Chapter Text
...
Removing her helmet is all it takes.
Emma looks uncomfortable under the sudden attention from the Pomeranians. Nabu scowls, his default expression whenever he wants to hide interest. Kaine’s jaw drops; he goes completely quiet. Jeezi, trying to be helpful, asks if she likes animals. She says yes, and just like that, the tension eases. The boys relax.
Emma bends down and pets the little Pomeranian before they all get to work inside the small but state-of-the-art shuttle craft.
Kaine calls her over and launches into mineral density numbers, explaining the algorithm he used to determine where a Vredefort-class meteor struck the proto-planet, creating the density they’re seeing here in the asteroid belt. Emma looks impressed.
Xavier glances at Nabu. Nabu raises his eyebrows slightly—he has no idea what Kaine just said either.
Jeezi keeps himself busy reviewing the two Gundams’ systems. New ones. Astonishing ones. He’ll report on their capabilities once he’s finished.
Nabu presents the financial projections: the impact of delivering this volume of gold and precious metals into the Earth-sphere economy. There’s more than enough to rebuild the Rhine Basin, and with one more asteroid delivery, they could support four to six additional regions.
Two smaller candidate asteroids are identified. Xavier and Emma will exit the shuttle and use their beam sabres to slice the richer asteroid into six pieces. Another, smaller one will be cut in half.
While they’re out there, they’ll also test the Gundams’ shielding. Thermal masking and optical distortion are critical—Xavier needs to know exactly where the limits are.
…
Once they’re back outside the shuttle in open space, Emma makes contact, Sulphur’s glove tapping Carbon’s.
“Amazing friends you have,” she says.
“Thanks. I think so,” Xavier replies.
They begin carving the asteroids, and once the cuts are complete, they start the shielding tests.
“These are great samples,” Emma says over comms.
“They’re the smallest ones I could find with the highest density,” Kaine replies modestly.
“Perfect,” she replies.
“I’ve got results,” Jeezi says. “Good news. That shield lasts roughly twelve minutes before detection. Not long—but more than enough time to get in and out.”
“Good to know. Thanks, Jeezi.”
“And the masked area is sufficient to conceal the additional load.”
“Thanks again.”
“Commander,” Nabu adds, “I’m forwarding financial projections on GDP impact, employment figures, and infrastructure outcomes. No long-term damage anticipated. Report sent to your office email.”
“Thanks,” Emma replies. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“We’ll be back shortly,” Xavier says.
“I’ll monitor departure and arrival ruptures,” Jeezi replies.
Xavier knows that even with shielding, stray light or heat could still give them away.
…
Emma stays hidden behind a large asteroid, shielding Sulphur from detection.
Xavier continues toward Axis. He drops his shield the moment he spots an Axis scout and launches a flare to signal peaceful intent.
…
Haman Karn studies him with open curiosity.
“I apologize for arriving unannounced,” Xavier says.
“I have questions,” she replies, skipping pleasantries.
“Go ahead.”
“First—where did the meteor come from?”
“I’m not prepared to share that,” Xavier says calmly. “But I do have the second half of the meteor to offer, provided certain conditions are met.”
“I’m told it could fund Axis for the next decade, assuming proper allocation,” she says, still watching him carefully.
“You should know,” she adds lightly, “I could extract that information from you without much effort.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Xavier replies, “but I’m here in good faith.”
“What conditions are you asking?”
“No war against Delaz or Gato—even if provoked.”
“Gato, I can ignore. As for Delaz, probably not. I don’t trust him. Aside from being a Newtype denier, let me show you why that agreement is difficult.”
Haman brings up report after report—Delaz’s build-up, his smaller vessels probing Axis territory. Xavier has seen the armament build-up previously, but the incursions are new.
“That’s troubling,” he admits.
“Which is why I can’t agree to your terms.”
“Haman,” Xavier says, “that’s exactly why you must.”
He explains how Delaz appears to be baiting Axis into war with Side 3, setting the stage for mutual destruction while he consolidates power. Piece by piece, Xavier lays out the pattern.
“How do you know?” she asks.
“I can give you historical precedents.”
And he does.
“History doesn’t punish ambition,” he says quietly once he’s done. “It punishes predictability.”
Haman studies him now, openly curious.
“You sound more like a philosopher than a historian,” she says with a faint smile. “Good to know the media coverage about you isn’t exaggerated.” Her gaze flicks to his eyes. “And those—are they amethyst or green?”
Xavier meets her look without answering the second question.
“Do we have an agreement?” Xavier asks. “If you send a diplomatic envoy to Her Excellency, I’m confident you can resolve things.”
“I believe we can,” she says. “Shake?”
He extends his hand. They shake.
“Auburn hair with gold highlights and amethyst eyes,” she muses. “No wonder the cameras adore you. I’ve never ever spoken to a philosopher before. That was something else.”
It’s Xavier’s turn to tilt his head, curious—because like most people, Haman is surrounded by philosophy and simply doesn’t realize it. Everyone is a philosopher when it comes down to it.
“Major?” she says as he turns to leave.
“Yes?”
“That Gundam of yours?”
“Don’t ask. I don’t know how or why it works. I just pilot it.”
“I see,” she replies. “Interesting. You’ll get your results. Her Excellency doesn’t realize how fortunate she is.”
“One more thing,” Xavier adds, turning back. She raises an eyebrow. “Please don’t inform Zeon Strategic Command about this meeting. I’m under orders from Gato not to supersede command responsibility.”
“Understood,” she says. “Our secret.”
She presses a finger to her lips.
He smiles.
I hope we meet again.
She blushes—and Xavier hadn’t expected that. For a moment, she looks younger—like the person she might have been before leadership hardened her.
“You’re building a world where Newtypes can truly live as themselves,” he says. “Thank you.”
He salutes and turns away.
…
“That was surprisingly pleasant,” Xavier tells Emma when he returns.
“I have a lot of questions about her,” she says, almost giddy, “but I’ll save them for when we get back.”
Together, they confirm the area is clear before Zeknova-jumping back to the Pomeranian shuttle.
…
Xavier would have liked more time, but he and Emma say good-bye to the Pomeranians. He’s grateful—for their help, for their trust—and feels relief that life beyond the military has worked out well for his former squad.
Leaving when Gato assumed command of the Newtype Company had been easy for them and Rudd, especially once it became clear Xavier wouldn’t be returning as their commander.
“Don’t disappear,” Jeezi calls over his shoulder.
Xavier allows himself a small smile. “I’ll try not to. You do the same.”
The hatch seals. The shuttle pulls away.
The Pomeranians are staying clean and making the most of their expertise, and Xavier couldn’t be prouder.
One day, he hopes civilian life suits him just as well.
…
Xavier and Emma re-enter above the Netherlands, far out over the North Sea on approach to Zeeland where an RBRC mobilization team is already standing by.
The Gundams place the six slabs along the shoreline like massive groynes, reinforcing the coast.
Once the minerals are extracted, whatever remains will serve exactly that purpose.
…
On the way to Paris, Xavier checks his messages again. Still nothing from Artesia.
The silence though expected, bothers him deeply. He hurt her more than he realized.
She can hold onto her anger when she chooses to—but with him, she has always forgiven faster. But then it was only gentle teasing.
He was careless and thoughtless this time. The kind of mistake that lands deeper the longer it goes unanswered.
He should never have said what he said and once again makes a promise to himself to be more considerate next time.
No lecturing anyone. Anymore.
At all.
Unless asked.
Or in the lecture hall, of course.
He looks back at his phone.
One message stands out.
Call me.
It’s from Garma.
That alone makes it unusual. Garma normally over-articulates everything, so a two-word message feels wrong.
Is this really Garma?
He calls.
Garma answers immediately.
“Olivette,” Garma says, his voice smooth, composed—clipped, but never hurried.
“Hello,” Xavier replies. “What’s up?”
“I’m in the Americas,” Garma says after a measured pause. “There has been an…incident.”
“Motor racing?” Xavier asks lightly.
“Yes. About that—I regret not following up,” Garma says. “Circumstances intervened.”
“No worries,” Xavier replies. “I assumed you’d found something faster.”
A controlled exhale follows. The pleasantries evaporate.
“I regret to inform you that an attempt was made to abduct me.”
Xavier stills. “You?”
“Yes,” Garma replies. “Although, based on what we now know, you would have served equally well.”
“And?”
“One individual is presently in custody.”
“That was quick,” Xavier says, thinking of Matilda’s security apparatus.
“He was remarkably forthcoming,” Garma says. “Almost eager to be helpful.”
“So the story’s bait.”
“That is the prevailing assessment.”
“Let me hear it anyway.”
“Very well,” Garma says. “The intention was to remove one of us from public view as Federation sympathizers. The next step would be a manufactured declaration of hostility—purportedly from Zeon’s hardline faction—against Federation‑controlled colonies aligned with us.”
Xavier exhales softly. “Side 7.”
“Green Oasis,” Garma confirms. “The opening act.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I concurred,” Garma says evenly.
“I, we,” Xavier corrects himself, “transferred Gundams in good faith—a Marshall Plan gesture for colony defence. Revil trusts me. Her Excellency’s Zeon trusts him.”
“Green Oasis is now a target,” Garma agrees.
“What weapons do they have to take on any Side?”
“Unclear. You should know they’ve also directed their efforts toward Admiral Delaz.”
“They are cultivating his sense of ideological purity,” Garma continues. “Reinforcing his hostility toward the Federation. Encouraging the belief—among the hardliners—that Her Excellency’s leadership is a betrayal of Zeon principles.”
“Delaz isn’t subtle,” Xavier says. “But he’s not reckless enough to strike Side 3 or Side 7.”
“They believe they can make him so,” Garma says. “With the promise of support.”
“From Federation holdouts,” Xavier says.
“With the shadowy backing of the Titans, no doubt,” Garma says. “They are becoming quite the nuisance.”
“Did the suspect say anything about Washiyo?” Xavier feels the need to punch something, simply at the mention of the Titans.
“No, no mention,” Garma replies.
Xavier exhales slowly.
“As I mentioned earlier,” Garma adds, his tone smoothing again, “the information was relinquished far too readily. One should assume curation.”
“Be careful,” Garma adds, almost as an afterthought.
Xavier allows himself a thin smile. “You as well.”
The call ends.
…
“What’s going on?” Emma asks.
Before Xavier can open a secure channel to contact Colonel Bull and General Revil, his phone rings.
It’s Emil, telling him his presence is required at the Council headquarters.
Xavier fills Emma in on Garma's news and Blenken provides confirmation.
Blenken also tells him that Zeon Strategic Command is in control of the situation.
A warning to stay out of it, if Xavier's ever heard one.
…
Xavier listens as the Rhine Basin Revitalization Council briefing moves past theory and into results.
“Initial analysis from Zeeland is complete,” the fiscal officer says. “Composition, density, trace contaminants—everything matches expectations.”
A new set of figures appears. Familiar ones.
Nabu’s projections. Faster than what Xavier sees here, but nearly identical in outcome.
“We’ll extract incrementally,” she continues. “No open-market release. The material will be used as collateral, not currency.”
“Coastal reinforcement remains intact,” another official adds. “What isn’t processed becomes permanent infrastructure.”
A labour specialist speaks next. “Employment expansion will be phased. Infrastructure and logistics first. Training pipelines ahead of wage pressure. No shock to regional labor markets.”
Xavier studies the display. Conservative. Methodical. Professional.
“So,” he says, “you’re treating this like toxic capital.”
“Toxic if mishandled,” the chair replies. “Stabilizing if disciplined.”
The room waits.
They’re not debating him. They’re asking.
“You’ll need my authorization to proceed,” Xavier says.
“Yes,” the chair replies. “We want your go-ahead.”
He nods once.
“This aligns with what my independent analyst projected,” he says. “You have authorization. Deliver in phases. No acceleration without review.”
“Understood.”
Xavier looks around the room. No one has moved.
“There’s one other problem.” Eichel, an engineer working for Dekker’s company, Global LLC, says as he lights up a holographic projection.
“We have the engineering complete for the components needed for the solar ray lighting. However, acquiring the struts from Loum colony has hit a dead end.”
“How may I help?” Xavier asks.
“We need to pay Zeon for the struts,” Eichel says. “They will not accept gold, silver or any other rare metal.”
“Let me guess,” Xavier says, “they’re asking for silica sand.”
“Yes,” Eichel replies.
“That’s not renewable,” the finance director says.
Xavier shares the details he’s confident about, drawn from his experience rebuilding Amaterasu.
“Zeon’s reserves are gone—they’ve been importing from Earth for years.”
“And it’s already under strain here in the Netherlands,” adds the infrastructure lead. “Construction. Flood defenses. Housing.”
Xavier nods. He already knows.
“But if we don’t do this,” he says, “we’re feeding people month to month. With it—” he gestures to the projection “—we change the climate equation entirely.”
Marrin Vilander, who is quietly chairing, leans back. “What's the estimate?”
Xavier checks the numbers. “Continental-scale impact,” he murmurs.
Silence. Then calculation.
“We don’t have enough sand,” Marrin says flatly.
“No,” Xavier agrees. “But the world does.”
…
He clears the room.
The call to the Intergovernmental Group comes together fast. Flags appear. No speeches. Everyone has read the brief.
“You’re asking us to move silica at scale,” Pennilin says. “That disrupts markets.”
“Yes,” Xavier replies. “So does famine-driven migration.”
Champsin cuts in. “You’re proposing climate infrastructure without ownership.”
“Correct,” Xavier says. “Open benefit. Regional stability.”
A third delegate leans forward. “And in return?”
Xavier doesn’t hesitate. “Predictability. Reduced refugee pressure. Food security in regions currently exporting instability.”
That lands.
Whispers. Side channels. Then the chair speaks.
“We’ll authorize coordinated extraction and transport,” Pennilin says. “Shared burden. No single country exposed. Each region gets four to eight solar ray units. An additional thirty-nine to be built above what the RBRC is planning.”
Xavier nods once. “That’s acceptable.”
…
Back in the RBRC council room, the numbers update in real time.
Combined coastal sources. Controlled extraction. Environmental caps.
Enough sand.
Eichel looks up slowly. “With this volume…”
“We can claim all eighteen struts,” Xavier finishes. “And begin planning for obtaining more.”
Marrin Vilander closes her eyes briefly. Then opens them.
“Helping the Rhine Basin has turned into helping the planet,” she says. “Short-term pain, long-term gain.”
“Redundancy is important,” Xavier replies. “And the influx of displaced people will slow.”
Dekker smiles.
Xavier nods.
He’s grateful they’ll finally get the struts. He’s not happy to have to get them from Loum, even though it was his idea. His birthplace. The place where his parents and millions of innocent people died.
He considers going to the site, reviewing what needs to be reclaimed, then decides against it.
It hurts too much.
…
Emma exhales softly.
“Well,” she says, “that was refreshingly competent.”
He nods. “They didn’t need me to explain it to them.”
She tilts her head. “You sound relieved.”
“I am,” he admits. “They didn’t see asteroids,” he says. “They saw responsibility.”
“And they still asked for your permission,” Emma adds.
“Helping civilians everywhere matters to me,” he says quietly. "Thank you, Emma. You were solid."
"Thank you for saying that."
She reaches out, resting her hand against his arm.
“You started something,” she says. “And then you let professionals carry it.”
Xavier exhales, long and steady.
“For the first time,” he says, “this doesn’t feel like a military operation anymore.”
Emma nods. “Because it isn’t.”
The silence that follows is a comfortable one.
Xavier lets himself enjoy it—just for a moment.
“I could sleep for a week,” he says quietly. “Somewhere without alarms. Or committees.”
Emma huffs a laugh. “Tempting.”
He leans back, eyes closing. For the first time in days, nothing is actively on fire.
“Can we delay?” he asks, half hopeful. “Just this once.”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Then: “No.”
He opens one eye. “No?”
“We’ve postponed the university radio program twice already,” Emma says, entirely unsympathetic. “Once for an asteroid. Once for a Council. If we cancel again, we stop being guests and start being problems.”
He groans softly. “I was really looking forward to not thinking.”
“You won’t be thinking,” she says. “You’ll be talking. Academically. On air.”
“That’s worse.”
Emma smiles, already pulling up the schedule. “You’re the one who said civilian life mattered.”
“I didn’t realize it involved microphones,” he mutters.
She reaches out, giving his arm a quick squeeze. “Come on. You can nap afterward.”
He exhales, resigned.
“Fine,” he says. “But if they ask me about asteroid economics—”
“I’ll redirect,” Emma promises.
He glances at her. “You always do.”
Emma smiles.
…
The red light clicks on.
“And we’re live,” the host says brightly. “This is Campus News 102.1, and today we’re joined by Professor Xavier Olivette—and… well,” she glances sideways, grinning, “he’s here to answer questions on the fascinating world of political philosophy, his new life in Paris, and some of his, let’s call them side ventures.”
Xavier blinks. “There is not enough time for all that.”
Laughter crackles through the studio.
“I’m serious,” the co-host says. “We’ll get it done. First, you’re not that much older than most of our listeners. What was university life like for you?”
Xavier considers this. “Quick,” he says. “I didn't sleep much and had my head in a book the entire time.”
"There had to be some wild moments in there somewhere," the co-host says.
"No, I was in an accelerated program," Xavier replies, which is true. He dated maybe once, but no one was Merle. His heart was still healing after she ghosted him. Old news now.
“So,” the host presses, “how different is campus life now from when you were a student?”
Xavier tilts his head. “More screens. Better coffee. Same anxiety before exams. Some constants survive every generation.”
“That’s reassuring,” the co-host says. “And Paris?”
A pause. “How are you liking it?”
“It’s unfairly beautiful,” Xavier replies. “Every street looks like it was designed to distract you from being late.”
He stops, and the host is waiting for more details perhaps. The co-host looks awestruck.
“The layout appeals to me from a military aspect. You can see the entire city at a glance. Wide, long boulevards built for equipment and troop movement. The geometry optimized for chaos and control.”
“Calm down, Zeon,” the host says uncomfortably with a chuckle. “No need to put out uprisings this month.”
The co-host is chuckling behind her hand.
Xavier is about to explain, perhaps apologize, but, thankfully, the host moves on to the next question.
“Life in Paris. Be honest,” the host says, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Are the women prettier than when you were a student?”
Xavier doesn’t even flinch.
“They’re more confident,” he says smoothly. “Which tends to have that effect.”
The hosts laugh. Emma raises an eyebrow.
Good answer, she says silently.
I like staying alive, he replies, equally silent.
“Well,” the host says, delighted, “that’s the smoothest non-answer we’ve had all term.”
Xavier relaxes slightly in his chair.
The co-host leans closer to her mic.
“Okay,” she says, “serious question—why is political philosophy suddenly everywhere? Our course registrations are up, our debate club is full, and half our listeners are suddenly quoting dead Greeks.”
“I apologize to the Greeks,” Xavier says. "Sorry, not sorry."
Laughter.
“But do you think,” the host continues, “that you have something to do with it?”
Xavier tilts his head, buying time. “I think uncertainty makes people philosophical. When the world feels unstable, people ask bigger questions.”
“That’s a very smooth deflection,” the co-host says. “You’ve been practicing.”
Emma smiles faintly. Xavier feels he should explain, but the host continues with the next question.
“So,” she says, undeterred, “can we ask about Zeon? And Her Excellency?”
Xavier doesn’t miss a beat. “You can.”
“And will you answer?”
“I will improve at non-answers,” he says calmly.
They laugh.
“Fantastic,” the co-host says. “Then we’ll ask anyway.”
The host’s grin widens. “Are you advising Zeon politically—or romantically?”
Xavier coughs. Just once, it’s almost invisible.
“Neither,” he says quickly.
“Shame,” the co-host sighs theatrically. “Paris was hoping for a love story.”
Emma lowers her gaze, shoulders shaking.
“And Her Excellency,” the host continues, warming to the sport, “is she as intimidating in person as the feeds suggest?”
Xavier feels heat crawl up his neck. He keeps his voice steady.
“She’s… very competent.”
“That’s it?” the co-host presses. “No piercing gaze? No dramatic pauses? No lingering looks?”
“I don’t linger,” Xavier says, a little too fast.
The studio goes quiet for half a second.
Then laughter erupts.
“Oh, he definitely lingers,” the host declares.
There’s a pause—just long enough to shift tone.
“Well,” the host says, voice softening, “for what it’s worth… we’re rooting for you.”
Xavier blinks. “For—?”
“Winning her back,” the co-host says easily. “Whoever her happens to be.”
“You’re winning with the side-glance contest,” the host says.
“What do you mean?”
“You see these photos: Her Excellency with her side glances, you’re winning the photo ops. The other guy, we can barely find a pic where she looks half as interested.”
Xavier looks over and remembers the occasions—most of them. Talking about deadlined equipment with Ramba, Artesia waiting. Discussing rosters with Challia, Artesia glancing up politely. Others, and other discussions.
He never realized she’d been watching, through half the photos, always assuming she was waiting for Ramba or Challia or whoever else was there. Always excusing himself once she’d made her presence known.
The photos that follow show his careful attention to Artesia. They were at the beginning of what was a happy relationship. Until he wrecked it.
Emma very deliberately looks at the soundboard.
“You seem,” the host continues, “like someone who listens. That goes a long way.”
Xavier clears his throat. “I’m… working on it.”
“Good,” the co-host says. “Because we like you. A lot.”
The host hesitates, then grins. “That said—purely hypothetically—if you were single again…”
Xavier’s shoulders tense.
“…we’ve heard rumors,” the host continues, “about a sign-up sheet?”
Silence.
Emma freezes.
Xavier’s mind betrays him instantly.
#SplashMyFaceXoXo
A very throaty laugh.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Xavier says aloud, too quickly, too earnestly.
The hosts exchange delighted looks.
“Uh-huh,” the co-host says. “Because we love the hashtag.”
“The XoXo especially,” the host adds. “Your parents couldn’t have planned that better.”
Xavier smiles politely.
His diaphragm holds—and then loosens.
They didn’t plan it.
They didn’t plan anything past the war.
He’s suddenly grateful this is radio.
Grateful they can’t see the flicker of grief cross his face.
“Well,” he says lightly, regaining his footing, “if such a sheet exists, I assure you it was created without my consent.”
The hosts laugh.
“We believe you,” the co-host says. “Mostly.”
“And for the record,” the host adds, “we’re still rooting for you.”
Xavier nods once.
“So am I,” he says.
The red light stays on.
The world keeps turning.
And for a few minutes longer, that feels… okay.
…
But it doesn’t last.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asks as they make their way out of the studio.
Why he passes her his phone, he’s not sure.
“HE ASD: Can I call tonight?”
Emma replies for him, “Yes!”
“What did you do?”
“I replied.”
“She’s going to know that it’s not me replying.”
“Sorry. Should I have said, I await your orders,” Emma replies with a laugh.
“Something like that,” Xavier replies vaguely. “A simple yes would have worked.” He doesn’t do exclamation marks.
He’s grateful she didn’t add hearts or a smiley face. His reputation would be ruined.
“It’s going to be okay,” Emma says, obviously trying to console him.
His mind replays the photos from the radio station interview. Six of him and Artesia. Ten times more of her and Gato. He might be winning the ‘side-glance’ contest according to whatever informal poll they did here in Paris, but he’s definitely losing the ‘public appearance’ contest on Zeon.
It’s depressing, really.
“You’re right. I will deal with whatever happens.”
“Professor, it won’t be a bad thing.”
“Hopefully not, but one has to be prepared.”
Aside from that, it worries him, because when did Artesia ask permission to call?
…
Xavier realizes he’s become used to Emma reading over his shoulder. So much so, that he just passes everything he’s working on her way.
Tonight’s strategy paper is no exception.
Emma doesn’t comment right away.
She skims the page once more, eyes moving faster than they should, already sorting.
“So,” she says at last, tapping the margin lightly. “Signals first. A suspect who’s too cooperative. Clean narrative, ready-made villains. That tells you someone wants a reaction.”
Xavier nods.
“Decision point,” she continues. “React publicly or treat it as bait.”
“And if you react,” he says, “you give them footage.”
She hums in agreement. “Likely next move—if that doesn’t work—they escalate to something tangible. Green Oasis. A demonstration target. Something that forces outrage before verification.”
“And the counter,” he adds quietly.
“Protect it without announcing it,” Emma says. “Make the absence of catastrophe look like nothing happened.”
She glances down again. “Delaz is the other pressure point. If they can’t force you, they force him.”
“Predictable outrage,” Xavier says.
“Which you deny by making provocation boring,” she replies. “No clean triggers.”
She exhales and finally looks at him. “You’ve mapped it.”
“For now,” he says.
Emma studies him for a moment, then tilts her head. “Do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Build one of these,” she says, gesturing at the page. “For every scenario.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
“Yes,” he says finally.
She gives a small, helpless laugh. “That must be exhausting.”
“It’s preventative,” he says. “If you can see where inevitability is being manufactured, you can step sideways.”
“And if you don’t?” she asks.
“Someone else steps for you.”
Emma folds the page once and sets it aside. “You know,” she says gently, “most people don’t want to live in a decision tree.”
He smiles faintly. “I know.”
She squeezes his arm once, then lets go. “Just… don’t forget that not everything needs a countermeasure.”
…
When she’s gone, Xavier stays where he is.
The radio station photos surface again, uninvited. The angles. The lighting. Him turned slightly away. Artesia just inside the frame, glancing sideways.
He’d always assumed she wasn’t watching him—that she was waiting for Ramba, or Challia, or someone else. That she was simply there.
And because of that, he’d kept his thoughts to himself. His analyses. His projections. His endless mental branching. It had seemed polite. Safe.
A good strategy.
Then, at some point, he’d realized she was watching. Listening. Interested—not just in outcomes, but in how he thought.
So he’d shared.
Carefully at first. Then more freely. Patterns. Risks. Opinions. Always framed as helpful. Always reasoned. Always thorough.
Until it became too much.
Until he made the mistake of assuming she would always want to hear what he thought—just because she once had.
He exhales slowly.
In the photos, he’d been doing it right without knowing why. Focused. Reserved. Contained. Letting the work speak instead of the analysis behind it.
That restraint had served him well.
It would again.
He folds the page neatly and sets it back on the table.
“What you’ll do,” she’d told him, finally fed up, “is stop telling me how to run Zeon.”
He’ll return to that approach.
She doesn’t need him to save her, or Zeon.
Always remember that she’s strong and that he needs to respect her capacity for leadership. It’s brought her this far.
Keep his over-deliberated opinions to himself.
It’s a good strategy.
He’s sure of it.
…
The call connects on the second ring.
“Xavier,” Artesia says. Her voice is back to the usual it’s been a long day and I’m glad to hear from you self.
He exhales. Only then does he realize he hasn’t breathed in a while.
“You sound… better.”
“I am,” she replies. “And you sound like you’ve been doing too much.”
He almost smiles. Almost. Outwardly, he feels the same, seems the same.
“I’ve been fine.”
There’s just enough silence for him to think it might work.
“That wasn’t an answer,” she says mildly. “Emma and Blenken will be hearing from me.”
He winces. “I was hoping to avoid a coordinated response.”
“You won’t,” she says kindly.
There’s a brief pause.
“I wanted to tell you something,” Artesia continues. “Haman and I reached an accord. Quietly.”
Xavier stills.
“A non-aggression framework,” she adds. “Provisional, but real.”
“I see.”
“We’re finalizing the governance language now,” Artesia continues.
“Councils. Representation. Real authority—distributed this time.”
A brief pause.
“It means I won’t be carrying everything myself anymore.”
Xavier leans back in his chair, eyes studying the ceiling like a chessboard as he considers the implications.
“You don’t get time by centralizing authority,” Xavier had told her. “You buy it by distributing risk.”
She was finally removing herself as the single point of failure.
Finally.
“Haman said something during the talks,” she continues. “Something that sounded very much like you. History punishes predictability…?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Xavier?”
“I’m under standing orders,” he says evenly. “Gato was explicit. I am not to interfere, directly or indirectly.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“I know.”
“You know,” she adds, “I could always promote you over him so you’d never have to follow another order of his.”
“Um, wait,” he replies, keeping his voice level despite the growing panic in knowing that that’s not a good idea. The reputational damage. No.
“Don’t worry. I won’t. I was just saying.”
Another pause.
“Second,” she says, shifting. “We’ve received preliminary findings on Washiyo’s death. An agent was caught during an attempted abduction of Garma Zabi that implicated the Titans.”
Xavier’s jaw tightens. That’s more than what Garma had relayed.
“That’s all I can say for now,” she continues. “Challia and Strategic Command are planning a covert infiltration of Green Noa to confirm Titan strength. Gato will conduct a legitimate inspection of Federation operations in parallel, as Chief Weapons Inspector.”
The title lands heavier than it should. Another role Xavier once carried. Another space he no longer occupies.
“I wanted you to know that Titans are our focus,” she says. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thank you.”
He considers, briefly, contacting Challia. The thought surfaces—then recedes. He lets it go.
Although Merle… she sounded worried when she called.
“And…” Artesia exhales softly. “I saw the radio interview.”
He says nothing.
“I’m sorry they mentioned your parents. And Loum indirectly.” Her voice lowers. “I know you didn’t show it. But I know how much that hurt.”
His throat tightens. He keeps his voice steady. “Thank you.”
Silence stretches between them.
“Do you have any questions for me?” she asks gently.
He has dozens.
They vanish the moment she asks.
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”
She doesn’t sound disappointed.
“Thank you for calling me,” he adds. “It… was nice to hear from you.”
“It’s good to hear your voice too,” she agrees.
He should say more. He doesn’t. He lets the questions drop.
“I should let you go,” he says.
“Yes,” she replies. “You should.”
“Your Excellency,” Xavier says.
There’s a breath. Then—
“Major. Xavier…”
He stills.
“I love you,” Artesia says. “I miss the real you.”
The line goes dead.
Xavier lowers the phone slowly.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move at all.
…