The lunar city of Von Braun, the heart of Anaheim Electronics, appeared on the surface to be operating peacefully, showing no outward signs of being under the grip of the FBI.
Boom...
A violent explosion tore through the silence. In the vacuum of space, no sound escaped the lunar body, but from the bridge of the Ra Cailum, the sight of the blast possessed an eerie, haunting beauty.
As the docking bay gates of Von Braun were blown outward, two Jegans emerged, towing the propellantless Zeta Gundam behind them.
The situation was dire; with suppression forces already en route, they no longer had the luxury of slipping away through the covert infiltration channels.
"Move the ship forward! Intercept the recovery team!"
Seeing the target clear Von Braun, Corinth immediately issued the order. The Ra Cailum, which had been idling forward, surged with acceleration, its thruster flames growing blindingly bright.
While Von Braun was still paralyzed by chaos, the battleship punched straight through the city's anti-air network, arriving directly in front of the Zeta Gundam and its escorts.
"The easiest step is complete."
The moment the Zeta's feet touched the deck of the Ra Cailum's hangar, a video comms window popped up in Kamille's cockpit, revealing Corinth's grim expression.
"Yeah. The real hell starts now," Kamille replied, nodding at the screen.
The Ra Cailum executed a fluid turn. Just as Von Braun's anti-air batteries began to finalize their locks, the ship set a course for Earth.
"We cannot land on Earth. Orbital superiority is vital; we can't cede it entirely to the Federation, or Captain Bright and the others will have no launch window to escape the planet," Corinth said after a moment of silence.
"Which means, until we rendezvous with the other members of Londo Bell and the Nahel Argama, we will be hunted by the Federation as a lone ship."
"...It's just like when the Titans hunted the AEUG," Kamille muttered. Hearing Corinth's words, he couldn't help but recall the man who called himself Cameron.
"Is history... really a Möbius strip?"
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Meanwhile, in the American region of Earth, at the Circe temporary station.
Inside the command center, the Vulture Unit commander—who had now assumed full control of operations—was conversing with the same man who had interrogated Lane in the hospital ward.
"The enemy has a Penelope as well... and their pilot is clearly more skilled than Lane. The 1st Wing was completely wiped out. This is a formidable adversary."
The Vulture commander looked over the intelligence summary. "How is Lane Aim's condition?"
"His minor concussion is nearly healed. He is currently being moved to the interrogation room."
"And the status of the Penelope?"
Back in the hangar, the sight of the Penelope—with both arms destroyed, its head monitor and swan-like sensor array shattered—made the maintenance crew's skin crawl.
"The Minovsky Flight unit is still intact. About a quarter of the propellant remains, and there are six Funnel Missiles left."
"But we have no spare parts to repair it... at least not until the Federation finished dismantling Anaheim."
Now that the cutting-edge Penelope had appeared in enemy hands, the Federation was done playing games with Anaheim Electronics. The FBI's intervention was a direct move to tear the corporation apart.
"So, even if it can launch, the Penelope is essentially just an MA now? High-speed cruising capability, but with crippled targeting performance..."
Reading the grim report on the Penelope's condition, the Vulture commander sighed. "Leave it for now. See if the maintenance crew has any workarounds—maybe we can temporarily swap in arms from a Gustav Karl or a Jegan?"
While the commander was nursing a headache over the damaged mobile suit, Lane was sitting in an interrogation room in a small building not far from headquarters.
Facing a grim-faced Vulture soldier, Lane shook his head to clear the lingering dizziness. His mind drifted back to the image he had just seen.
The interrogation room next to his belonged to his direct superior, Kenneth Sleg.
Likely intending to intimidate Lane, the Vulture guards had marched him past a one-way mirror, forcing him to see Kenneth's current state.
Compared to the tired but spirited man who had led the Circe unit, the current Kenneth looked broken by the relentless interrogation.
He was gaunt, haggard, and had grown a disheveled beard.
Yet, no matter how much the Vulture Unit's interrogation wore him down, Kenneth's gaze had never wavered.
It was still the same look Lane knew well—the expression of a man who, once he set his mind on something, remained unshakably firm.
"Lane Aim! I suggest you fix your attitude!"
Rattled by Lane's half-hearted, distracted responses, the interrogator slammed his hand onto the steel table. "Don't think that just because you're 'just a pilot' you can stay out of this. The leak of the Penelope has massive consequences. Everyone involved is under investigation!"
"But... I really am just a pilot selected for the role. To my knowledge, nothing from my Penelope was ever leaked."
Lane shook his head again, trying his best to stay alert.
For some reason, as the topic of the Penelope came up, Lane found himself thinking back on the series of recent events.
New Zealand, the conference in New York... the horrific scenes he had witnessed flashed through his mind.
Was any of this right? Was this version of "Federation Order" truly what he wanted to defend?
"You!"
Seeing Lane slip back into a daze, answering with such perfunctory indifference, the interrogator clenched his fist, looking as though he were about to strike Lane's face.
"That's enough."
Just as the interrogator raised his fist, a resonant voice halted him.
"I have reviewed the files. Pilot Lane Aim is clear of any issues."
The commander of the Vulture Unit had appeared at the interrogation room door at some unknown point. "Stand down."
"My apologies, but this is a necessary procedure. We must ensure there are no traitors within the Federation's ranks given the current climate."
The Vulture commander glanced at the interrogator before turning to Lane, whose dizziness seemed to be subsiding. "Given the damage to the Penelope and the fact that Anaheim is in too much chaos to provide spare parts, you should go and retrieve your personal belongings from the machine. We will be assigning you a Gustav Karl as a temporary replacement."
"Furthermore, until Colonel Sleg is cleared and released, your command will be transferred to me."
As the commander spoke, he took the keys from the interrogator and unlocked Lane's handcuffs.
Rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been, Lane instinctively looked at the dark-faced interrogator.
"Hmph... even if the Colonel bailed you out, in my eyes, you're still a prime suspect," the interrogator grumbled, taking the keys back with a venomous tone.
"I'll be watching you. Every single second, until you slip up."
-----------------------------------
Inside the hangar, Lane stared at the broken remains of the Penelope. He took a long swig of ice water from his canteen, the chill helping to sharpen his dulling senses.
To be honest, there wasn't much of his own in the cockpit—just some survival gear, a medical kit, and a few emergency rations stored in the locker. But following the "request" of his current commanding officer, he had come to pack it up anyway.
As he sifted through his belongings, he noticed his self-defense sidearm was missing.
'Even my survival pistol is gone... another layer of surveillance, I suppose,' he thought bitterly.
Just then, a member of the maintenance crew stepped onto the catwalk next to him. The technician set down a toolbox with a heavy thud and pulled out a tablet, connecting a data cable to the Penelope's interface.
'Collecting combat data, most likely,' Lane assumed.
But a second later, as the technician moved closer to him, he used a subtle, practiced motion to press something into Lane's hand.
"This is..."
Lane's eyes widened. It was a handgun and two spare magazines. It wasn't his original model; this was a fresh piece of hardware.
"Take this... and get Colonel Kenneth out of here," the technician whispered, his face remaining a mask of stoic indifference as he stared at his tablet. "I've already finished loading the Funnel Missiles and topped off the propellant for the Penelope."
"Why are you doing this?" Lane asked, his pulse quickening in surprise.
"The Colonel is strict, but he's always been good to us," the technician replied in a low voice. While he appeared to be copying data, he was actually running a final diagnostic on the systems. "In a situation like this, any decent person would choose to help..."
In truth, he knew the Penelope was barely combat-capable. It was a miracle the machine had even made it across the Pacific to this beach.
"And, from a personal standpoint... I can't stomach what the Federation did in New York anymore." The technician sighed. "New Zealand, New York... they're crossing lines they can't come back from."
"Maybe that Char fellow was right. Maybe the Federation really is rotten to the core."
"You know if you do this, they'll catch you. They'll interrogate you... you'll die," Lane said, concealing the weapon beneath his flight suit. "You haven't been in the Earth Forces that long. This is suicide."
The technician let out a short, hollow laugh.
"Call it a bout of 'Main Character Syndrome' if you want. Someone always has to die before the dawn... and if the dawn is coming, why can't it be me?"
"Everything is ready. Get Colonel Kenneth to the Penelope, and you can launch immediately." The technician yanked the data cable from the port. "America is in chaos right now because of the New York conference. A lot of Jegans and Gustav Karls are being deployed to the cities. The base security is at its thinnest. This is your window."
"The Colonel served under the legendary Captain Bright Noa, didn't he? You need to get him back to Bright's side."
As he packed his tools, the technician gave Lane a nearly imperceptible nod.
"For the sake of the children even younger than I am... we can't let the Federation's rotting corpse keep weighing down the Earth."
Lane reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing against the cold, metallic texture of the spare magazines.
That was the truth of it... he could no longer stand by and do nothing. The tragedies of New Zealand and New York could not be allowed to happen again.
He could no longer maintain his stance as a defender of the Federation, nor of its "rules" and "order."
Just as Char had said: the Federation, in its current state of corruption, was the enemy.
And just as Amuro had said: a sound and healthy system must be left behind for the generations to come.
With his mind made up, Lane reached a decision. With an expressionless face, he picked up a screwdriver right in front of the maintenance crew member as a makeshift tool, then turned and began to make his way back toward the interrogation rooms.
...................