That was why they had envisioned such a future—friends destined never to be compatible would clash again someday. If they did nothing, then next time, it might truly end with one side completely dead.
And was that kind of ending really what they wanted?
Was a world where people had to kill their dearest friends simply because they stood on different sides truly right?
"...Yzak, Dearka."
Nicol looked at the two men, shaken to their core, and spoke again. This time, his voice carried more than an explanation. It was a resolute farewell, and a heartfelt call.
"I can no longer return to ZAFT."
Those words shattered the silence.
"After seeing the indiscriminate Cyclops System at Alaska, and the soldiers who were abandoned; after seeing the massacre at Panama carried out for revenge; after seeing Orb's flames burn in defense of its ideals... and them, everyone aboard the Archangel, that light with which they fought to survive and for one another—"
Nicol raised his head toward the sky, as though he could see through Mendel's outer shell and gaze upon the boundless universe beyond.
"I can no longer deceive myself. Not even for a single second can I continue following orders from above and fight for some vague sense of racial superiority. I don't want these hands of mine to be stained with meaningless blood any longer."
He lowered his gaze and looked deeply at Yzak and Dearka. His eyes held too many emotions—reluctance, guilt, hope, and resolve.
"Nicol...!"
Yzak called his name, his voice trembling with tears. He knew that the tagalong who had once trailed after him, that weak guy who only knew how to play the piano, was gone. The one standing before him now was a true warrior, a man who had found his own path.