SAYLA MASS: Farewell to Yesterday • Prologue • White Night
Sayla Mass: Farewell to Yesterday • Prologue • White Night
Special Project – Original Story
Where is Sayla, that beautiful warrior from the One Year War, and what is she doing in Universal Century 0087? Her pensive white profile emerges now from the shadows, bathed in the pale light of Northern Europe’s midnight sun…
※ This story is a completely original story planned by the Animedia editorial team.
Written by Yumiko Suzuki
Illustrations by Tonoko Kobayashi (to be updated later)
A gust of wind billows the white cotton curtains, scattering papers from the desk onto the wooden floor. Sayla slips out of the man’s embrace to gather up the stray sheets.
“I really should organize these patient files… they’re starting to pile up,” she fibs.
The truth is, Sayla doesn’t have nearly enough patients for the charts to accumulate in disarray. But the man must have sensed the subtle aura of rejection in her body language. He doesn’t argue the point.
“I gotcha. Guess I’ll see you next time at the hospital then.”
“Sorry about that…”
“Nah, my bad. I know you’re swamped.”
Jacket in hand, the man beats a hasty retreat from the living room. Clutching the papers, Sayla watches him go.
As the cottage door clicks shut, Sayla hurls the papers haphazardly into the fireplace. The papers ignite in a flourish, flames rising with startling ease.
The man, named Karlson, is a fellow doctor at the same hospital.
Their dalliance began five years prior, when Sayla transferred to this northern facility from the medical university that overlooked the Mediterranean.
She can’t complain, really – not about him, not about work.
Her shifts start and end on time. Plenty of vacation days. No patients knocking on death’s door, and everyone’s cooperative.
It’s a convalescent home for Federation military personnel.
But Sayla recognizes it for the gilded cage it is.
Especially lately, with the hospital staff fussing over her more than usual – no doubt related to Amuro and Hayato’s recent activities.
It grates on her.
Not even the luxury of a roaring hearth can soothe her restless spirit.
Something pops in the flames.
Probably just the firewood splitting.
But Sayla, unblinking, continues to stare into the blaze.
What is it I’m searching for…?
The question drifts through her mind like smoke.
Another sound from outside the door, a rustle of movement.
“Could it be him…?” Sayla wonders aloud as she rises.
Even she doesn’t know who she means by “him.”
She pulls open the door.
The heavy wood groans mightily on its hinges.
But beyond the threshold lies only wan daylight and dark trees, a vista lonelier than any other.
Sayla shakes her head and reaches to close the door.
That’s when she spots it – a shadow crumpled behind the door. Sayla darts around to investigate.
For a split second, her white nape above the thick wool sweater seems to clench.
A boy lies collapsed there.
Blood seeps from a wound on his thigh. As Sayla rushes to him, the boy cracks open bleary eyes.
“No… not the hospital…”
At least, that’s what Sayla thinks she hears.
Then the boy slumps unconscious into her arms, head lolling.
Later, Sayla can’t quite recall how she managed to hoist the boy’s limp form and carry him to the living room sofa.
Pure instinct, most likely.
By some luck, the bullet only grazed his right leg.
Even so, the cottage first aid kit is depressingly basic.
It’s a daunting task for Sayla, who’s no surgeon to begin with.
But something in her heart flares to life, spurring her to action.
A long while later.
The white table and sofa are now stained rust-red.
The boy slumbers on.
Golden curls frame his agonized, youthful features.
Studying his face, Sayla muses that he resembles Amuro.
It’s been nearly five years since she last saw Amuro.
The same goes for the rest of the White Base crew.
Katz and Kikka would surely be around this boy’s age by now.
Suddenly, the march of time weighs heavy on Sayla’s shoulders.
Outside the window, the sky remains a stubborn off-white.
No different than when she first discovered the boy bleeding on her doorstep, and yet the hours have undeniably ticked by.
“What… time is it…?”
The words emerge in a rasp from below.
The boy’s eyes have fluttered open. Sayla leans over him, examining his pallid face.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
“The time… what is it?”
Sayla glances at the ancient gear-driven clock beside the hearth.
The fire is burning low.
“It’s 4 o’clock. Morning already.”
The boy’s eyes snap wide and he struggles to sit upright.
A pained grunt catches in his throat as his injury protests the movement.
“Hey, take it easy! If you need something, I can-“
“Gotta go… no other choice.”
“And where exactly are you off to in this state?”
The boy tenses, a wary look stealing into his eyes.
“Lemme guess. Someplace you can’t tell me about.”
He doesn’t bother confirming it.
“Listen, I’d really rather not endanger a patient I went to the trouble of stitching back together. Call it my medical code of ethics.”
Sayla’s tone suggests she’s convincing herself as much as him.
“So be straight with me. Who’s after you? Maybe I can help…”
Pinned by her earnest gaze, the boy’s mouth starts to form an explanation.
Then he goes statue-still, like a rabbit caught in headlights.
From the front of the house comes a sharp rapping at the door.
Sayla nods firmly at the boy, then goes to answer it.
Glancing back on her way out, she spots him trying to stand.
She opens the door.
A Federation soldier in full uniform snaps to attention on the stoop, throwing Sayla a quick salute.
“Can I help you? At this hour?”
Her frosty tone gives the man obvious pause.
“-Er, apologies, ma’am. We’ve had reports of a captured Karaba fighter escaping into this area…”
“Karaba?”
Sayla sucks in a sharp breath.
“Karaba, all the way out here? Heavens.”
“Affirmative! So we’re canvassing for any information or leads…”
“I’ve been up working all night. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of this mystery man.”
“Of course, ma’am. But we’ve been instructed to do a full sweep, house by house…”
The soldier takes a step towards the cottage. Sayla blocks him with an outstretched arm.
“I believe I just told you he’s not here. You doubt my word?”
“No, but I-“
“I’ll have you know I served on the White Base. I fought for the Federation. And you still feel the need to question me?”
“The White Base? You mean that-“
He’s clearly flustered now.
“But hey, be my guest. Search to your heart’s content.”
With an awkward salute, the man beats a hasty retreat.
White Base… Two words she’s avoided mentioning in mixed company for as long as she can remember.
Funny, Sayla muses, how much can change. How we shed the skins of our past selves.
She returns to the living room.
The boy has propped open the window, one leg already slung over the sill.
“Wait just a minute!”
Sayla’s cry halts him in his tracks. He’s taller than she realized.
Fumbling through the medical kit, she produces a small glass ampoule and begins drawing its contents into a syringe.
“Your arm. This is for the pain.”
Obediently, he extends his right arm, allowing her to find a vein.
“The White Base, huh…”
The boy mumbles, wincing at the prick of the needle.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. That famous battleship…”
“Is that so.”
It’s more a statement than a question.
“Today in Dakar… there’s some big conference. I need to get word to my buddies at the broadcast station…”
He trips over the explanation. It’s the best he can offer by way of thanks.
Sayla slides the needle from his arm with practiced ease.
“You do what you have to do. And be careful out there.”
“I will… and thanks again. For everything.”
And with those parting words, the boy vanishes into the pale morning.
Sayla watches him go until he’s swallowed by the treeline.
A tentative light has crept into the colorless sky.
The long night is finally over.
The Dakar Assembly hearing drones from the TV in the background. Such broadcasts are hardly a rarity, but it’s unusual for the deliberations to be televised in full…
These days, Sayla barely pays them any attention.
But something feels different about today’s proceedings like she can’t look away. No matter how much tyranny and bluster spews forth.
The conference launches into its usual pontificating.
And then…
And then, a lone man commandeers the stage. He brushes past the grandstanding politicians and beelines for the podium.
“Brother Casval…”
Sayla murmurs.
It’s her brother. That figure is unmistakably her brother, from whom she parted ways amidst the flames of war seven years ago. To glimpse her beloved sibling again, the one whose fate she’d long wondered and worried over…
He’s stripped off his iconic mask. She understands the significance of that gesture.
He announces himself. His true name – Char Aznable, scion of Zeon Zum Deikun.
Sayla’s vision blurs hotly. He’s finally reclaimed his identity, even as she continues to conceal hers…
The boy becomes a man.
Sayla turns to the window.
Above a sky that strains towards daylight, a pale sun ascends.
For the first time, she truly feels it – the crushing passage of time.
Cast by that weak sun, Sayla’s long shadow flickers and shifts.
Then, slowly, resolutely, it rises to its feet.
