Crossing Orb: Newtype Commander

L4 region, debris belt.

The Archangel sailed silently through the debris. The radiators on both sides of the hull were fully deployed, minimizing heat radiation from the engines. All non-essential systems were shut down, and even the interior lighting was dimmed to its lowest setting—only the red glow of emergency lights illuminated the corridors, like the veins of some sleeping behemoth.

This was twelve hours after the Battle of Heliopolis ended.

The golden machine was secured to the maintenance rack in the hangar, where technicians were working against the clock to repair it. The marks from the beam grazed its left shoulder armor were still smoking, the heat sinks of the backpack thrusters needed replacing, and the output of the Minovsky nuclear reactor needed recalibration. Char stood at the foot of the machine, the bandage on his left shoulder already replaced, his military jacket draped over his shoulders, not worn.

"Commander Ashar, your wound—" A young technician walked over, carrying a medical kit.

"It's already taken care of." Xia didn't turn around. "Go do your work. The machine needs you more than my shoulder."

The technician hesitated for a moment, then turned and left. Char stood alone at the feet of the golden machine, gazing up at its battered state. Several charred marks marred the golden armor, and the quantum communication module on its head still flickered—VEDA's eyes, watching everything in the darkness.

"VEDA, report on the damage."

"Golden Machine: Left shoulder armor moderately damaged, backpack thruster heat sink 30% damaged, Minovsky nuclear reactor output reduced to 60%. Estimated repair time: 6 hours. Your injuries: Bleeding from shrapnel wound in left shoulder, bandage replacement and antibiotic injection recommended. In addition, your fatigue index has exceeded the safe threshold, rest is recommended."

"Understood." Xia turned around and walked towards the hangar exit. "Where is the Kruze team?"

"The Wesalis is patrolling the outer edge of L4 space. The Kruse team is neither pursuing nor retreating. They are waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Uncertain. Based on tactical analysis, they might be waiting for supplies, or they might be waiting for the Archangel to show a weakness. Kruse's tactical style is known for its patience; he won't attack rashly."

Char stepped out of the hangar; the corridor was deserted. The red glow of the emergency lights cast long shadows on the floor, and the air was thick with the mixed smells of metal and disinfectant. He walked toward the bridge, the sound of his military boots striking the metal floor echoing through the empty corridor.

The bridge of the USS Archangel was dimly lit.

Marlene Lamias sat in the captain's seat, a cup of coffee that had gone cold. She had been working for over twenty-four hours straight; her long brown hair was loosely tied back, and the dark circles under her eyes were particularly noticeable in the red glow of the emergency lights. But she hadn't slept.

The Kruse team is right outside. That distance is practically nothing in the vastness of space.

Natal Bakiruru stood before the fire control console, her fingers lightly swiping across the touchscreen, monitoring every corner of space. Her uniform was still impeccably pressed, her blonde hair still neatly styled in a bun, but her eyes—those blue eyes—shone exceptionally bright in the darkness. Staying up all night was commonplace for her, but tonight was different. Tonight, her gaze repeatedly drifted from the radar screen, landing on the direction of the bridge entrance.

He was there. In the hangar, preparing the golden machine, refusing to rest even while injured.

Mu La Fraga leaned back in his executive chair, hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed but not asleep. His ears were constantly listening for every beep of the radar, every unusual signal. On the battlefield, hearing is often more reliable than sight—because what you can't see, you can hear.

Kira Yamato sat on a chair in the corner of the bridge, clutching the plastic puppy the boy he'd rescued from the rubble had given him. His amber eyes were fixed on the toy, but his gaze was empty. He was thinking of Athrun—that pale, pained face in the red light, that cry of "Kira, why did you go to such lengths?", and those words, "Next time we meet, I won't hold back."

The bridge doors slid open. Everyone looked toward the entrance—some expectant, some wary, and some simply turning their heads out of habit.

Char walked in. His military jacket was draped over his shoulders, and the bandage on his left shoulder was faintly visible outside his shirt. His steps were steady, his breathing even, and his deep red eyes almost turned black in the red light of the emergency lights. But everyone could see his exhaustion—not physical exhaustion, but a deeper, more fundamental exhaustion.

"Commander-in-Chief Asha," Maru stood up, "you should rest."

"Can't sleep." Xia walked to the tactical table, pulled up the space map, and asked, "What's Kruze waiting for?"

Maru glanced at Natal. Natal shook her head—no new intelligence, no new data, only that ghost lurking outside the radar's range.

"Kruze won't let us get to the moon smoothly." Mu opened his eyes, not getting up. "He's waiting for us to make a mistake. Or waiting for us to run out of fuel, food, and patience. Cheetahs don't hunt antelopes with speed, they hunt with patience. Chase, stop, chase, stop—until the antelope collapses from exhaustion."

"But we're not antelopes," Natal said calmly. "We have armor, artillery, and mobile suits. If he wants to wait, we can wait with him."

"Captain Bucky Lulu," Mu sat up straight, "do you know what kind of person Kruze is?"

What?

Mu's lips curled slightly upward, but there was no smile in his eyes. "Kruze is known as 'Viper' within ZAFT. Because he never attacks head-on. He'll circle around to your side, around behind you, to the most unexpected place, and then bite your throat."

Char stood at the tactical table, staring at the dot on the space map—the Vesalis—and the smaller dots around it. Six GINNs, four G-series, and one Nazca-class high-speed battleship. The Archangel, plus the Gold-class and Strike, represented a fourfold advantage on paper. But war wasn't just a numbers game on paper—a fact Kruze understood better than anyone.

"He's not waiting for us to make a mistake," Xia said calmly, "he's waiting for us to despair."

There was a moment of silence on the bridge.

"What do you mean?" Maru asked.

Char didn't answer directly. He pulled up the combat records of Kruze's team—not just this time, but every single one in the past. The Lunar War, the African airborne invasion, the Heliopolis raid. Data from each battle was marked by VEDA, with Kruze's tactical intentions indicated by red arrows.

"What did you see?" Char asked.

Mu was the first to speak: "He doesn't aim for total annihilation. Every time, he leaves a way to retreat."

Natal stared at the screen, her blue eyes narrowing slightly: "He likes to bite again when his prey is closest to escaping."

Kira whispered, "He's playing around."

Everyone looked at him. Kira lowered his head, gripping the plastic puppy in his hand even tighter. "Athrun said that Kruze... isn't the kind of person who completes missions easily. He said Kruze likes to 'taste' battles. Not winning, but savoring them."

Char looked at Kira, a glint of light flashing in his crimson eyes. "Your friend is right. Kruze's core tactic isn't destruction, it's torture. He makes his prey run, run until they're exhausted, until they think they see hope, and then—crush them again. He doesn't want victory, he wants the cries of despair from his opponent."

Maru's fingers tightened slightly. "Why?"

Char paused for a moment. He recalled his conversation with Kruze—about existence, about destruction, about the clash between "protection and despair." Kruze was not an ordinary enemy; he was not a vengeful man driven by hatred, nor a conqueror driven by ambition. He was a man consumed by nothingness.

"Because Kruze has no attachment to this world." Char's voice was low, so low that only Maru beside him could hear it. "He hates everyone—Naturals, Coordinators, even himself. He can only feel his own existence when he sees others struggling in despair. Torturing his prey is not to kill the prey, but to make himself feel 'I am still alive.'"

No one spoke on the bridge. On the radar screen, the dot representing the USS Wesalis still lurked in the debris field, like a snake slowly writhing in the darkness.

L4 space zone, deep within the debris belt, Izumo.

The Izumo's bridge maintained real-time quantum communication with Orb headquarters' command center, and the Archangel's trajectory was displayed on a holographic screen. Mina Sahak stood in the center of the bridge, her red eyes fixed on the slowly moving dot of light, having changed from her deep purple kimono into the black uniform of a space force commander.

Her fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the control panel, a slow and even rhythm. Those who knew her well knew this wasn't relaxation, but rather tension. She was rarely tense, but when someone was in danger, the tension became uncontrollable.

"Commander, a communication request from Commander-in-Chief Askha." The communications officer's voice came from behind.

"Take it."

Char's face appeared on the holographic screen. The background was the dim light of the Archangel's bridge. His face showed weariness and scars, but his eyes were still the same—deep red, profound, and unfathomable. Mina stared at that face for a few seconds, then spoke.

"Your shoulder."

"External injury".

"Erika says you're lying."

Char's lips twitched slightly. "What did Erika say?"

"She said you always say 'external injury,' then the wound gets infected, then you get a fever, and then you're bedridden for three days." Mina's voice was steady, but the light in her red eyes was sharper than usual. "She also said that if you keep doing this, she'll replace all the coffee at Dawn Society with decaffeinated coffee."

Char's lips twitched even more noticeably. "She wouldn't dare."

"She dares. I dare too."

There was a moment of silence between them. The image on the holographic screen was slightly delayed, but that wasn't due to poor communication quality—it was because both were hesitant about what to say. In the end, Mina spoke first.

"Kruze is chasing you."

"Yes."

"Do you need the Izumo to intervene?"

"No need," Char's voice was calm. "Kruze won't launch a full-scale attack before the Archangel leaves L4. He's waiting, waiting for us to tire, waiting for us to make mistakes, waiting for us to despair. But if the Izumo intervenes, he'll retreat immediately, call for reinforcements, and let the entire ZAFT know that Orb is secretly helping the Combine. That's not what we want."

Mina stared at him for a long time. "What do you want?"

"The Archangel has safely landed on the moon. Survivors have been safely evacuated. Kruze won't get what he wants—despair."

"And what about you?"

Char was silent for a moment. "What?"

"What do you want?" Mina's red eyes reflected the faint light of the holographic screen. "Not strategic goals, not political objectives. It's you. What do you want?"

The bridge fell silent. The communications officers bowed their heads, pretending to be busy with their work, but their ears were perked up more than usual. Mina Sahak never spoke like this in public—she was always calm, restrained, and unwavering. But at this moment, there was an undisguised emotion in her voice.

“Kruze hates everyone, including himself. He’s the most dangerous enemy,” Mina said. “But I don’t care about Kruze. I only care about when you’re coming back.”

Char looked at her face. Beneath that cold, stern face lay the same burning passion as Erika's. Only the way it was expressed was different—Erika would cry, Mina would remain silent. But silence did not equate to indifference.

"I'll bring these children back after I've taken them home," Xia said in a low voice. "I'll come back when they're safe."

"how long?"

"I don't know. But I will come back."

Mina stared at him for a long time, then nodded and switched off the communication. The holographic screen went dark, and the bridge of the Izumo was once again bathed in the red glow of the emergency lights. She turned to face the debris trail outside the porthole. Starlight twinkled in the darkness, like countless eyes watching the battlefield.

"Commander, you—" the adjutant began cautiously.

"Continue monitoring. Maintain radio silence. No one is to move without my order."

"Yes."

Mina stood by the porthole, her fingers gently tracing the cold glass. Outside, the debris field, illuminated by starlight, resembled a silvery-white desert. In some corner of that desert, the Archangel sailed through the darkness, the golden machine awaited in the hangar, and the man continued fighting, wounded.

"You said you'd come back," she whispered, her voice so soft only she could hear. "If you lied to me, I'd dismantle the Golden Machine and sell it for scrap. With Erica."