Jaburo's central command was a fortress of light and machinery. The massive underground hangars still echoed with the last tremors of the Zeon amphibious attack, engineers shouting across catwalks, sparks raining from welders patching the wounds of mobile suits.
Hachiman walked through it like a ghost in borrowed colors — a Federation trainee uniform, half-zipped and wrinkled as always. He had no destination. He just wanted to avoid anyone who looked like they needed a volunteer.
But fate, as usual, had no sense of humor.
"Ah, Hikki! You're late again!"
The cheerful voice pierced his eardrums like a sniper shot. He didn't even need to turn around. Only one person on this Earth — or any Earth — could sound that happy in a military base.
He sighed, slumping his shoulders. "Komachi… you know yelling in a war zone is a good way to get drafted again?"
She pouted, walking up beside him, dressed in the crisp white and blue of a Federation communications trainee. The insignia on her chest gleamed faintly — the same one Sayla Mass wore on the White Base as the MS operations coordinator.
"Don't be mean, Hikki. They assigned me to help coordinate pilot sorties next week! I'm basically a real officer now!"
He rubbed his temple, feeling the start of a migraine. "Right. You're telling me they put a high school girl in charge of sending grown men to die. Very comforting."
Komachi folded her arms and huffed. "You say that like you're not proud. Come on, I can tell. You've got that smug big brother face."
He looked away, pretending to study a passing cargo loader. "That's just my face, Komachi. It's always smug. It's genetic."
She giggled, which somehow hurt more than any bullet wound could have. For a moment, he could almost believe none of this was real — that they were back home, walking to school, arguing about lunch. But the heavy scent of fuel and metal shattered the illusion.
He noticed her smile linger, soft and full of pride. "You've changed, Hikki," she said. "You actually look… like someone people can rely on."
He blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. "You mean I finally look like a functional adult? Miracles do happen."
Before she could respond, an officer rushed toward them. "Trainee Hikigaya! General Revil requests your presence. Immediately."
Hachiman froze. "...I'm sorry, what? General who?"
Komachi's eyes lit up. "Hikki! The General himself? You must've done something amazing!"
He wanted to say 'Or something terrible,' but the soldier's expression suggested humor would be fatal. So he followed, heart sinking with every step.
The command room was quiet when he entered — too quiet. General Revil stood before a holographic map, lines of light tracing the shifting tides of war. When he turned, his calm eyes studied Hachiman with something close to curiosity.
"Hikigaya Hachiman," Revil said, voice even. "You were involved in the defense of sector six during the Zeon amphibious incursion, correct?"
"Yes, sir," Hachiman replied, posture halfway between a salute and an existential crisis. "Mostly hiding behind debris and giving moral support to people who actually knew what they were doing."
Revil smiled faintly — the kind of expression that said I know sarcasm when I hear it, but I'll allow it.
"I've reviewed your combat record," Revil continued. "Despite your self-deprecation, your coordination under pressure was… unorthodox but effective. You showed an instinct for timing that saved several units from encirclement."
"Ah," Hachiman muttered. "So surviving counts as strategy now."
Revil ignored that. He gestured toward a covered frame beside him. "We need a pilot for this unit. Its previous operator was wounded. You'll take his place."
The tarp lifted, revealing the sleek black armor of the Blitz Gundam — its silhouette like a predator waiting to strike.
Hachiman's face drained of color. "Sir, with all due respect, have you seen my piloting scores? I make parking a car look like orbital warfare."
Revil's gaze softened, but his tone remained firm. "You have potential, Hikigaya. More importantly, you have the right kind of mind — adaptable, analytical, aware of risk. The Federation needs pilots who think before they pull the trigger."
Hachiman's mouth opened, then closed again. He looked over his shoulder — and saw Komachi at the door, watching him with wide, shining eyes. Proud. Hopeful.
The kind of eyes that made refusal impossible.
He exhaled through his nose, a resigned sigh escaping his chest. "…You drive a hard bargain, General."
Revil's lips curved slightly. "Then I'll take that as a yes."
Hachiman rubbed his face. "Can I at least ask who I'm supposed to duel against first? Just so I know which way to run."
A side door slid open. A boy around fifteen or sixteen stepped in, quiet and composed, wearing a plain pilot suit with the insignia of a test corps. His dark eyes were sharp, unreadable.
"I'm Mikazuki Augus," he said simply. "I'm here to bring Olga back."
Hachiman blinked. "Olga… or Orga?"
"Orga," Mikazuki corrected, voice flat.
"Right," Hachiman muttered. "I knew that. Totally." He turned toward Revil, deadpan. "Sir, where exactly are all the grown-up ace pilots hiding? Because I'm starting to feel like the adult supervision here."
Revil chuckled quietly, then folded his hands behind his back. "You'll find that war doesn't wait for age, Hikigaya. Train with Mikazuki. Learn quickly. You'll both be needed soon."
Hachiman stared at the Blitz Gundam, the black armor gleaming beneath the hangar lights.
He felt small — smaller than ever — but also strangely certain.
As the door closed behind him and Komachi ran up, grinning ear to ear, he thought, Figures. My life's finally turned into a shonen series.
He glanced at her smile and sighed.
> "Guess I'd better make it to the next episode, huh?"