She fired her attitude thrusters, spinning the Ball like a discus thrower, and released the boulder.
That was three months ago. Now, in November of UC 0079, she found herself staring at a different kind of grave: the lunar surface around the Zeon stronghold of Granada.
She killed her Ball’s reactor and went dark.
The explosion threw the Ball clear. Aris’s cockpit cracked, venting atmosphere. Her ears popped. Her vision swam. As she blacked out, she heard Milos’s voice, faint and terrified.
She was a pilot now. Not of a sleek, powerful Gundam, but of the Federation’s workhorse coffin: the RB-79 Ball.
As the Zaku turned its back to search for Milos, Aris fired her emergency cold-gas thrusters. The Ball launched silently, like a fist from the dark. She slammed into the Zaku’s back, her claw arms latching onto its backpack thrusters.
The Zaku pilot thrashed. He slammed his mobile suit against the crater wall, trying to crush her. Armor buckled. Alarms screamed in Aris’s cockpit. But she held on. And she pulled.
He sat down on the edge of her cot. “They’re giving you a commendation. ‘For extraordinary initiative and bravery in the face of the enemy.’ It’s a piece of ribbon.”
“Three left,” Aris whispered. “Three left, three left…”
The Zaku pilot paused. The battlefield was silent. The fires were dying. He saw the crippled Ball (Darius) and one surviving Ball (Milos) fleeing in the opposite direction. But the third one—the one that had thrown the rock—was gone. No heat signature. No comms. Just a ghost.