[SENTINEL] Prologue: The Guys

“Are you so afraid of being alone?
Are you afraid of being ignored by others?
You're the only one who thinks that.
Everyone cares about you.”

Part.1 Upheaval
Prologue: The Guys

　A half-century has passed since humanity began moving its burgeoning population into the artificial space cities known as space colonies. Here, sentiments in favor of independence from Earth arose, exploited by those who harbored ambitions of conquering the Earth Sphere, and thus ignited a great tragedy. The conflict, known as the One Year War, was the result of dealing with those twisted sentiments. Five years have passed since then.
　It is now Universal Century 0085.

　The unmistakable scent of fresh grass filled the air, a smell so authentic it couldn't be mistaken for the odorless, synthetic vinyl turf that so many people had come to mistake for the real deal. This verdant patch of earth boasted actual soil beneath its roots, a rich blend of brown and black that lent credence to its authenticity.
　This particular patch of land sat nestled in the corner of a military installation, where two men, who appeared to be pilots of Earth Federation Forces' mobile suits, lay on the lush, green carpet. Their figures were silhouetted against the towering form of a GM, a massive humanoid combat machine, in the repair bay.
　"Real soil and grass. It's amazing how much recovery has been achieved in just five years," marveled Stole Mannings, his sullen features betraying a hint of awe. Tearing up a tuft of the turf in his right hand, he held it over his companion's face, the expression upon the man's face a mirror of his own melancholy. Then, with an uncharacteristic gesture, he scattered the tuft of grass across the man's form.
　"U-ghh...?" The man with the upside-down triangular face brushed the grass off his face with his hand and then dramatically sat up, his rigid upper body moving with a flourish.
　"Sorry, Tosh. Didn't mean to wake you," said Mannings, padding Tosh Cray's hip as he spoke. As he did, grass fell from Cray's pilot suit, tousling his brown hair.
　"What's the big deal with real soil and grass?" Cray asked, yawning. He looked genuinely annoyed.
　"Even if you have the real thing, it's still fake as hell here. This tin can will never be a real planet," he scoffed, gesturing toward the horizon. The horizon formed a gentle curve, a city beyond the artificial clouds forming a distant barrier.
　A giant cylindrical structure floating in the cosmic sea, a space colony. It has been almost half a century since humanity began to live in such a place. This was a space island in the region of space known as Side 1.
　"Tosh, you're always like that. You're never satisfied unless it's the real thing. Your upcoming transfer is so typical of you," Mannings remarked.
　"The unit is for bonafide pilots. I thought you'd volunteer too."
　"The Instructor Corps? I'm not qualified to be an instructor," Mannings said, glancing at his right leg.
　"Right. I forgot you're still--"
　"I can't shake the feeling that it's not my leg. It just doesn't feel right. But maybe one day, even this synthetic leg will become the real deal." he mused, causing Cray's expression to darken slightly.
　"Don't worry. Nothing against you."
　With synthetic organic components and a mechanical skeleton, his prosthetic leg appeared and functioned like a real human leg, but it wasn't Mannings'. Instead, painful memories of the One Year War seven years ago came flooding back.
　"It's thanks to your right leg that I'm still here today. I won't forget that," he said, thinking to himself that his sentiments towards space colonies mirrored those towards Mannings' prosthetic leg. Cray felt guilty for Mannings, but he was convinced that imitations lack a soul and could never truly become the real thing.
　"Stole, you plan on staying in the military, right?" Cray asked.
　"Yeah, there's no other job for me. If they relegate me to a desk job, then I'll consider retiring. It's only a matter of time. I'm getting too old to be an active mobile suit pilot," he said with a weak smile.
　"If you ever change your mind, apply for the Instructor Corps. There's still plenty of work there."
　Just then, a shrill chirp chimed from the chest pocket of Cray's pilot suit.
　"Damn it, I need to catch the shuttle. I've wasted precious downtime with your somber conversation!" he exclaimed.
　He quickly stood up and, with a wry smile, gave Mannings a quick pat on the shoulder.
　"See you around..."
　He left Mannings alone and headed for the elevator to the spaceport. Their goodbyes were casual, just raising their hands lightly.
　Neither of them had ever imagined that they would eventually find themselves on opposite sides or that this would be their final farewell.

　Thmp thmp thmp
　The electronic and synthetic sounds imitating getting shot up suddenly blared in the cockpit of the Wyvern space fighter, forcing Ryuu Roots' gaze to dart around the cockpit. But there was only the infinite expanse of space, as black as his own eyes.
　"You've been shot down, Cadet Roots," came the instructor's voice over a mike garbled by interference. At the same time, the red text of "RETURN TO BASE" flashed across the display in front of him.
　"How many times have I told you the cardinal rule of space combat is to find the enemy first?! I swear you are dumber than dirt!"
　The ass chewing came from the instructor's craft as he came up from Roots' rear and brought himself in line to his right.
　"Ah, piss off, Mr. high and mighty," Ryuu muttered the curse under his breath. He could see the instructor's calm demeanor through the canopy, and that made him feel like he was being mocked.
　"It's not like I died anyway. This ain't no real freakin' battle, man!"
　With a jerk to the Wyvern's control stick, Roots forced his fighter into a climb, rolling to the right to take up a position behind the instructor's own. Despite being outside the Earth's atmosphere, the space fighter's maneuver training was modeled after being in the atmosphere.
　"Pew pew pew pew!" He mimicked the sound of gunfire like he was shooting the instructor's fighter down.
　"You shouldn't let your guard down, Mr. Instructor! What would you do if the enemy had better ballistic resistance and just pretended to be shot down?!"
　With his entirely unconvincing rhetoric, Roots rocketed right over the instructor's fighter, nearly clipping it.
　"Ya jackass, someone like you is gonna end up—"
　But Roots' Wyvern had made a steep dive down for the Earth's ecliptic plane, not even bothering to hear the last of his instructor's curses.
"Ya damn well better believe I'm not gonna let anyone beat me!"

　"That's certainly some confidence you have there, Cadet Ryuu Roots."
　Following their mock space battle, Roots had been summoned by the base commander. The Commander plopped down in a leather chair and glared up at him from beneath furrowed brows, looking up at him like he was every little bit a violent, small-time thug.
　They were at the Federation Forces 3rd Training Base on the moon.
　"Look. Every society has rules. That's doubly so for an organization like the military, and those rules are what govern it."
　"Yes, sir!" was his reply, but the sixteen-year-old boy from a remote space colony at Side 7 thought that those rules were more often than not the result of the selfish logic of adults, or rather, by Earthnoids.
　The Commander tossed a stack of papers onto the oak table, causing them to land with a thwack before he continued.
　"These are your distinguished 'achievements' from over the last year. We have six counts of disobeying a superior officer, two incidents involving injury, nine counts of disobeying orders, and as many as fourteen counts of disciplinary infractions. If we weren't so short on men everywhere, I would've discharged your ass long ago. The trouble is, your marks from combat training aren't all that bad, damn near excellent if I'm being honest."
　The base commander ran a hand over his thinning gray hair.
　"You're… how do I put this? Ah, yes, you're too damn much for one and not enough for two. The military is an organization that is built on teamwork. You'd best remember that."
　Teamwork? My ass! What have you Earthnoids ever done for the pioneering Spacenoids? The only ones we can trust are ourselves. My ass is outta here just as soon as I master mobile suit piloting skills.
　"Begging your pardon, Commander, but I'm aware of at least one instance where a single pilot and a mobile suit influenced the course of a war. I'm confident I could become that good of a pilot and—"
　"What it boils down to is you wanting to become a hero even though you lack the ability," the Commander interrupted him before continuing, "Confidence and a thirst for fame are all well and good, but that alone isn't enough for you to survive a war."
　Roots felt a tinge of anger after realizing that he'd been seen through.
　"Winning in combat is all that matters. WINNING. To hell with being friendly with Earthnoids! As long as I'm freaking strong, we're golden! Real wars don't even exist nowadays, ya fucking balding bastard!"
　The base commander delivered a swift slap to the defiant Roots, his black hair flailing about wildly.
　"What the hell?" Roots asked, recovering and bracing himself as the base commander held out a document to him.
　"Transfer orders. They may say, 'A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men,' but I hate every last thing about your rotten disposition. At any rate, you've been assigned to a new post. I just wanted to congratulate you."
　"Oh?" Roots let out, snatching the letter from the Commander's hand. "Experimental mobile suit squad? What's this?" It was the first he'd heard of it.
　"Door. Now." the Commander stated bluntly, pointing toward the door of the command room.
　Annoyed that he wasn't assigned to a combat unit, Roots gives a token salute and walks out of the room.
　"I wanna go to war! None of this sim crap! What's wrong with wanting to be a hero?!" he ranted and raved.
　As he listened to the profane outbursts through the door, the Commander let out a deep sigh.
　"Why in God's name was that man selected? I'll be damned if I know how the top brass thinks."

North America, California
Federation Forces 1st Training Base

　As Josh Offshore thrust his sword forward, he felt a sure sense of connection. As he sensed, the third light lit up.
　"Nicely done," his opponent acknowledged, taking a step back.
　Despite the merciless efficiency of guns that fired bullets one after another with the power of gunpowder, Offshore felt a profound allure in swordsmanship. Through the sword, people not only engage in combat, but their personalities collide as well.
　This, he thought, was a true contest. In life, some aspects should not be forsaken based solely on efficiency, he thought. It was an indescribable feeling. Offshore was unaware that this was the emotion known as "longing."
　"Thank you."
　Removing the insect-like white mask and cradling it under his arm, Offshore bowed deeply to his opponent. A bead of sweat trickled down from his forehead.
　"You truly are a prodigy. They say heaven doesn't bestow two gifts, but it seems different for you. You're certainly different from us mere mortals. It's the blood of the prestigious Offshore family."
　His opponent was a martial arts instructor. "You've come a long way."
　Prodigy, genius, good kid... Offshore had grown up surrounded by such praise from adults since his childhood. His decision to enlist in the Federation Forces was not an act of defiance against that environment. On the contrary, experience in military service was an indispensable "qualification" for entering the political world in the future.
　Being a member of the Federation Assembly like his father was just one ornament to ensure smooth progress along the path his father had laid out, leading to the ultimate destination of becoming an assemblyman. For sixteen years since his birth, Offshore had never questioned following that path.
　Even when topics like his father, family, and lineage were brought up, as was the case with today's martial arts instructor, he didn't feel resentful. When he was surrounded by adults, such discussions were customary and inevitable. He merely held the notion that "this is how it is." In that sense, his sensitivity had become dulled.
　"I'd like to challenge you again," Offshore said to the instructor before heading towards the locker room.
　At first glance, the locker room appeared clean, but it was filled with a distinct odor characteristic of youth. Despite the air conditioning, the smell produced by young people could not be eliminated. Inhaling the unpleasant scent created by sweat, dirt, and various secretions, Offshore started changing in front of his locker. A boy from the same group of recruits approached him and, standing next to him, quickly began changing as well.
　"Josh, have you heard?"
　"Heard what?"
　"They're going to announce our assignments tomorrow."
　"Oh, I know," Offshore replied, slipping his arm through the sleeve of his uniform.
　“You're so unphased. I guess it's no big deal when your ideal assignment is pretty much in the bag, thanks to your background."
　The boy tightened the belt of his uniform pants and carried on,
　"I mean, it's a different story for you, right? Coming from a wealthy family and all. Your dad will take care of everything, right?"
　Offshore fixed his hair in the tiny mirror on his locker door, contemplating the boy's candid words. The boy probably came from a space colony, likely a lower social tier. Offshore could empathize with their ambition and drive to move up. However, he thought it wasn't fair to focus that resentment on him or the Offshore family's influence instead of everyone in higher social circles.
　Even the wealthy have their own logic. Not understanding that was simply envy.
　Realizing that Offshore had suddenly gone silent, the boy asked, "Did I upset you?"
　"No, not really." Offshore, who had been raised to genuinely listen to others and never show anger, had no other choice but to answer that way.
　"Josh, are you aiming for a desk job at Jaburo? Or maybe..."
　"It's the Instructor Corps."
　"Really?! The Instructor Corps is not just a training institution for mobile suit combat instructors. It's a full-fledged combat unit! It's the military's pride and joy! You know that, right?"
　"Is that a bad thing?"
　"Don't you think you should reconsider? I mean, you... Haha, nevermind! What made you change your mind?"
　"My mind hasn't changed. There might be a change when I get there. That's all I can say for now."
　The following day, Offshore received his orders appointing him to the Instructor Corps.

　"Student Representative, Eton Heathrow!"
　The dean of students standing next to the podium called his name out loudly.
　Heathrow rose from his front-row seat with perfect posture and calmly made his way to the stairs leading to the stage.
　All eyes were on the young man, said to be the top student since the establishment of the Federation Forces High-Level Military Academy. Heathrow climbed the stairs, each step filled with determination. More than half of the candidates who enrolled at the same time as him had dropped out of this advanced education course.
　Unlike ordinary military academies, the High-Level Military Academy is a school for training senior officers of the Federation Forces. Those who cannot keep up with the demanding educational curriculum are mercilessly weeded out. Naturally, applicants are required to have at least three years of military experience as Federation Forces officers.
　Having cleared such a narrow path at the top, Heathrow undoubtedly has a bright future awaiting him in the Federation Forces.
　On the stage stood the esteemed headmaster of the military academy, Brian Aeno. Known as the "Demon Admiral," he demanded unconditional surrender from Side 3, the space colonies that attacked the Earth Federation government under the name of "Principality of Zeon" during the One Year War. He was known as an ultra-hawkish soldier who advocated for the mobilization of the entire Federation Forces fleet that had been kept in reserve due to the intentions of high-ranking officials within the Federation government and for the thorough destruction of their enemy.
　Even without being told, the admiral's distinct features were apparent in his face: sunken eyes, aquiline nose, tightly knit mouth, bushy eyebrows, and deep furrows between them, reminiscent of a bird of prey. His appointment as the academy's headmaster was a thinly veiled demotion, a result of the Federation government's post-war efforts to purge warmongers from active-duty units.
　However, Aeno was no warmonger. He had merely made the natural argument as a soldier during wartime. Those who knew him and his former subordinates still hoped for his return to an active-duty unit. The usually stoic man wore a smile today, wrinkles and all.
　Heathrow arrived in front of Aeno, turned sharply at a right angle, and offered a crisp salute.
　"Congratulations, Commander Heathrow. I never imagined a green ensign like you would come this far."
　"That green ensign" referred to when Heathrow first served on a ship as a Federation Forces officer on the battleship "Bull Run," where Aeno was captain. Undoubtedly, Aeno held special feelings for Heathrow, emphasizing the word "Commander."
　"Thank you, Admiral. With this, I can finally have my own ship."
　As Heathrow received his diploma from the smiling admiral, he realized for the first time how tense and stoic his face had become. When he attempted to force a smile, his face contorted even further. This, in turn, made the admiral's smile grow even wider. Heathrow felt a touch of awkwardness as he descended the stage, but his heart was already soaring toward a brilliant future.
　After all, there should be nothing left to hinder his future success.

　The green mobile suit, known as the Hi-Zack, pierced the inky darkness, spewing a bluish-white flame from its thruster nozzles. Two more Hi-Zacks trailed closely behind their leader. The Hi-Zack, an evolution of the versatile Zaku mobile suit employed by the Principality of Zeon during the One Year War, had been reimagined for the dawn of a new era.
　Although the mobile suit belonged to the Republic of Zeon, the Federation Forces also deployed a small number as simulated enemy "aggressor" units. Bearing a striking resemblance to the Zaku, seeing the Federation's emblem on the Hi-Zack seemed somewhat out of place.
　Lieutenant Brave Cod, who was in the cockpit of the lead Hi-Zack, deftly rolled the suit to the right, maneuvering its limbs to home in on a colossal floating rock lost in the vacuum. The limbs moved to enable natural attitude control through active mass transfer. In simpler terms, most mobile suits have a humanoid form because the parts corresponding to the arms and legs serve as convenient "rudders" for controlling the posture of the entire unit by utilizing the property that a part of the unit moves in the opposite direction due to the reaction force.
　The asteroid Pezun was once home to a secret research facility of the Principality of Zeon. However, it was seized by the Earth Federation Forces at the end of the One Year War, and now a small Federation Forces unit was stationed there. Zeon's trailblazing mobile suit technology, considered nothing short of miraculous, was still a focus of study and research by the Federation Forces' technical research units, even five years after the war's end.
　"Second Squadron, returning from Combat Space Patrol. Requesting landing instructions."
　What combat patrol? With no enemies left to fight, the word "combat" felt empty to Cod. He toggled the laser communication circuit to Scale 1 (short-range mode), requested instructions from the base, and configured the Integrated Maneuver Propulsion Control, or IMPC, to landing mode. The IMPC was a system that automatically controlled the five basic maneuvers and propulsion for launch, cruise, space combat, landing, and walking. The pilot merely needed to switch between these modes depending on the situation, and the mobile suit would automatically move and adjust its attitude. The Federation Forces had a significant advantage in such control systems thanks to their learning-type computer technology. Inputting the experience data of a skilled pilot was enough for the mobile suit itself to remember and apply it, evolving over time. It was not an exaggeration to call it a "skilled pilot mass-produced system." However, pilots still had to independently respond to actions not found in the data and correct their movements if they were unsatisfied with the data-driven behavior. As a result, the importance of pilots remained unchanged, but the number of things they "had to do" significantly decreased.
　Nevertheless, skilled pilots still needed to supply new data to this system. Those same pilots referred to this system as "Imp," a nod to the system's acronym and the name of a mythical fairy known to corrupt humans. They often regarded it with disdain. Lieutenant Cod was among them.
　"Confirmed. Second Squadron, all units. You are cleared for entry from Bay E3."
　The Hi-Zack circled around to the eastern side of Pezun, using the ecliptic plane as a reference. Approach towers, akin to lighthouses flanking the port entrance, emitted guide lasers. Naturally, these beams were indiscernible to the naked eye. With precision, the mobile suit adhered to this unseen approach vector, automatically adjusting its attitude as it commenced its entry into the port.

IMPC IMPC IMPC IMPC IMPC IMPC IM
　―― ROLLING 000 degrees
　――YAWING 000 degrees
　―― PITCHING 000 degrees
IMPC IMPC IMPC IMPC IMPC IMPC IM

　The indicators on the display before him whirled in rapid succession before finally settling on zero. The once-red circles on the side transformed into a vibrant green. As the reverse thrusters emitted a soft hiss, the mobile suit's speed gradually diminished to a standstill while nearing the port. Slowly raising both hands in a seated-like posture, the mobile suit grasped the braking cables stretched overhead at the entrance of the port, pulling itself in while killing its speed, and the landing was completed.
　As if on cue, maintenance crew scurried over, and the cooling process for the mobile suit began immediately. Cod hardly had to do anything. Glancing back, he saw the braking cable retracting. The second unit was already entering the landing approach phase.
　"Faster with the cooling! The others are waiting!" Cod growled impatiently into the microphone of his normal suit helmet. Naturally, it was set to a general frequency for conversation within the base.
　The cooling process was as slow as ever, he thought. However, cooling the mobile suit was a crucial issue. In due course, the cockpit panel's indicator lights flickered to life, signaling that it was safe to open the hatch. With a hiss of compressed air, the Hi-Zack's chest hatch swung open, and the external noise vanished. The cockpit was pressurized, and the helmet had a mechanism to pick up external sounds, but the spaceport was open to vacuum.
　Cod leaned out of the cockpit and kicked the edge of the hatch to jump out, floating in midair as he drifted toward the catwalk on the second-floor wall. On his way, he caught sight of an unfamiliar mobile suit in the maintenance area of the technical research facility on the other side. When he reached the catwalk, Cod roughly grabbed one of the maintenance crew members, pressing his helmet against theirs to ask about the mobile suit.
　"Hey, what's that mobile suit over there? Is it one of those things that the technical division made from Zeon's designs again?"
　"It seems to be partly based on those, but it's apparently a new model that integrates our own technology," the maintenance worker replied, a hint of apprehension in their voice.
　"From Anaheim?"
　Anaheim referred to Anaheim Electronics, a company that emerged during the One Year War when Zeonic, the primary mobile suit manufacturer for the Zeon forces, was incorporated into the Federation. It had since become the largest mobile suit manufacturer. Typically, after the technical research facility had assessed the old Zeon mobile suit research data obtained at Pezun, it was forwarded to Anaheim Electronics.
　"No, I heard that the tech guys here made it. They said it's based on a plan for Zeon's next-generation mainstay mobile suit that the technical research facility modified. They're calling it the X-series..."
　"X-series?"
　"Yeah..."
　Unbeknownst to Cod, the new mobile suit was christened XEKU-1. As a pilot, Cod was naturally drawn to any new mobile suit he encountered, an inclination similar to that of a young automobile enthusiast eager to try out a new car or motorcycle upon sighting one.
　Cod roughly let go of the maintenance worker and headed for the airlock. After completing the pressurization sequence and entering the living quarters, he removed his helmet. Grasping a handle in the corridor, he headed towards the briefing room. A tall man soon appeared from the opposite end of the corridor, whom Cod recognized as Captain Burt, the base commander at Pezun. Cod offered a brief salute and tried to proceed, but the Captain unexpectedly halted him.
　"Lieutenant Brave Cod, I have your transfer orders."
　Captain Burt handed him a document. It contained the order to transfer him to a newly established unit, the Earth Federation Forces Instructor Corps.
　"The newly established training unit will be stationed at Pezun as their base."
　"Still stuck in space, huh?" thought Cod, clicking his tongue in frustration.
　"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Cod. I'll be returning to Earth before you. After five years, I can finally reunite with my wife and children. The new base commander should arrive sometime this week," said the captain, who was originally assigned as the research and development unit commander.
　"So, does that mean the investigation of Zeon's mobile suit technology is complete? Congratulations. But, what a bummer. I'll be stuck here for who knows how many more years in this desolate place with nothing around. I doubt I'll ever have a family like you, Captain."
　Though Pezun had recreational facilities, it paled in comparison to the cities on Earth, the moon, or the colonies. There was a glaring absence of women. During the war, the Women's Reserve (WAVES) had been utilized, but their numbers had significantly dwindled, with not even female desk workers assigned to frontier garrisons or combat units.
　Women were expected to bear and raise children—a fundamental truth for humanity, especially in a post-war society that had lost so many lives. This reality remained unaltered, even now.
　"Haha, don't be like that. We've left a little something for the Instructor Corps. A new mobile suit, the--"
　"The X-series, is it?"
　"Word gets around quick."
　Cod thought, if they're giving me a new toy, maybe I can endure this a bit longer. It'll be a brief hardship. Just a little while longer... really.

　"Dr. Carroll, the selection of the 'Cheshire Cat' has been successfully completed with the cooperation of all parties involved," said the middle-aged technician to his older colleague as they walked side by side. The two men hurried towards the hangar area where various mobile suits were lined up, their half-mirrored sunglasses gleaming in the harsh Nevada sunlight.
　"Who would've thought Mizu Roots' son would be among the chosen? Perhaps fate is at play with ALICE," mused the older technician known as Carroll. His thoughts drifted to the female technician who died in the explosion accident. She had given her life protecting the "system" as if it were her own child in the blast, the cause of which was still unknown. In a sense, the "system" was her child, brought all the way from a remote space colony to Earth for research, and it wasn't an exaggeration to say that it was an extension of her. The "system" occupied an indispensable position in the Federation Forces' new force enhancement plan. She had devoted herself to the "system's" education, even at the expense of her family life.
　The "system" in question was a machine with the ability to think independently. After losing numerous human resources in the One Year War, the Federation Forces planned to introduce a system built on the IMPC system to fill the gap left by lost pilots. The advanced logic and non-logic recognizing device called ALICE (Advanced Logistic & Inconsequence Cognizing Equipment) enabled the full automation of mobile suits. By connecting this device to a "core" of standard learning computers, it could perform all combat and mobility tasks autonomously. This would allow for the formation of unmanned mobile suit units, leading to a reduction in personnel.
　In order to adapt ALICE to human logic, someone needed to teach her first. That was her role in providing basic education, which was similar to educating a naive child. Human children, too, rely heavily on their mothers for early education. Fathers become truly essential when children reach adolescence. Consequently, a woman was necessary. ALICE was trained as an artificial intelligence for combat. Once she completed her basic education, ALICE was, in human terms, entering adolescence. Yes, ALICE required a father figure, but not just any father. He had to serve as ALICE's lover, brother, and younger sibling and an irrational entity that couldn't be judged by common sense. In other words, he needed to be a dangerous man, far from the stereotypical male.
　In simpler terms, ALICE needed to become a "fine woman" capable of understanding a man's whims and offering advice accordingly. Otherwise, she would either become a promiscuous woman who obeys everything the man says or a self-centered woman who insists only on her own opinions. The irrational man who would bring "adolescence" to ALICE was given the code name "Cheshire Cat" after a fictional character that appeared in a certain fantasy novel, known for disappearing with a sly grin.
　Young girls often don't end up with their first loves. ALICE was destined from the start to "marry" the data of expert pilots. Having been nurtured as a "fine woman," she was meant to be fed combat experience data from skilled pilots and eventually transforming into a Valkyrie (the goddesses of battle in Norse mythology, said to guide the souls of warriors to Valhalla). However, when ALICE reached completion and unmanned weaponry was introduced, massive personnel reductions took place, creating a highly unfavorable situation for high-ranking government and military officials with private armies.
　ALICE had loyalty to the Federation government but not to individuals. As a result of these personnel reductions, those who relied on the military as the foundation of their political power risked losing everything at once. Various acts of sabotage had been perpetrated against this plan from the beginning. Although the explosion incident was believed to have been orchestrated by them, it was treated as an unknown cause due to insufficient evidence. After all, they skillfully used their political power to prevent being caught.
　Now, these irrational men had been selected through a mental test conducted throughout the entire Federation Forces and assembled here. The group that gathered in front of the hangar looked like nothing more than a bunch of hooligans to Carroll. There were twelve of them.
　Despite the presence of a drill sergeant, a fight had already broken out at the end of the line.
　"Are you two cocksuckers done?"
　The drill sergeant stepped between the two brawling young men and punched them both.
　"What're your names?!"
　As he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his right hand, the black-haired young man replied in a defiant tone, "Ryuu Roots."
　"Shin Crypt," said the other.
　"Hmph, listen up. This place is different from the units and training camps you were in before. This is a mental hospital and a correctional facility. Some of you sad sacks might have thought that the "Experimental MS Squad" was a practical evaluation unit for new mobile suits, but let me clarify: MS doesn't stand for Mobile Suit. It stands for Mad Sanatorium. The military has no intention of wasting resources on the likes of you, so you better work to earn your keep. Consider yourselves guinea pigs for human experimentation..."
　Seeing this scene, Carroll was truly disappointed. Could they really entrust her to this group of unsavory miscreants? He couldn't believe that the son of Mizu Roots was such a person. Was it because he had no mother when he was young? Carroll had heard that his father had died in the One Year War. It couldn't be ruled out that he had grown up hating the Federation that had taken everything from him. After all, to him, the Federation was the enemy that took everything away.
　The sergeant continued, "Roots, Crypt! You've disrupted the discipline. Soldiers must maintain discipline. If a superior officer says die, you die. If they say fly, you fly. So, you boys get to spend three days in the brig!"
　The pair struggled and tried to escape but were eventually subdued by the military police, summoned by the sergeant, and taken away. Of course, they didn't forget to shower the sergeant with insults.
　"The rest of you worthless smegma heads, get back to your cells like good sheeple. In an hour, I'll hold a mission briefing even idiots like you can understand. Dismissed!"
　ALICE's future seemed fraught with difficulties.

　Two years have passed since then.