Physical space disappeared. Sound faded. Pain, terror, pressure… everything dissolved.
Lawrence floated in an ocean of stars. His own body was a faint shadow, a reflection sustained by the residual light of his mind.
"Where...?" he tried to ask.
But the answer wasn't a voice. It was a presence.
First, warm. Blue. Soft as a breeze. Lawrance could glimpse a young pilot, his helmet cracked, wearing a normal white suit.
Near him, adrift:
The Zeta Gundam.
A silhouette made of light, broken into pieces, dragged along by currents of memories that did not belong to it.
Then, another. Strong. Painful. Red like a badly wounded heart. A girl.
Four Murasame.
Both minds were bound together in a vortex of constant suffering. They were not whole entities; they were remnants, psychoactive fragments torn from the brink of death, forcibly held.
And at the center of that whirlwind—a little girl.
Vieru.
Small. Full of fear. With her hands outstretched towards him.
"Get me out of here..." her voice whispered in Lawrence's mind, "...please..."
The pilot with the cracked helmet looked at Lawrence, who could see the cosmos reflected behind the damaged visor. There was no anger, only pain.
"Protect her."
Four, broken but still clinging to a maternal instinct she never got to experience, added:
"Don't let them take it from me again."
The Zeta Plus and Unit 03 slid together through the mental void, united by a bond that Lawrance never asked for… but now understood.
Lawrance returned to that forest where he had first seen Vieru, this time represented in a smaller, more innocent, but broken way.
—Were you at that base to… replace her?
Vieru shook his head gently.
—No… I wasn't created to replace. I was created to remember.
He brought a trembling hand to his temple.
—My data… my emotions… my reactions… aren't entirely mine. They come from the psychic records of the first Psycho Gundam. What was left of it… what they were able to steal. The Titans called it "operational continuity."
Vieru continued, his voice gradually fading.
—But those memories… those feelings… they aren't complete. They're fragments, echoes. And in those fragments… there's always a sign. A light. A presence she desperately sought.
She looked up. That turquoise color seemed to shine with a mixture of sadness and hope.
—That signal…
Lawrence added.
—The Zeta signal.
Vieru then shed a tear, while smiling with nostalgia and melancholy, overwhelmed by a love and a pain that did not belong to her.
—Four loved him… and hated him… and searched for him… and lost him. Those feelings are inside me. For me… they…
He paused. He took a deep breath, as if saying it cost him more than any torture.
—…They are my parents.
Vieru, without losing that melancholic smile, stood next to Lawrence, and drawing the image of his mobile suit, the Zeta Plus, in front of him, commented:
—Don't you think the Zetas have a particular image? There's something about them, no matter what shape or colors they come in, they're always charged with a mystical energy.
The light began to crackle.
The star ocean shimmered, first as a murmur, then as a muffled roar. The figures of Four, little Vieru, and finally the pilot with the cracked helmet began to distort, as if an indescribable force were pulling them toward an invisible point.
"Lawrance…" Vieru whispered, extending a hand that could no longer sustain itself in this world, "…something is… calling me…"
The luminous Zeta Gundam behind the young pilot fractured in a white flash. The pressure returned with a jolt. The sky. The wind. The sensors screaming.
Lawrence opened his eyes just in time to see reality devour him.
Unit 03 remained tethered to the Zeta Plus, as if the mental link had physically sealed the two machines together. Their thrusters were out of balance, the fall was vertical, and the horizon spun in a frenetic spiral.
"Kiriko, move aside!" Lawrance shouted, but the static drowned out his voice.
The newtype resonance continued to flow uncontrollably between the two units. Each heartbeat from Vieru reverberated like an electrical pulse through the panels of the Zeta Plus.
"Release the Zeta, damn it!" Kiriko roared through the communication link, attempting to flank them with the Mk-II mounted on the Dodai Kai.
But it was useless. Unit 03 wasn't responding. It was falling with Lawrence as if it were dragging him toward an inevitable fate.
Vivian shouted orders from the command deck.
—All teams, clear the throwing area! I repeat, clear the area, now!
Masami held Vieru, who was screaming in agony, convulsing from the resonance that intensified every second.
"Captain, she won't make it! The frequency... this thing is destroying her!" Masami warned.
Vivian clenched her teeth, powerless.
—Lawrance… please… cut the link…
But there was no more control. There was no more technique. Only an incomprehensible bond between a human mind, a broken mind… and a desperate machine.
The Zeta Plus pierced the last layer of clouds like a burning projectile. Unit 03 vibrated, its limbs trembled, as if fighting something inside itself.
Too late.
The impact was brutal.
The wing of the Titanic unit struck first, tearing off half of the shuttle platform. The Zeta Plus crashed seconds later, bouncing off the structure before sliding down and embedding itself in the base of the orbital elevator.
An explosion lit up the entire field. Panels ripped off. White smoke. Twisted metal.
The route to space was... destroyed.
The smoke had not yet dissipated when the first rescue teams emerged from the Albatross. Internal sirens echoed among the charred remains of the platform.
Vivian ran at the front of the group, her emergency helmet still open and her gaze fixed on the two wrecked mobile suits.
"Locate the pilot of the Zeta Plus! Now!" he ordered. "And I want a containment team around Unit 03, nobody approaches it without authorization!"
The technicians dispersed immediately.
The Zeta Plus was wedged against the collapsed elevator structure, its torso ripped open by the impact, cables dangling like metallic entrails. The cockpit was tilted, almost buried under twisted plates.
Masami came running after Vivian, carrying a medical bag. She was still trembling from having witnessed Vieru's screams.
"Here! I found it!" shouted one of the mechanics, moving a metal sheet aside with a hydraulic lifter.
Vivian rushed towards the opening.
Lawrence lay motionless inside the cockpit, his normal suit completely covered in dust and dried blood. His helmet was fractured, and the fogged visor showed that his breathing was weak and erratic.
Masami jumped into the confined space without waiting for permission.
—Lawrance! Hey, look at me!— he gently lifted her helmet to observe her pupils— Captain, you have a severe head injury… and your blood pressure is dropping.
Vivian gritted her teeth.
—Can it move?
Masami denied it.
—No. If we pull it out by force, we could worsen a cervical injury.
"Then cut the panel. I want that cockpit open in thirty seconds," Vivian ordered.
The mechanics activated thermal saws and assisted arms. Sparks illuminated the wrecked interior as Masami continued assessing Lawrence.
The suit's monitor emitted an irregular beep.
"His pulse is... collapsing," Masami whispered, swallowing hard. "He must have taken a brutal hit when he connected to the MRI machine. This isn't just physical trauma... his brain was pushed beyond its limits."
Vivian looked up, glancing towards the Albatross.
There, at the hangar entrance, Vieru was on her knees, supported by two crew members, her gaze fixed on the Zeta Plus. She looked paler than before, as if something inside her had been forcibly ripped away.
"I can hear him..." she whispered. "...I can hear him screaming..."
Masami barely raised his head to look at her.
"Don't speak," he ordered. "The resonance is affecting you. Stay still."
The panel finally fell, freeing full access to the pilot's seat.
Vivian and Masami carefully pulled to slide Lawrence out of the cockpit. He let out a muffled groan as they moved him.
"Relax..." Masami whispered. "You're almost out."
They placed him on the stabilizing stretcher. The suit emitted another low beep.
"He has internal bleeding," Masami diagnosed, checking the portable scanner. "If we don't get him to the infirmary immediately, we'll lose him."
Vivian turned towards the crew.
—To the infirmary! Top priority! I want the doctor in the operating room in five minutes!
The stretcher began to move at full speed towards the Albatross.
Vieru, unable to stand, murmured in a broken voice as Lawrance passed by her:
"I... I'm sorry..." "I... I called him..." Her eyes welled up with tears. "...I brought that pain..."
Vivian stopped for just a second next to her.
"Don't blame yourself yet," she said with restrained coldness. "First... let's save my pilot."
And he followed behind the stretcher without looking back.
Kiriko could barely maintain her composure. Her pilot's suit was torn, her helmet dented, and she could still hear the echo of the collision in her ears. She took a deep breath, fixed her gaze on the console, and opened a secure channel.
—This is Kiriko… reporting the situation. I'm connecting with Major Hayato Kobayashi.
The signal took a few seconds to stabilize. Finally, Hayato's image appeared, serious, hardened by years of war. His eyes opened slightly upon seeing Kiriko's condition, then his expression returned to its military firmness.
"Report immediately, Kiriko," he ordered.
Kiriko swallowed, trying to suppress the tremor in her voice.
It took a while for the old war veteran to regain his composure, who escaped a short, whispered, nervous, and ironic laugh.
—Good heavens, where do I even begin…
Kiriko felt a lump in her throat. She didn't cry, but neither did she try to hide the weariness in her eyes. Hayato made a slight gesture, an odd mixture of respect and a preemptive farewell.
"Keep the line open when you can," was all he said before cutting the transmission.
The screen went black. Kiriko stood there, motionless, listening to the whirring of the damaged systems in her cockpit. Everything smelled of hot metal and burnt wires. The Albatross shuddered gently, like a wounded animal.
As she sat up, something inside her clicked. It wasn't hope. Nor was it surrender. It was… acceptance. Whatever was to come was now out of her hands.
He removed his helmet and climbed out of the cockpit. Upon reaching the hangar, he saw the crew running amidst sparks, smoke, and debris from the impact. They were all still moving, even without knowing if tomorrow was guaranteed.
Kiriko took a deep breath and began walking towards them.
There were no glories to claim. There was no victory. Only the work of carrying on with what remained.