So I've been fighting a war where people could theoretically deploy toy logic the entire time."
> AFFIRMATIVE
"…I hate this universe."
A new thought struck him.
"Wait. Then what about SD Gundam?"
The system paused—just long enough to feel smug.
> SD GUNDAM DESIGNS CAN BE RECONSTRUCTED INTO FULL-SCALE OPERATIONAL MOBILE SUITS
Gary's eye twitched.
"So somewhere out there," he said carefully, "exists a full-size SD Gundam with proportional combat capability."
> THEORETICALLY, YES
"…I'm not touching that. That's how reality collapses."
He quickly scrolled past before the system got ideas.
Then he saw it.
Turn A Gundam.
The screen almost seemed to dim around it, like the system itself was warning him.
White armor. Ancient elegance. A machine that didn't look threatening—and therefore was absolutely terrifying.
Gary felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"…No," he whispered.
Against his better judgment, he checked the cost.
The number loaded.
He froze.
"…System."
> YES
"How long would it take me to earn that many points?"
> ESTIMATED TIME: STATISTICALLY UNREACHABLE UNDER NORMAL WAR CONDITIONS
The price glared back at him:
1,000,000,000,000 POINTS
Gary laughed once. A short, hollow sound.
"One trillion."
> TURN A AND TURN X ARE CLASSIFIED AS 'BUSTED-CLASS EXISTENCE-LEVEL ASSETS'
Gary rubbed his face. "That's not a price. That's a restraining order."
> CORRECT
He leaned forward again, staring at the rotating Turn A.
Moonlight Butterfly.
Civilization reset.
End-of-history machine.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Let's maybe not give the Federation a universe-ending lawnmower."
The system helpfully chimed.
> RECOMMENDATION: SELECT PRACTICAL BLUEPRINT SUITABLE FOR CURRENT FRONTLINE DEPLOYMENT
Gary sighed, scrolling back toward more reasonable nightmares like Wing and 00.
"Fine. We play it smart," he said. "No god machines. No butterfly genocide. Just… enough firepower to survive whatever insanity A Baoa Qu throws at us."
The system didn't argue.
Which, somehow, worried him even more.