Chapter 2 - Loni Garvey - NewType Warrior

Damn. She was bad.

You were holed up in your temporary quarters—bare steel, a cot, no warmth, just four walls the crew had sequestered for your use. A metal sink in the corner. A mirror screwed into the wall with bolts that probably hadn't been tightened in years. You stood in front of it now, peeling back your flight suit with one hand, the other fishing for the thick bandage at your side.

"Ah... fucker," you hissed through your teeth as you tugged it.

Two fingers pressed the bandage down, pinching it tighter. The pain bloomed like heat from a lighter, but you welcomed it. Suffering reminded you that you were still here, still in the fight. You crammed the edge of the bandage under a worn baseball cap and tugged it down over your brow.

Next came the uniform.

Worker's pants, blue and stiff with starch. Heavy brown boots. A white wife-beater that hugged your ribs, a brown jacket tossed over it—standard EDF issue, logos practically screaming their presence. Fitting, given what you were posing as. Not that you gave a damn.

You flexed once in the mirror, caught your own reflection with a thin, grim smile. You looked like trouble. Good.

You crouched, reached under the cot you'd barely gotten an hour's sleep on, and dragged out your duffel. It landed on the floor with a dull thump. You unzipped it. The green glow met your eyes—paper stacks, dense as bricks. Money. Real money.

You grabbed a wad, thick enough to choke on, and held it to your ear like a phone.

"Hello? Yeah. It's for me," you muttered with a grin, before tossing it back into the bag. You slung the duffel over your shoulder, adjusted the cap, and slid the door aside.

That's when you stopped cold.

Loni stood there.

But this wasn't the same Zeon-clad soldier you'd argued with yesterday. This was a woman dressed like a local. A thin cloth draped loosely over her dark hair, a flowing skirt brushing her knees. Her sleeves covered her arms in layers that fluttered like breath in the wind. She looked like she belonged under the sun, walking through sand dunes, not inside the cold guts of a warship.

You looked her up and down—slowly. She hugged her arms across her chest, brows furrowed.

"Why are you smiling like that?" she asked, eyes sharp.

You let out a slow whistle. "Nothing…" you said, dragging the word out as your grin widened. You turned, sauntering past her down the hallway.

Loni stayed where she was for a beat, her back brushing against the ship's steel walls. Her eyes followed you, wary, then she exhaled hard and pushed off the bulkhead. A small white linen bag was slung over her shoulder.

She narrowed her eyes at your back. "Time to leave," she said. Her voice sounded different now. Like sandpaper. Like wind over dunes. The desert in her bones.

"Bet," you called over your shoulder, already walking away.

She fell in behind you, footsteps light but steady.

As the two of you navigated the corridors of the ship, she kept sneaking glances at you—curious, maybe a little guarded.

"So... what exactly is the plan?" she asked finally.

You shrugged. "You're just meant to support me during recon."

You rapped the side of your duffel in rhythm, each thump echoing softly in the corridor. "We've got some kind of party. Or maybe it's a casino thing? Point is, there's an informant there. We make the handoff."

"Party?" she repeated, her fingers pressing against the bridge of her nose like she was already fed up.

"What?" you laughed, stepping backward a little to watch her reaction. "Zeon girls don't know how to party?"

She rolled her eyes, slowly, deliberately—an elegant disdain honed by experience. "I've been to enough of my father's business soirées. But I don't think the Federation capital is going to be that kind of party." Her tone curved into something dry and smug. "So what is this, exactly? I'm your plus one?"

You smirked and waved her off. "…Act cool. Play it natural. We just have to make the handoff. Once we do, the informant gives me the proper coordinates."

"For what?" Loni asked, her voice quiet but pointed.

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you pushed through the next threshold into the hangar bay. Your boots clanged against the grated catwalk, echoing off the wide steel walls. You came to the railing and leaned into it, staring ahead like the thing you were about to mention might come to life if you looked hard enough.

Loni moved beside you, her native garb swaying softly. Her teal eyes reflected the dull overhead light, catching a hint of mischief as she squinted out toward the center of the hangar.

"…Gundam," she murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

"Yes. Gundam," you echoed. Your smirk returned, sharper now, tinged with pride. Your eyes locked on the faceplate—the V-fin shadowed in gray. Waiting.

The two of you stood in silence for a moment. The mobile suit in front of you was painted a subdued military gray, with narrow yellow striping lining the vents, ports, and around its transformable joints. Where most Zeta units were sleek, this one was broad—bulky in the shoulders and boosters, armored thick around the thrusters. The eyes were dark. Deactivated. But they still looked dangerous.

Loni leaned on the railing beside you. "…And this suit, it transforms?"

"Waverider mode," you muttered. The words came out slow, almost like a spell. "We'll shoot out of the lift from the side of the ship. Then we'll burn across the desert floor."

You didn't look at her. Your eyes stayed glued to the machine.

Loni, however, turned to it with a sudden flash of irritation. "What a disgusting name," she spat. "Only the Feddies could name something so stupid—'Gundam.'" Her voice clicked at the end, lips twisted in a sneer shaped by years of contempt.

You sighed and leaned deeper into the rail. "Does it really matter?" you asked. You turned to face her. Her eyes had already found yours.

You kept going. "Like, honestly. Who cares if we're using our enemy's machines against—"

She smirked. That stopped you cold.

"Relax," she said, her tone now laced with teasing. "I didn't need a lecture."

Was she... was she flirting with you now? You weren't sure. But it made something stir.

"Come on," you said, jerking your head toward the stairs. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Her smirk deepened as she fell in behind you, her feet light against the metal grating. The hangar echoed with the rhythm of your shared footsteps.

You tapped your earpiece as you moved toward the lift. "Captain Zimmerman, everything reporting in order?"

The static clicked once, then his voice bled through. "Everything's green and clear."

You nodded and stepped onto the rising platform with Loni beside you. The lift groaned, then rose fast—wind rushing past your ears as you were carried upward toward the Gundam's chest, steel and smoke all around you.

You blinked hard, rubbed at your eyes. "What should I be expecting in this city…?"

The lift clanked to a stop.

Zimmerman's voice returned, slower now, heavier. "It's to be expected. This is your first time on Earth, correct?" A pause. "And I imagine your first time stepping foot in the Federation capital."

You sighed, dragging your hands down your face, feeling the day already wearing thin across your skin. "I've got an idea of what to expect, but honestly…" Your voice dipped lower. Slower. "I really just…"

"Rely on Loni," Zimmerman interrupted—like it was the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

His voice crackled in your ear, but the impact was clean. You froze.

Loni turned to you, head tilted, expression unreadable—but the look in her eyes said it all. See? Even he gets it.

"Y-yeah… of course…" was all you could manage to mutter before the lift gave its last lurch, locking into place in front of the Zeta's open cockpit.

You cleared your throat, gesturing to the side with mock gallantry. "Ladies first…"

Loni didn't smile. Her eyes flicked to your face, then to the cockpit, and she brushed past you without a word. The way her mouth tightened told you she didn't care for the tone—or maybe, she did care. Too much.

You followed her into the cockpit and blinked.

"There's only one seat," she said, flatly.

"Of course there is," you muttered, more to yourself than to her. You slid in, gripping the controls. The dash flickered to life beneath your fingers, a steady hum rising as the Zeta began to wake. You grabbed the comm unit.

"Zeta Plus, ready to sortie!" you shouted, the familiar thrill tightening your chest.

Outside, engineers scrambled to clear the hangar. The Gundam's feet groaned across the deck as it lumbered toward the launch chute, metal clanging with each heavy step.

"What are you still waiting for?" you asked, glancing back.

Loni just stood there, frozen. Her face betrayed her—wide-eyed and flushed red. Then she blinked, snapped herself out of it, and muttered something under her breath. She reached for the cockpit's interior handrail.

"I am in position. I am… ready to be shot out," she said stiffly.

"Excellent, foreigner…" came the dry voice over the radio, followed by a countdown. "Thirty seconds…"

You could hear it tick in your ear. You could feel the tension build in your spine.

Then Loni moved again.

She seized the top of the pilot's seat and lowered herself down slowly, carefully, until her weight settled onto your lap.

You gulped.

No use pretending otherwise—your body had already betrayed you. You clutched the controls, knuckles whitening, trying not to react, trying to keep yourself still.

Her hair wasn't in a full bun like before—just gathered loosely under that desert sash. Black strands spilled freely around her shoulders, brushing your chin. It smelled like wind and spice and something else you couldn't name.

She'd dressed for the sun. A light sash draped loosely across her head and neck, but her dark hair fell out in waves behind her. Not a hijab—more like a travel wrap. Modest, maybe, but not for your nerves.

And she smelled amazing.

"H-how can a military girl smell so good…" The words slipped out, not even a whisper. A thought you hadn't meant to share.

"What was that?" Loni asked, her tone sharp as she glanced back, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing!" you barked. "Ready to sortie!"

"Ai, what the hell!" barked the voice on the radio. "You're not cleared to—!"

But you didn't wait. Your hands slammed the controls forward.

The Gundam's engines screamed to life. You and Loni were crushed back as the thrust engaged, hurling the suit down the catapult.

The hangar vanished behind you. In its place came the blinding flash of desert light. The Zeta burst into open air, the sand below you like rippling silk. The horizon exploded with heatwaves. Your vision blurred. You were weightless, rising fast, trailing a plume of dust behind the Zeta's burning thrusters.

The sky greeted you with blue so bright it burned. Clouds rolled in soft patches across the heavens.

Loni reached up and pressed her hand to the cockpit glass.

She didn't speak.

Those teal eyes of hers—those unmistakable Newtype eyes—followed a flock of birds as they swept past the Gundam in a sudden swirl. She watched them until they vanished into the light.

"…you think you saw it yet?" you mumbled, voice low as the frame of the Gundam shook around you. Loni turned her head halfway—just enough to catch a sliver of her face. Like the edge of a waning moon, you could only see one eye: that piercing teal, peeking through her veil.

You flicked a switch, and the transformation began. Metal plates folded in, joints locking, limbs retracting with industrial grace. A low mechanical groan rolled through the suit as the Zeta Plus contorted, shifting from humanoid form into something sleeker—an arrowhead of death streaking across the sky.

Waverider mode engaged.

You slammed the pedal.

The thrusters roared to life.

Loni was thrown back into your lap with a startled yelp—high-pitched, sharp, and unmistakably feminine. Not the disciplined, rehearsed tone of a soldier. That was her. Real. Stripped of ceremony and steel.

The Gundam screamed forward, carving through the atmosphere. The boosters flared azure, cleaving through the sky with enough force to peel apart the air itself.

Higher…

The machine climbed. You pressed in further, forcing altitude. The cockpit rattled violently. Every bone in your body felt the pressure.

"High altitude warning. Atmospheric pressure! Atmospheric pressure!" the automated voice repeated in a synthetic shriek.

You could barely think. Loni was bouncing slightly with the vibrations—her weight still centered on your lap, her hips shifting just enough to turn your concentration into a battlefield of its own. Face burning, hands locked on the controls, you sucked in a shaky breath. You needed to finish the climb. Now.

The stick jerked slightly in your grip. You held on, adjusted pitch, and brought the Gundam level. Slowly, steadily, the trembling dulled. A long breath left your chest as the violent shaking eased into a steady hum.

The Zeta soared, slicing above the clouds. A perfect arc. Cruising altitude reached.

Below, the desert burned like a sea of gold. Above, the sky arched in quiet cathedral-blue. Sunlight glanced off the Gundam's armor—military gray streaked with silver and yellow. It caught in the frame's angular shadows, painting the machine in a brutal kind of beauty.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath was still heavy. Your cheeks still burned.

"L-Loni… you good?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

She turned again—that same half-profile, veil shifting with her motion. Her face was streaked with a deep red flush. She didn't meet your eyes.

You could feel it now. The crawl of dread across your back like spider legs.

God. Did she feel it?

"…I'm fine," she said, flatly.

You resisted the urge to groan. If your hands had been free, you would've buried your face in them.

Of all the ways to ruin a first solo sortie with a girl like her, this had to be the worst. You knew the climb would be rough, but not like this…

And now?

Now, you were stuck.

Four, maybe five hours in this cockpit, with her body pressed just close enough to haunt your every breath.

The silence crept in and nested like dust in a forgotten room. Loni stared straight ahead, posture rigid. Her legs pressed tight together. Her back straight as steel. Her mouth hadn't moved in over twenty minutes. Neither had yours.

And this… this was torture.

You swallowed hard, sighed again. It wasn't just the embarrassment. It was the quiet. The weight of it. The kind that settles deep in the chest and doesn't let go.

You shifted slightly—just enough to stretch your arm forward—and your hand brushed her shoulder. Barely. Just a feather's width of contact.

She flinched.

Not visibly, but you felt it. The tension. Like a current running between your spines.

You didn't say anything.

Instead, your hand slid past her shoulder and reached for the comm switch. You twisted the dial, careful, slow. The static buzzed, and then…

"…Preparations for the day of the Federation Capital's annual anniversary. A hundred years, surviving countless wars, and this desert is always burning!" The voice crackled over the radio, charged with static and smugness, like a man too proud to shut up.

Loni tilted her chin up, her lip curling in disdain. "Federation dogs…" she hissed.

You felt it in your stomach immediately. This is a bad idea.

The broadcast went on. "Man, what a great day, Bill. In just a couple of days, we're gonna have ourselves a carnival! One hundred years—and we deserve it!"

Through the dim cockpit reflection, you could see Loni's face twist into a sneer. She didn't just hate them—she looked like she might break something. Her hands clenched at her thighs. You could see it: that moment just before a strike.

"…Don't punch it," you muttered, almost reflexively.

She didn't respond. But you felt her glare through your reflection. Beneath the fold of her hijab, her eyes darkened—black oil catching fire. Her whole body tense, like a bowstring drawn.

You sighed. Quiet. Defeated. And leaned across her again, fingers brushing along the metal to reach the dial. This time, she didn't recoil.

The radio scrambled—static dancing, voices stumbling over each other. A chorus of absurdity followed: some infomercial about moisture-wicking socks, a sultry woman offering "perfectly legal" massages, all of it colliding with speeches and songs about the Federation's "glorious century."

Loni's face was still, but her eyes… her eyes had gone wild.

"Damn Federation dogs," she snapped, her voice sharp, rising. Her eyes were ringed red now, like they'd been staring directly into the sun. "They'll see… they'll all see soon enough. Sieg Zeon. They'll remember. The sons and daughters of the ones they murdered… they'll remember the fear they felt during the One Year War. And they'll remember who we are."

Her voice cracked with passion, with something dangerously close to grief. It hung there, choking the cockpit like smoke.

You gave a nervous chuckle—awkward, soft—but didn't meet her gaze. You just kept flipping the dial.

And then…

"…she's an easy lover…"

The voice was smooth, playful. The beat followed—jazzy, rhythmic, a pulse that ran clean through the steel of the Gundam. For a second, neither of you spoke.

Loni blinked, caught off guard. Her eyes were still wide, but one brow arched.

You bobbed your head with the music. "Now that's what I'm talking about…" you said, letting out a low whistle. Even Loni cracked something like a tired smile, small and fleeting.

"You've gotta admit," you added, grinning, "the song slaps."

A deep sigh left her. Not annoyed—just… tired. And maybe a little amused.

But before she could speak, you cut in: "This song was definitely not created anywhere near the Federation's founding year."

That made her smirk. A sly one. Her eyes closed half-lidded, and a playful scoff left her lips. "Well, maybe you do have decent taste in music."

You laughed, and for the first time since takeoff, the silence that followed wasn't suffocating. It didn't weigh like a stone in your chest.

No, now it was something softer.

Loni sat still, listening. The song floated in the space between you. Her reflection flickered on the glass—sharp teeth, white and perfect, a flash of pink lips against warm, malted skin. Even with the hijab framing her face and the spill of black hair unraveling from it… she was beautiful.

Undeniably.

A quiet moment passed.

"What's the song about?" Loni asked finally, her voice a little smaller now. "I-I don't fully understand it…"

For a moment, you just listened, letting the lyrics wash over you, head bobbing slightly with the beat.

"He's basically…" you tapped your fingers against the console, searching for the words. "I think he's trying to warn his buddy not to fall in love with a girl."

Loni's eyes widened. A smile curled across her face—the kind that said she already knew the fire alarm was going to go off, and she was just waiting for everyone else to start panicking.

You went on. "She's an easy lover… she'll take your heart out while you're on your knees," you quoted, the words lazy on your tongue. "He's saying she's easy to fall for, but she'll wreck you. The guy—he keeps going on about how other dudes warned him, how she's got a history. He's not even surprised. Just… resigned."

Loni chuckled under her breath. "That's a bit high and mighty, don't you think?"

You stared at her. Deadpan. "…The way the guy talks, it's like he's speaking from experience. Probably because he keeps getting involved with women like that."

You erupted into laughter. Wild, unrestrained, like the whole cockpit had just turned into a comedy club. "Man, that's quite the claim. But hey—you said it: takes one to know one."

Loni rolled her eyes, smirking despite herself. "Only in the Federation would they glorify women like that," she said, her tone sharp as broken glass. She shook her head, still staring out toward the horizon where the sun bled over the sands. "That's the issue with them. They promote decadence. It infects everything. Their people, their systems… It's why the Federation's become a dying, spiritless beast."

You nodded, slowly at first, then more firmly. "Now that's something I might just agree with you Zeon types on," you said, casting a look her way. "The Federation's had its time. That's why we're chasing Laplace's Box, right?"

Loni blinked at you, eyes narrowing with interest.

You continued. "The Federation will fall. And whatever crawls out of its ashes… they'll have to face more than just the New Decides. They'll have to deal with Zeon too."

Her eyes lit up—just a flicker. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," she said with a sly grin.

You grinned back. "About time you realized I was on your side."

"You're not on my side," she said flatly.

"Fuck the Federation," you declared, dead serious.

That drew a short, sharp laugh from her. "Yes. Fuck the Federation."

Her voice softened. "Zeon's hatred… it's not just bitterness. It's something deeper. My mother—she… she died fighting them." Her voice wavered for just a moment. Her hand rose to her face, fingers dragging lightly across her cheek, like she was trying to touch a scar that wasn't there.

She drew a long, rattling breath.

"One day, I'll be like her. A Newtype warrior."

Your eyes widened. "Loni—don't talk like that. Don't talk like you're going to die."

She turned to you and gave a crooked smile, warm and sharp all at once. "You think I want to follow her into an early grave?"

She chuckled again, and the tension in the cockpit eased just a bit. "No. I want to feel what she felt. When she fought. I want to know what true space feels like—free, unbroken. I have far bigger plans than dying on a battlefield."

You let out a breath. "Good to hear. What kind of plans?"

She gave you that smirk again. "I plan to have ten children."

You choked. "T-Ten?" You laughed, a little too hard, eyes wide. "Is that… is that including twins or are you planning on taking this really seriously?"

Loni raised her nose. "You think it is something to be joked around about…but the greatest victory that a woman of a dying race, of a dying ideology can do, is create more and more children."

You smiled and laughed—not at her, but gently, letting her see that you understood. Because you were a NewType too. And on that level, where souls brushed like drifting dust in a zero-gravity hull, you could feel it—why Loni, after the death of her mother and the traumas that had left her heart brittle and hard, would want to bring so many children into the world. To rebuild something that had been shattered.

"That's going to be a lot of work," you stated, grinning faintly.

Loni rolled her eyes. "…Parenthood is a lot of work, whether there is one, or ten. As long as I give them love, care, and attention… as long as the man that loves me is willing—" Her voice softened then. Graceful. Feminine. The steel of the Zeon soldier stripped away, revealing the young woman beneath. Not the warrior in a hijab, not the rebel with blood on her hands, but just Loni. Teal-eyed, vulnerable, and full of dreams.

You waited a moment for that. "True that, Loni. True that," you said.

And she smiled.

But the moment was shattered like glass under a boot.

"Unidentified Mobile Suit, bearing east by northeast," came the voice across the comms. Sharp. Federation-trained. "This is Lieutenant Faulkner of Task Force Damascus. You are in violation of Federation airspace. Identify yourself immediately."

Loni's smile vanished. She straightened up, her fingers brushing your shoulder, tension like cold metal along her spine.

You heard them before you saw them—the howling roar of high-speed thrusters, the mechanical whine of transformation systems engaging.

Six ReZELs.

In Waverider mode, sleek and cutting through the haze, drawing a perfect arc around your position. They had you boxed in.

"Dammit…" you hissed, flicking your console and dragging your suit back into a holding pattern. "Just a patrol, huh?"

"What do we do?" Loni asked again, quieter now, but her voice steadier than before.

"This is your last warning," the voice barked again. "Disengage your weapons, lower altitude, and divert to the designated airstrip. This is a lawful order under Federation Code 31-A."

One of the ReZELs surged forward—no hesitation—firing a warning shot that screamed just past your port side. It scorched the sand beneath and left your HUD flashing with alerts.

You dipped the suit low, one hand guiding the throttle while the other steadied Loni against your chest. Her hand caught your vest, holding fast.

"They're not gonna let us go," you muttered.

"They're afraid," Loni said. Her voice had changed again—NewType clarity. "They're trying too hard to sound in control. He's scared."

Another voice came through—this one more furious.

"Surrender your weapons! This is your last goddamn chance! If you do not comply, we will use lethal force! Disengage now!"

You cast a glance toward Loni. Her teal eyes were wide, sharp, lit with that strange shimmer that only NewTypes had when the world slowed down for them.

She looked at you.

And she nodded.

You took a deep breath. "Alright," you said into the comms. "We surrender."

In one breathless, seamless motion, your suit folded mid-flight into Mobile Suit mode. Armor slammed into place with a mechanical scream. You yanked the yoke, pulling into a vertical roll as your beam rifle snapped forward.

You squeezed the trigger.

One of the ReZELs lit up in a ball of burning white light. The explosion smeared across the sky like a burst sun. Shards of its wings spiraled off into the clouds.

"Hostile! Hostile! Engage all targets!" someone screamed over the comm.

Loni clung to your harness, but her head twisted left. "Two closing in high!"

You flipped the suit backwards, pushing into a reverse spin. Beams arced past you, too slow, too wide.

You let your instincts lead. No—Loni's.

She whispered again. "Your left—get under them."

You obeyed, diving with a sickening spiral as two ReZELs overshot you, turning in unison to correct. You looped behind them and fired.

One went up in fire. The second veered off, wounded, smoke trailing from its engine vent.

Loni didn't speak—but you could feel her. Her presence flaring like a beacon just behind your eyes, guiding your aim, pulling you where you needed to be a split second before it happened.

"Three more," you growled, thrusters flaring.

The ReZELs spread out into formation, fast and crisp, like they'd done this in sims a hundred times.

But sims weren't real. And they weren't flying with a NewType whispering war in their blood.

"They'll try to encircle," Loni breathed. "We break high."

You shot straight up, the G-forces punching through your chest, desert spinning below you like some pale dream. The ReZELs followed, fire lancing all around.

You twisted, shield raised. A beam hit it head-on, rattling your cockpit, sparks flashing across your HUD.

Loni braced you. Her voice cut through again—"Now! Right one is exposed!"

You turned hard, zeroed in on the one straggling too far from the triangle.

One burst. One shot.

Dead center.

It exploded like fireworks. The other two screamed away, retreating into the clouds.

You chased them.

They banked and split, forcing you to pick one. You chose the leader—his heat signature thicker, panic heavier in your head.

You fired again and again. He dodged, skilled, but not enough.

Your rifle clipped his thruster. He spun out. Emergency flare deployed. You let him go.

The last ReZEL turned tail, disengaging without hesitation. Coward or survivor—you didn't care.

Silence returned to the air.

You leveled off, still hundreds of feet above the shifting dunes, your Gundam framed against the stars and dust-thin moonlight.

Loni rested her head against your back. Her breath was shallow, but steady.

"You okay?" you asked.

She smiled against your flight suit. "I'm not letting go."

You smiled, your arms lowering, the rifle dimming in your grip.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Up there, high above the war-torn earth, the sky was wide open. And for a second, you believed she might just get her dream after all.