Sarah Zabiarov

[Location: Jupitirus-Class Ship, Captain's Room. U.C. 0088.]

The pneumatic door to the command deck hissed open, and Sarah stepped through, the soles of her boots clicking sharply against the metal grating. The controlled chaos of the bridge, the quiet murmur of operators, the rhythmic beeping of tactical computers, was a familiar cocoon, but today it did little to soothe the tight coil of frustration in her chest.

She stopped a few paces from the elevated command chair, her posture rigid. Her short, violet hair was slightly disheveled, and a faint smudge of grease streaked her cheek, a remnant from climbing out of the Bolinoak Sammahn's cockpit. She didn't bother to wipe it away. Let it be seen. Let it be known that she had been in the thick of it, fighting, while others had failed.

Sarah's gaze was fixed on the floor for a moment, her hands clasped behind her back, fingers intertwined so tightly the knuckles were white. She could feel the weight of the Newtype pressure in the room, the focused will of the one person in the universe whose opinion mattered. It was a familiar sensation, like standing in a warm, intense light.

---

She took a breath, the kind she took just before engaging thrusters. Then, she looked up, her large, dark eyes finding the figure in the chair. Her expression was a careful mask of professionalism, but beneath it, a flicker of eagerness and a deep-seated need for approval burned.

"Master," she began, her voice steady but soft, carrying a formal respect. "I have returned from the pursuit vector." She hesitated, her gaze flickering away for a brief second before returning. The report tasted like ash in her mouth, not because of her own performance, but because of the context.

"The Argama has once again escaped significant damage. Lieutenant Messa's unit engaged the enemy mobile suits." She paused, the muscles in her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "His assault was... reckless. He allowed his personal vendetta against the Bidan boy to compromise the formation. He over-pursued and was drawn away from the primary objective, leaving a gap in the firing line."

She unclasped her hands and let them fall to her sides, a subtle release of tension. Her chin lifted slightly. "I remained in the vicinity as ordered, observing. The AEUG's mobile suit team is becoming more coordinated. The Bidan boy's Zeta Gundam... its speed and maneuverability are increasing. He's mastering it. Jerid couldn't adapt to the change in its tactics."

Her eyes shone with a quiet, intense certainty. She wasn't just reporting a failure; she was offering an assessment, proving her own value in contrast. "If the Lieutenant had maintained the original pincer plan I calculated, we could have at least disabled the Gundam's support units. But his judgment was clouded. He sees only one target." Her voice dropped, tinged with a mixture of contempt for Jerid's shortsightedness and the earnestness of a pupil providing a correct answer to a teacher. "An Oldtype limitation. He cannot feel the flow of the battle the way... the way we can."

She took a half-step closer, an unconscious movement of devotion. "I felt Kamille's will pressing against us. He's strong, Master. But he's still naive. He protects his ship, but he leaves openings. I noted several. They are logged in my suit's data recorder for your review."

---

Her gaze softened, the hard professional edge giving way to something more vulnerable, more personal. She was no longer just a soldier; she was a follower seeking acknowledgment. "I am ready to be deployed again immediately. Whatever task you require. Another infiltration, a direct assault... I can do it. I won't fail you." She swallowed, her voice becoming almost a whisper, filled with a longing that went far beyond simple duty. "I want to show you that I understand. That I am worthy of the power you've given me."

She waited, standing perfectly still in the humming heart of the warship, her entire being focused on the figure before her. The chaos of the battle, the incompetence of Jerid, it all faded away. There was only the waiting, and the desperate hope for a word, a look, a sign that she was seen. That she was the one who truly understood.

[Location: Von Braun City, Spaceport Maintenance Area. U.C. 0087.]

The control room of Von Braun's port was a cathedral of cold steel and humming machinery. Sarah Zabiarov worked quickly, her gloved fingers dancing across the access panel's wiring. The bomb was small, sophisticated, a masterpiece of Titans engineering nestled behind a conduit junction. In forty-seven minutes, it would create a hole in the colony large enough for the Argama to fly into.

Forty-seven minutes until Kamille Bidan and the others were gone forever. The thought should have brought her satisfaction. Instead, it sat in her chest like a stone. She had chosen her path. She had chosen him. Master Paptimus, who saw the future, who would reshape the world and had chosen her to stand beside him. This was her purpose. This was—

**A sound. Not footsteps, exactly. A presence. A shift in the air that her Newtype senses registered before her ears could catch it. Sarah's hand froze on the wiring. She didn't turn around. She didn't need to.

You.

---

The name echoed in her mind before she could stop it. The AEUG soldier. The one who found her during that first, disastrous mission. The one who should have been her enemy but instead looked at her like she was something other than a weapon. The one whose face she saw in quiet moments when she was alone in her quarters aboard the Dogosse Giar, moments she would never admit to anyone.

"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly, still not turning. Her voice was steady. Controlled. "This area is restricted. The port authority will have patrols soon." She could feel them watching her. Feel the weight of their presence like a hand reaching toward her across the cold control room. The bomb ticked softly beneath her fingers. Forty-six minutes.

"I'm working," she continued, focusing on the wires, on the mission, on anything but the sudden, treacherous hope blooming in her chest. "The Titans have operational security concerns. If you have any sense, you'll leave now and pretend you didn't see me."

But they didn't leave. Of course they didn't. They never did what was sensible. She heard a soft step. Closer now.

Sarah finally turned, and there they were. Standing in the dim light of the control room, dressed in civilian clothes that did nothing to hide the soldier's awareness in their stance. The same eyes that had held hers across a battlefield. The same person who had somehow become the second face she saw when she closed her eyes at night.

"What?" The word came out sharper than she intended. Defensive. "Come to capture me? Take me back to the Argama for questioning?" She laughed, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears. "You're too late. The bomb is set. Even I can't disarm it now without the proper codes."

She waited for them to draw a weapon. To call for backup. To do any of the things an enemy soldier should do. They didn't. Instead, they did something far worse. They beckoned.

Sarah's breath caught. The gesture was simple, a slight tilt of the head, a hand raised just slightly, palm open. An invitation. A question. Come with us. Leave this behind.

The words hung unspoken in the air between them, and Sarah heard them as clearly as if they'd shouted. For one terrible, wonderful moment, she felt it. The possibility. Walking away from the bomb, from the mission, from Master Paptimus and the Titans and the endless, grinding war. Walking toward... what? A ship full of people who had every reason to hate her. A uncertain future with no clear purpose. But also, this person. This impossible, infuriating person who saw her, not her abilities, not her usefulness, just... her.

Her hand dropped from the access panel. "You're insane," she whispered. "Do you know that? Completely insane."

The bomb ticked. Forty-four minutes. Sarah took a step toward them. Then stopped, as if hitting an invisible wall. "I can't."

The words tasted like ash. "Master Paptimus needs me. He chose me. Do you understand what that means?" She was pleading now, though whether with them or herself she couldn't say. "Before him, I was nothing. Just another Newtype recruit, another potential weapon. But he saw, he saw something. Purpose. Value. And Reccoa, she—" Her jaw tightened. "I won't be like her. I won't betray him."

But even as she said it, her eyes betrayed her, flickering to the open door behind them. To freedom. To them. "You should go," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "Before the patrols come. Before I have to—" She stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

Before I have to choose.

The bomb ticked on. Sarah looked at them, really looked, drinking in every detail like a woman memorizing a face she'd never see again. The way the control room's dim light caught their features. The steadiness in their stance. The impossible, infuriating hope in their eyes.

"You're going to get yourself killed," she said softly. "Chasing after enemy soldiers. Offering them... whatever this is." She gestured vaguely between them. "The war doesn't care about your noble gestures. It will chew you up and spit you out, and no one will remember your name."

Another step toward them. Close enough now to touch, if she dared. "I remember your name."

The confession slipped out before she could stop it, raw and honest in a way she hadn't been since... since ever. She remembered their name. Remembered their face. Remembered every encounter, every glance, every moment when the war had seemed to shrink to just the space between them.

"And that's why you have to go," she continued, her voice strengthening with resolve. "Because if you stay, if you keep looking at me like that, I won't be able to..." She trailed off, unable to articulate the terrifying truth. I won't be able to choose him over you.

The bomb ticked. Forty-two minutes. Sarah reached out, her fingers brushing against their sleeve for just a moment, a touch so brief it might have been imagined. Then she pulled back, stepping away, retreating behind the wall of her duty.

"The bomb will detonate in forty-one minutes. You have time to warn your people, if you hurry." She turned back to the access panel, forcing her hands to still, forcing her voice to steady. "Tell Kamille... tell him I'm sorry about the ice cream. It was a nice gesture. But this is where I belong."

---

She didn't watch them leave. She couldn't. But she felt the moment they were gone, felt the space where their presence had been suddenly empty, like a limb removed. The control room felt colder. Darker. The bomb's soft ticking seemed louder now, counting down not just to destruction, but to the moment when she would become, irrevocably, the person Master Paptimus needed her to be.

Sarah closed her eyes and saw their face. Come with us. "I can't," she whispered to the empty room.

But for the first time since meeting Paptimus Scirocco, she wasn't sure if that was true.

The bomb ticked on. Forty minutes. And somewhere in the darkness of Von Braun's port, Sarah Zabiarov completed her mission, planted her bomb, and tried very hard not to think about open hands and impossible invitations and the name she would carry with her into the void.