The alarms had not stopped for hours.
In the depth of Jaburo's command center, General Revil stood still, his uniform damp with humidity and sweat, eyes locked on the trembling lines of static that had replaced half the Federation's tactical display.
Every time he tried to open communication with Odessa, the screen blinked and died.
Only fragments of noise and broken signal reached him — Zeon had jammed every wavelength.
No word from Gopp, no confirmation from Bright's fleet, and yet the explosions overhead spoke enough.
Zeon was attacking again.
A second assault — one hour before their retreat from orbit.
"Sir, jamming confirmed across all frequencies," the communications officer shouted.
Revil's cane tapped the floor once, a sharp clack that silenced the room.
"Then we fight without their voices," he said, calm, heavy. "Tell the surface team to prepare for breaching."
Outside, the earth trembled again. The cavernous walls of Jaburo echoed like thunder.
Revil's gaze shifted toward the side monitors. In one corner of the tactical feed, a lone Zaku icon blinked rapidly before vanishing — then four red markers appeared where Federation patrols had gone silent.
"Marine units destroyed… it's Gogg-class, sir. They're already inside the river tunnels!" a technician yelled.
Revil's mind moved quickly. Gogg and Z'Gok — amphibious suits, capable of direct tunnel breach.
Lelouch's tactics.
Whoever commanded this assault, they weren't seeking territory — they were seeking chaos.
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling how much the Federation had bled just to defend Odessa.
And now this… the enemy striking beneath the earth itself.
Then, through the comms, came an unfamiliar yet clear voice.
> "This is trainee Hikigaya. Reporting from Deck C-2. Two Gogg units heading to generator control — one's already damaged but still moving. I can hear the pressure in the water pipes."
The operator blinked. "Wait, he's not even on radar—how does he know that?"
Revil turned sharply. "Put him through."
The line flickered. On a small auxiliary monitor, the face of a teenage boy appeared — dirt across his cheek, sweat soaking his trainee uniform, but his tone was steady, almost too casual for the chaos.
> "Sir, if I had to guess, they'll hit the coolant tanks next. They're… loud types. You start recognizing the rhythm when you've been dodging death for thirty minutes straight."
Revil raised an eyebrow. "And you are…?"
> "Hikigaya. Federation trainee. I was told this was supposed to be an easy posting."
A few officers laughed nervously, breaking the tension. Revil didn't. He studied the boy's expression — blank, calculating, eyes too tired for his age.
> "You said two Goggs," Revil said. "But sensors confirm one."
> "Then the other's hiding under the ventilation trench. They use mud and static interference from the pipes — probably the same trick they used five minutes ago to crush the patrol."
The officer beside Revil glanced at the readings again — and paled. "He's right. The heat pattern's rising—Gogg detected!"
The entire command room froze. Revil inhaled, slow and measured.
> "Trainee Hikigaya," he said quietly. "Hold position and continue observation. Do not engage."
> "Wasn't planning to, sir. I've had enough excitement for one life."
The channel closed.
Revil stood there a moment longer, tapping his cane against the steel deck.
A boy who could predict enemy movement by sound and instinct alone…
It wasn't talent — it was something rawer, darker.
An understanding of human desperation.
He made a note on the tactical pad:
"Cognitive pattern anomaly. Psychological resilience: high. Recommendation: supervised field evaluation."
Then, a distant explosion rocked the base again, shaking dust from the ceiling.
A sensor feed caught a glimpse of a Gogg's arm tearing through the concrete before being blasted apart by missile fire. The defense teams cheered — temporary relief.
Revil straightened, eyes narrowing at the casualty display. So many young faces, so many gone.
For a moment, he thought of Odessa again — of how this entire front had bled to slow Zeon's advance.
If they could not communicate, they would hold anyway.
He turned to his aide.
"Redirect all defensive fire to Dock 3. I'll meet the engineering unit myself. And find that boy again — Hikigaya. I want him under direct observation."
The aide saluted and ran.
When the room emptied, Revil allowed himself one small sigh.
His fingers brushed the corner of a data tablet marked Project Integration — Dr. Gary Lin.
He didn't know what Lin had done, or how he found that strange boy, but deep inside, Revil felt a strange conviction.
That boy's eyes — cold, reluctant, yet unshaken — reminded him of the war itself.
"Lin…" he murmured quietly,
> "What did you bring into this world?"
---
Meanwhile, deep within the lower hangar, Hikigaya leaned against a half-damaged GM, his uniform torn, helmet under one arm.
He exhaled slowly, watching the mechanics rush past him.
> "So this is war, huh?" he muttered to himself. "Figures. You try to avoid people and end up with explosions instead."
He glanced at the reflection of his face in the metal — tired eyes, same as always.
He thought briefly of Komachi, her smile, and how he'd promised to keep it safe.
Somewhere above, the alarms blared again, but he didn't flinch.
He'd seen worse — or maybe he just refused to see anymore.
> "Guess running away's not an option this time," he whispered, picking up a rifle that wasn't his.
And as he walked toward the echoing tunnels, General Revil's words came through the intercom again, steady as steel.
> "All units, defend Jaburo. Do not yield an inch."
---
The battle still raged above, unseen.
And though neither Revil nor Hikigaya knew it yet, that strange meeting of fate —
the cautious general and the cynical boy —
would become one of the Federation's most unexpected alliances.
The sirens finally stopped.
For the first time in hours, the tunnels of Jaburo were silent — no shouting, no gunfire, no shaking ground. Just the soft hum of emergency lights and the dull ache in Hachiman's legs as he sat beside a supply crate, staring at the cracks in the wall.
He let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Great. Another peaceful day in paradise."
His jacket smelled like oil and burnt metal. The Federation insignia on his shoulder was half-torn, but at least the uniform still fit. He'd learned to appreciate small victories — like still having both arms attached.
He tilted his head back, staring up at the dim ceiling.
Somewhere above, soldiers were cheering. Apparently, they'd repelled the Zeon amphibious raid.
Good for them. He wasn't sure whether to clap or nap.
"So let me get this straight," he muttered to no one in particular. "I was supposed to live a quiet life. Maybe a teaching job, a few coffee breaks, minimal human contact. And now… I'm fighting in a war between people wearing fishbowl helmets and shouting about space freedom."
He rubbed his temple. "Hachiman, you absolute idiot. This is what happens when you agree to help people."
He remembered waking up here — in a Federation barracks, uniform already issued, files labeling him a "recruit of exceptional potential."
Except he'd never applied for anything. Never trained. Never even met these people.
And yet everyone acted like he'd been here for months. Like this had always been his life.
The weirdest part, though, wasn't the war. It wasn't the giant robots or the constant explosions.
It was her.
Komachi.
She smiled every morning, talked about rations and duty shifts like it was perfectly normal.
She even scolded him for being late to drills, the same way she used to scold him for being late to breakfast.
But there was no mention of Chiba. No mention of their old house, or the way things used to be.
To her, this was home.
> "She doesn't remember," he whispered.
"Figures. Of course the universe would give me that kind of cruel twist."
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. His chest felt tight — not from fear, but from something heavier, something that didn't fit in words.
Maybe that was why he kept fighting. Not because he cared about the Federation.
Not because he wanted to be a hero.
But because if Komachi smiled in this strange, twisted world, then maybe — just maybe — it wasn't so bad to stay a little longer.
Still, that didn't mean he liked it.
> "Whoever threw me into this mess," he muttered, "I hope they're enjoying themselves. Because this—"
He gestured vaguely at the smoke-stained corridor.
"—is the worst isekai ever."
Some mechanic walked by, giving him a confused look.
Hachiman didn't care. He was too tired to explain sarcasm to strangers.
He stood, brushing dust from his knees, and started toward the elevator. The lights flickered again — Jaburo's power still unstable.
He sighed.
"Next time I wake up in a new world, I'm checking the fine print."
The elevator doors closed, and for a brief second, his reflection stared back — the same dull eyes, same deadpan face.
He looked like a soldier now.
A soldier in someone else's war.
And somewhere above, General Revil watched the tactical screen, noting one small name on his list of "potential field officers."
Hikigaya Hachiman.