The biting wind off the Black Sea whipped at Tanya von Zehrtfeld's uniform, carrying the acrid tang of distant shell-fire. Below, Odessa's shattered skyline offered a grim testimony to the war's relentless encroachment. Tanya sat in the cockpit of her Zaku II, the worn controls familiar beneath her fingers. Around her, the rest of her squadron hovered in formation, poised for the assault.
Their objective: a Federation artillery line, dug in deep, pounding the city's last Principality strongholds with merciless regularity.
"Squad leaders, status check," Tanya's voice, calm and precise, cut through the comms. "Remember your vectors. Precision is paramount. We disrupt, not annihilate. Leave no trace."
Lieutenant Grantz's steady confirmation came through. Despite their youth, Tanya's pilots were seasoned veterans in a theatre of war that aged men decades in mere months.
"On my mark," Tanya ordered, eyes scanning the battlefield below. The Federation's position was robust — a series of reinforced bunkers and dug-in howitzers flanked by anti-air emplacements. A frontal assault would be suicide. Their approach had to be surgical: a high-altitude ingress followed by a rapid, pinpoint dive.
As she initiated the descent, Tanya felt it — not a physical sensation, but a mental shift. The chaotic symphony of war resolved into distinct, discernible notes. The hum of enemy sensors, previously a low thrum, now sang with individual fluctuations — each ripple a tell-tale sign of active detection. The firing cycle of the artillery revealed subtle anomalies: a momentary delay in traverse, a barely perceptible shift in muzzle flash intensity — tiny imperfections coalescing into a whisper of their next move.
"Targeting solution updated," she murmured into her comms, relaying coordinates that deviated slightly from their pre-mission brief. Grantz acknowledged without question — trust forged through countless battles.
The strike was textbook. Tanya led the charge, a whirlwind of precision. Missile salvoes shredded the primary anti-air array, opening a fleeting window. Her squadron surged through like phantoms, each Zaku a projectile of focused intent. Tanya's attacks didn't just target artillery barrels — she crippled recoil mechanisms, jammed breechblocks, and with terrifying precision, detonated ready ammunition stores from within. Controlled explosions rendered guns inert without widespread structural damage. It was clinical, almost bloodless in efficiency.
Chaos erupted within Federation lines — disoriented soldiers scrambled, command structures paralyzed by an enemy that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Within minutes, the artillery threat was neutralized.
"Mission accomplished. Extraction initiated," Tanya reported, calm but inwardly restless.
The success was undeniable, a testament to her unit's prowess and tactical genius. Yet the uncanny clarity guiding her every decision was a cold, unwelcome companion.
That resonance. The words echoed in her mind, a phantom whisper from a particularly unpleasant encounter. Being X's warning lingered: "The more you deny faith, the more your existence shall resonate with mine, until you become a mere puppet, dancing to the tunes of the divine."
She'd dismissed it then as psychological warfare, a desperate attempt to break her rational mind. But now, as the Zaku squadron climbed away from the battlefield, the sensation of knowing, anticipating, was too potent to ignore. It wasn't gut feeling; it was a cold certainty — as if the gears of war had slowed, revealing their inner workings.
Was this the "resonance"? Was this what Being X meant by the "divine plan"?
Tanya's hand tightened on the joystick. Her entire life, she'd prized intellect, analysis, and prediction — to think her sharpened instincts were not entirely her own was an insult.
She ran the mission over in her mind, every counter-move predicted, every weakness exploited with startling clarity. The Federation commander's likely orders, patrol routes, hesitations in mana signatures — all laid bare. It was as if the battlefield whispered possibilities directly into her mind, not as hunches, but concrete data.
Patterns emerged where before there was chaos: the wind's effect on comm antennae, flight paths forming an invisible grid exposing air defense blind spots. The information flooded her brain at a frightening rate.
Is this a gift or a curse? she wondered. The tactical advantage was immense — to predict every enemy move and nullify threats before they formed could end the war swiftly.
But if this clarity was Being X's influence, then every victory might be a step toward becoming a tool, a pawn in a game she wanted no part of. The warning — genuine or trap — gnawed at her. If genuine, this awareness was a cage tightening around her free will. If a trap, doubting her own abilities was exactly what Being X wanted.
"Grantz," Tanya said quietly, her voice breaking the silence, "what do you make of this? Sometimes... it's like the battlefield speaks to me. Not with words, but... patterns. Like it's showing me the future."
There was a pause. "I know what you mean, Tanya. I've felt it too. But we can't let it distract us. We fight with what we have — and what we know."
Tanya nodded, grateful for the reminder.
As the squadron broke atmosphere, leaving the ravaged European theatre behind for a moment of respite, Tanya glanced at the empty seat beside her. Lelouch. Her twin brother, brilliant in his own way, grounded in politics and strategy.
Would he understand this? This sharpening of her instincts that hinted at something beyond human comprehension? She doubted it. How could he, when she, a staunch atheist, struggled to reconcile it herself?
The stars were cold and unforgiving outside the viewport. Tanya closed her eyes. The battlefield had whispered — and now, those echoes threatened to drown out everything else.
The war was far from over. And Tanya von Zehrtfeld knew her battles were no longer confined to the physical realm but waged on an existential plane she had tried desperately to deny.
The stale air of the fortified operations center, thick with the scent of ozone, recycled oxygen, and the nervous sweat of a hundred men crammed into a repurposed subway bunker, did little to calm the frantic pace of unfolding events. New York City, once a titan of progress, was now a fractured monument to war, its jagged skyline a testament to the endless bombardments.
Lelouch von Zehrtfeld, draped in the dark, immaculate uniform of Garma Zabi's forces—a stark contrast to the grimy screens and blinking lights surrounding him—stood at the heart of it all. His eyes, sharp and intense, flicked across the main holographic display, which rendered the urban combat zone in shimmering green and red. A communications officer, face streaked with fatigue, leaned in.
"Commander, new reports," the officer rasped, voice tight. "Federation forces are launching five squadrons of Core Fighters and G-Fighters. They've bypassed our outer skirmish lines and are making rapid progress toward the industrial sector. Their aerial support is aggressive and coordinated."
Lelouch simply nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in his violet eyes. Aggressive. Predictable. The Federation's strategy in this sector had become a monotonous, if effective, sledgehammer. They relied on sheer numbers and brute force, believing that enough pressure would eventually crack any defense. But Lelouch was not one to be outmaneuvered by blunt instruments.
"Casualties among our vanguard?" he asked, his voice a low, steady current amidst the rising tide of stress in the room.
"Significant, sir. Bravo Company reports critical damage to their last Zaku II, Alpha One-Seven-Niner. They're requesting immediate withdrawal."
"Denied," Lelouch said, the word a steel chisel. "Order Alpha One-Seven-Niner to maintain their position. Make every shot count. Then, once they're fully engaged, tell Captain Kael to initiate Phase Two."
A collective ripple went through the command staff. Phase Two. It was a risky maneuver, one that required a chillingly precise understanding of both enemy psychology and the breaking point of their own forces. It was a feigned collapse.
"Are you certain, Commander?" a logistics officer ventured, brow furrowed with apprehension. "The industrial sector… it's vital to our supply lines. If they break through—"
"They won't," Lelouch cut him off, his gaze fixed on the holographic map. "They think they see an opening. We'll show them a chasm."
His fingers danced over the comms panel, bringing up a secure line. "General Garma, this is Commander von Zehrtfeld. The Federation is advancing as anticipated. I am initiating the planned strategic withdrawal from the outer districts. Casualties will be high, but the objective remains firm."
A brief, static-laced acknowledgment came through. Garma, for all his aristocratic bearing, had an uncanny trust in Lelouch's tactical prowess—a trust hard-earned, etched in blood and steel across countless battlefields.
As reports streamed in—collapsing lines, desperate pleas for reinforcement, the sickening red blotches proliferating on the map—Lelouch felt grim satisfaction. The Federation had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Their comms buzzed with triumphant shouts; their generals already planned the next advance. Fools.
His mind drifted to the new acquisitions. Just last week, five new Mobile Suits had been air-dropped into their hidden hangar, sleek beasts resembling muscular evolutions of the venerable Zaku. The "Gouf," faster, better armored, armed with an integrated heat rod and a powerful finger-mounted machine gun, designed for close-quarters combat and swift breakthroughs.
"Sergeant Major," Lelouch barked, pulling himself back to the immediate crisis. "Are the Goufs ready for deployment? I want them fueled and armed, in Sector Gamma-Seven. No—Gamma-Nine, concealed within the old subway tunnels leading to the industrial sector."
The sergeant major saluted crisply, relaying the order. Lelouch allowed himself a small, internal smirk. The Goufs were the teeth of his trap, the hidden blades waiting in the shadows. The Federation expected more Zakus, predictable engagements. The Goufs would be a brutal surprise.
The holographic map glowed alarming red in the industrial sector. Several of their own units were marked "Destroyed" or "Crippled," sacrifices the grim cost of this deception. Lelouch felt the weight of those losses, a fleeting shadow across his calculated resolve. Every life was a number on a ledger, but he knew the faces behind those numbers. He couldn't afford to dwell on it.
"Federation Core Fighter squadrons now entering the main industrial complex, Commander!" a tech shouted, voice strained. "They're pressing hard, breaking into Sector Delta-Four! Our remaining forces are in full retreat, just as planned!"
"Good," Lelouch murmured, the word a viper's hiss. "Now. Order all remaining units in Gamma-Nine, and the newly deployed Goufs, to initiate the counter-offensive. Fire on my mark. Overload all primary power generators in the industrial sector—cut their light, cut their comms. Turn it into a slaughterhouse."
The orders flew crisp and precise from Lelouch's lips. Comms crackled with the sudden shift from frantic retreat to vengeful ambush. On the holographic map, the red mass of Federation units surged into the kill zone—a labyrinth of warehouses, factories, and narrow streets subtly mined and rigged for demolition hours ago.
Then, the world outside the bunker erupted. The deep rumble of overloaded generators, followed by a chain of deafening explosions, shook the very foundations of the operations center. The holographic map flickered, then stabilized, showing the industrial sector plunging into digital darkness. The Feds were trapped, blind and disoriented.
"Now!" Lelouch roared, voice cutting through the din. "Let the Goufs loose! Converge from all sides! Target their command units first! Destroy them piece by piece!"
The green markers of their forces, previously retreating, surged forward, converging on the trapped red blobs. The five Goufs, marked with a distinctive blue hue on the map, moved with terrifying speed, their coordinated attacks tearing through Federation units. Heat rods lashed out, melting armor, while finger cannons ripped through cockpits.
For a long, agonizing hour, the cacophony of battle battered the bunker—the screams of dying men, explosions of Mobile Suits, desperate static of broken comms—all filtered through thick walls. Lelouch watched, unblinking, as red markers dwindled, then vanished.
Finally, silence descended, broken only by hum of computers and ragged breaths of staff.
"Reports," Lelouch commanded, voice hoarse.
"Federation forces in industrial sector… annihilated, Commander," a weary officer reported, eyes wide with awe and horror. "Complete rout. Over ninety percent casualties on their side. They broke and fled."
A collective sigh of relief, almost inaudible, swept the room. Lelouch felt no elation. "Our losses?"
Numbers came in, grim and stark. Two Zaku companies virtually wiped out. Three more heavily damaged. One of the Goufs crippled, another sustained heavy damage. Maintenance teams would work through the night, but resources were always dwindling.
Victory undeniable—a brilliant tactical masterstroke turning defeat into crushing enemy loss. But Lelouch stared at flickering map, mostly green, knowing its fragility. The Federation would regroup. They always did. They'd learn, adapt, return stronger.
This was one battle won, at terrible cost, in an endless war.
His mind moved on, planning next move, next deception, next sacrifice. The war was far from over.