White Base was alive with controlled urgency.
Catapults were being checked for the third time. Mobile suits stood in rigid rows, armor panels open as crews finished last-minute calibrations. The ship was designated Vanguard—first line, first contact. No retreat. No ambiguity.
Rear protection would be absolute.
A formation of five Salamis-class cruisers slid into position, their hulls bearing the unmistakable markings of the Shirogane Miyuki fleet. Forty-four GM units deployed in layered screens, their formation tight and disciplined—an escort designed not to win glory, but to ensure White Base and the Gundams survived long enough to decide the battle.
On the bridge, Bright Noa stood rigidly at the command chair.
A communication window opened.
"White Base, this is Shirogane Miyuki," came the calm, precise voice. "Escort fleet is in position. Rear-guard coverage will remain intact even under saturation fire."
"Understood," Bright replied. "White Base will push as Vanguard. Gundams will engage forward. GM units remain flexible for interception and fallback."
"Acknowledged," Shirogane said. "We'll make sure nothing slips through."
The channel closed.
Bright exhaled once, then turned his head slightly.
"Amuro," he said. "You look like you're carrying unfinished business. What happened?"
Amuro stepped forward. He didn't hesitate.
"It's about Sayla."
Bright's jaw tightened, but he listened.
"She wants to sortie," Amuro continued. "Not recklessly. She understands the risk. I think… if she's positioned in the rear with the GM screen, she can survive. More than that—I believe she's mature enough to pilot the Gundam in a battle like this."
Silence.
Bright turned fully toward him, eyes sharp.
"Do you think life is worthless?" Bright asked coldly. "That we gamble it because someone feels ready?"
Amuro didn't flinch.
"No," he said. "I think it's valuable enough that we shouldn't deny someone who understands the cost."
Bright's voice hardened. "We also need operators. We need analysis—real-time judgment of enemy movement. Sayla is critical here."
At that moment, footsteps echoed.
Sayla Mass entered the bridge.
Every eye turned.
She stood straight, composed, no hesitation in her posture.
"Captain Bright," she said. "There is something I must take care of. Personally."
Bright looked at her. "What could possibly be that important?"
She answered without raising her voice.
"My family."
The bridge went silent.
No alarms. No chatter. Just the low hum of systems.
Job John stared at the main monitor, expression severe, unreadable. Ryu briefly appeared at the bridge entrance, took in the situation, and wordlessly stepped back out. Mirai Yashima closed her eyes for a moment—then looked directly at Bright.
"Captain," she said quietly. "Please."
That single word carried more weight than an argument.
Bright looked around the bridge.
At Amuro. At Sayla. At the crew who had already accepted that some of them would not see tomorrow.
He sighed—long, deep, defeated.
"…All right," he said. "Sayla sorties. Rear position. GM escort. No heroics."
Sayla bowed her head. "Thank you."
Bright raised a finger. "You survive. That's an order."
She met his eyes. "Understood."
The bridge returned to motion.
But the silence it left behind lingered—heavy, unavoidable.
This was no longer just a battle.
It was the closing of accounts long overdue.
The waiting room was quiet—unnaturally so for a place perched on the edge of a decisive battle.
Lockon Stratos stood by the viewport, arms folded, eyes fixed on the distant curve of space. Stars drifted slowly past, indifferent to ideology, factions, or the number of lives about to be spent. For a brief moment, his thoughts returned to Celestial Being—ideals sharpened by blood, compromises paid in silence. Too many missions. Too many names he no longer said out loud.
Beside him sat Mikazuki Augus.
The boy barely moved. No restless energy, no visible tension. Just stillness. The kind that came from someone who treated combat not as chaos, but as routine labor. Silent in conversation. Brutal in a mobile suit. Lockon had seen that contrast enough times to stop questioning it.
Footsteps approached.
Athrun Zala entered, helmet tucked under his arm. He glanced at them and took an empty seat.
"Hello," he said, calm, professional.
Mikazuki gave a short nod. Nothing more.
Lockon turned slightly. "You ready?"
Athrun answered without hesitation. "I am. Though… someone's been in his room for two days straight."
Lockon didn't need clarification. A faint smirk crossed his face.
"Hikigaya," he said. "Figures."
Athrun exhaled. "Cunning guy. Annoying. But when things go bad, I'd rather have him than ten optimists."
Lockon nodded. "That's his style. Vanish until the moment everyone else cracks."
Mikazuki finally spoke, voice flat. "So when do we fight?"
Athrun checked his tablet. "One hour. Maybe sooner."
Almost on cue, the door slid open.
Gary Lin stepped in, expression sharp, all business.
"Change of plans," he said. "Hangar. Sortie in ten minutes."
Athrun looked at Mikazuki. "Correction. Much sooner."
No one complained. They stood and moved out together.
The hangar was already alive—crews running checks, gantries retracting, engines warming. Near the lockers, Hikigaya Hachiman was bent slightly forward, one hand pressed to his stomach.
Amuro Ray approached him immediately. "You okay?"
Hikigaya waved him off. "Just nerves. Still functional. Unfortunately."
Gary Lin snorted. "That's the spirit."
One by one, pilots climbed into their mobile suits.
Hatches closed. Systems came online. Cockpits filled with the low, familiar hum of machines designed for war.
No speeches. No dramatics.
They were ready.
And in minutes, they would be thrown into the gravity well of history—whether it wanted them or not.
Launch alarms echoed through the strike channel as one unit after another cleared the hangar.
Gary Lin's machine was already accelerating, formation tightening around him. Status lights scrolled clean. No errors. No delays. For once, the timing was mercilessly perfect.
A voice cut into the comms—dry, slightly strained.
"Question," Hikigaya said. "Where's Samus?"
Bright Noa answered immediately. "Delayed. Her unit took damage at Solomon. Repairs are ongoing. She'll sortie once the frame integrity check clears."
Mikazuki's voice followed, blunt as ever. "Still not ready?"
"The replacement components arrived from Earth twenty-five minutes ago," Bright replied. "Mechanics are working at maximum speed. Rushing it would get her killed. I'm not signing that."
No one argued. Even Mikazuki stayed silent.
Amuro drifted his Gundam slightly upward, scanning the wider battlespace. GM units were launching in disciplined lines now—far more than he'd expected. Then he noticed something that made him pause.
Two Guncannons moved at the head of a GM cluster.
"Hayato… and Kai?" Amuro said quietly.
Bright confirmed it. "They're leading the GM squadrons."
A brief pause—then explanation followed, clipped but firm.
"My recommendation. They've got combat hours, battlefield sense, and they won't freeze when things go bad."
The channel switched as command authority shifted.
Tianem's voice came through, measured, authoritative.
"I concur. GM units are being transferred under Captain Shirogane Miyuki's fleet for coordinated operations."
There was a fraction of hesitation—something unspoken but obvious.
"Captain Shirogane," Tianem continued, "you are authorized to exercise full tactical control over GM formations."
Acknowledged immediately.
Still, even Tianem couldn't fully mask his concern. GMs were mass-produced machines, crews barely seasoned. Against Zeon's last stand, that was a brutal test. But strategy wasn't about comfort—it was about necessity.
Gary Lin switched to strike-wide communication, tone sharp.
"So where's the enemy?"
Bright didn't hesitate. "Three minutes."
The battlefield ahead began to change.
A Baoa Qu emerged from sensor distortion—vast, angular, bristling with heat signatures. Defensive emplacements powered up like a waking beast. Hundreds—no, thousands—of Zeon signals layered over each other.
Bright finished, voice steady despite the scale of it.
"In three minutes… we make contact."
No one cheered. No one joked.
Engines burned brighter as every pilot adjusted posture, grip, breathing.
This was it.