A group of Vagan cultists wearing various animal mascot costumes and rainbow-colored afro wigs locked Yurin's unconscious body into the Farsia's cockpit. Commander Gerra Zoi oversaw the cruel ceremony from further away. His young son stood by his side. Despite the look of confidence on the face of the elder Zoi, the younger appeared much more uncertain.

"Dad... you do realize this plan makes absolutely no sense, right?"

The question interrupted Gerra's proud thoughts. His eyes shifted suspiciously in the direction of his son.

"What makes you say that, Arabel?"

"Well, when your cronies aren't babbling about how whatsherface has this big important role to play with her magic psychic powers, they're contradicting themselves and preaching about how her only purpose is to be a sacrificial lamb. I mean, is there any real reason why she needs to be in a one-of-a-kind highly experimental Mobile Suit if we just want her to be a human roadblock for that Flit guy and not actually DO anything? And if getting her killed is the entire point, don't you think that's just going to make him more angry at us? I can't even tell what outcome we're aiming for here."

Gerra regained his confidence with a dismissive shrug. A grin appeared across his lips as he basked in his own genius.

"I don't see any problems. Desil thought this was a brilliant strategy."

Unfortunately for him, Arabel was still right at his side to highlight the error of his ways.

"Has it ever occurred to you Desil is a psychotic 7-year-old who makes most Roger Moore villains look like believable human beings?"

Gerra's bold demeanor began fading again as he reached for an answer.

"No, I haven't really thought about it until now..."

He then shook his head of his doubts and glanced toward the Farsia's closing cockpit hatch.

"Regardless, it's too late to reconsider. It is time to play our trump card."

One side of Arabel's mouth twisted upward as he began to dread what was coming next.

"And what is our trump card going to be?"

"I will awaken the girl's full X-Rounder powers by making her listen to the sound of true despair."

"Oh, this should be hilarious."

Arabel crossed his arms as he rolled his eyes.

"Sergeaaant..."

Something vibrated from the sides of Yurin's pilot helmet, gently stirring her out of her sedated state. As her eyelids slowly twitched open, her growing awareness told her there was a noise coming from tiny speakers pressed against her ears. It sounded like music.

"...Kabukiman! You fight off evil, it was meant to be!"

She studied her mechanical environment through her visor, trying to make out the assortment of blurred shapes surrounding her. Her brain took its time climbing out of the comfortable hammock her captors' drugs had dropped it in.

"Hu-... huh? What's going on? Where am I?"

"Something's taking over, suddenly a change. The spirit lives within you, your clothes are rearranged!"

She tried to remember what course of events had brought her here, but the bizarre music combined with her unfamiliar surroundings made it difficult to focus. She couldn't help but giggle quietly at the sheer ridiculousness of her predicament.

"Are you doing this, Flit? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Trading in your nightstick, for a pair of chopsticks! Tough cop in kimono, with all your evil tricks... Yo!"

Her eyes closed again as she smiled and calmly allowed the prank to continue.

"It... it's kind of catchy..."

Outside of the Farsia, Gerra curiously raised his eyebrow and scratched his chin.

"Odd. Our auditory stimulation isn't producing the intended effect."

Arabel buried his face behind one of his palms.

"No shit, Dr. Freud. I could have told you that ahead of time. If you wanted to psychologically break her, you should have just rigged her control console so she'd be forced to play the barrel room part of Sonic the Hedgehog 3 or something."

Just then, a random Vagan technician inexplicably dressed up like J. Edgar Hoover made a cringing expression in the background.

"Harsh, dude!"

Gerra paused to sigh in defeat, then turned his full attention toward Arabel. The small boy was now probably the only person who had offered him anything approaching sound advice that day.

"Do we have any backup plans?"

Arabel looked away toward empty space as he realized how hopeless his father was.

"Well, gee. We've got that giant Big Zam-ish thing someone can actually willingly pilot hidden away in the Ambat, but that couldn't possibly be of any strategic use to us."

Failing to grasp the bitter sarcasm in Arabel's words, Gerra's face lit up with renewed enthusiasm.

"Of course! I'll have to revise the deployment schedule immediately!"

Arabel dropped his head and muttered to himself as Gerra ran off to bark orders to the men. The only thing allowing him to keep his composure was knowing that he would one day inherit his father's commandership and finally run the Vagan military with peace, justice, and (most importantly) a healthy supply of sanity.

"Fucking morons."