Morning. The ruined cityscape stretched before me, a fractured mosaic of concrete and rebar under a sickly dawn sky. This wasn't just a simulation battle; it was a rehearsal for the slaughter. My GM Spartan, a sleek, predatory shadow, felt like an extension of my own venomous will. The three Federation GMs, their systems glowing with the inert red of training rounds, were simply targets. Major Michael Colmatta's voice, cold and precise, cut through the comms. "Warrant Officer Lydia, this is your stage. Show us how a Black Dog hunts."
"Understood, Major," my voice was a flat, almost guttural whisper.
"Begin the engagement!"
The enemy GMs, predictable in their fear, scattered into the skeletal remains of buildings. I moved, a blur of black steel, a phantom in the urban decay. The first GM, an ensign's clumsy attempt at a flank, exposed its optical sensors. My Bullpup Machine Gun snarled, spitting a concentrated burst of red paint, blinding it. I followed with a brutal, crushing kick that sent the lumbering machine tumbling into a pile of rubble. Another volley, precise and relentless, ceased its simulated life. Two left. The taste of simulated victory was bitter, a mere tease.
The remaining GMs split, a predictable dance of survival. They thought they knew us, the Black Dogs – mindless, raging beasts. But I was the viper among wolves, patient, calculating, far more dangerous. I coiled, waiting for their next mistake. I initiated a high-speed ascent, boosting above the shattered skyline. Below, like ants scurrying for cover, I spotted one, hunched behind a collapsed overpass. My
Bullpup chattered, its rounds splashing against its shield. The GM retaliated with a wild, panicked volley that I effortlessly dodged, already twisting into a pursuit. I let it believe it was leading me, then unleashed a wired missile, a steel tendon that lashed out, tearing its shield away in a shower of sparks. Exposed, the GM faltered, and I unleashed a final, sustained burst that painted its cockpit a damning crimson. One left.
The last one was different. Cunning. It had learned from its fallen comrades, melting into the urban shadows. The pilot, a ghost, was playing a twisted game of hide-and-seek, waiting for my misstep. I stalked through the labyrinth of ruins, every shadow a potential ambush, every silence pregnant with malice. My internal sensors whirred, mapping the debris, searching for the faintest heat signature. This one, I surmised, was not merely hiding; it was coiling, waiting for my blind spot, for the precise moment to strike.
"Come out, little rat," I whispered, my voice a low growl against the hum of my cockpit.
The proximity alert shrieked, a jarring siren in the confined space. My blind spot. Right where I expected it. Before the sound fully registered, I was already moving, twisting the Spartan into a violent counter. My Bullpup screamed, spewing a concentrated stream of paint rounds. At the same instant, a sharp crack resonated through the cockpit as the enemy's rounds slammed into my left leg. My rounds splattered across its cockpit, blinding it, but the impact jarred my teeth. The test ended. All targets neutralized. A hit on my leg. Insignificant. The adrenaline, however, was already fading, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache of disappointment.
Back in the stale air of the hangar, the acrid scent of oil and sweat clung to everything. I began the methodical maintenance of my GM Spartan. This machine, a specialized variant designed for camouflage and brutal efficiency across any terrain, was my true skin. Its Bullpup and Minigun were extensions of my own predatory urges. Just as I finished recalibrating the optical systems, Clark, one of the mechanics, approached. "Lydia. Renato wants you in the briefing room. General Revil's waiting for the entire Black Dog team."
My maintenance was already done. Clark's words were just a confirmation of the inevitable summons. Even in this brutalized world, the leering stares of men were a constant. Their eyes, tracing the contours of my body, the curve of my breast, the swell of my ass, were a familiar insult. I felt no shame, only a simmering contempt, a silent desire to feel their throats crush beneath my grip, to hear their pleas turn to gurgling silence. I entered the briefing room, a den of predators: Renato, his face a mask of barely contained sadism, and the rest of the Black Dog team – a collection of broken things, just like me.
"You're here, Mercer. Good. General Revil will outline the mission," Renato's voice was a low rasp.
General Revil, his face a roadmap of exhaustion and grim determination, began. The mission was fractured, a series of surgical strikes across different Zeon strongholds. Still no solid intel on the "Noisy Fairy Squadron," our primary target, but the scent of their presence lingered like a phantom limb. My assignment: Utah. To sweep through the remnants of Zeon forces advancing on Salt Lake City. I would be accompanied by two others. The mission launched in 5 hours and 32 minutes.
I returned to the hangar, a cold fire igniting in my veins. My orders to the mechanics were terse: full rearm, full refuel. My Spartan would be ready. My companions were Sam and Mark, both Warrant Officers, both scarred by their own pasts. Markus Armstrong or Mark, a brutish man, favored his GM Ground Type with its 180mm Cannon mounted on a heavy-pack GM Ground Type. Nguyen Sammy Chang Hoi or Sam, a quiet, calculating one, preferred the long reach of his devastating Bazooka. Like me, they were condemned, given a new leash by the Federation.
Five hours and thirty-two minutes. An eternity to wait for the real
hunt. I could feel it, the exhilarating tremor of anticipation. The chance to paint the ravaged landscape of Earth with Zeon blood, to truly feel the finality of their lives draining away. My past, a horrifying tapestry of civilian slaughter, would be cleansed in a torrent of military-sanctioned murder. Me, Sam, and Mark boarded the Medea, the transport humming with suppressed power as it clawed its way into the sky, away from the California base and towards the desolate wastes of Utah. Hours passed, a blur of anticipation.
Inside the cramped cockpit of my Spartan, I found no solace in the
enforced quiet. I closed my eyes, but the internal screams were relentless. The symphony of pain, the gurgling pleas, the shuddering silences – they played on a loop in my mind, a comforting lullaby of my own making. I heard nothing from Sam or Mark, likely lost in their own dark reveries, perhaps even engaging in the crude release I had long since abandoned.
"Approaching target coordinates. Commencing descent," the pilot's voice, detached and sterile, broke through my thoughts.
The Medea touched down with a jarring thud. The ramp hissed open,
revealing Salt Lake City, not merely ruined, but dead. A necropolis of twisted steel and pulverized concrete, where once life had thrived, now only the echoes of Zeon's invasion, a grim monument to Federation failure. Mark, silent and methodical, began assembling his 180mm Cannon. Our intelligence was sparse, but chilling: two Dopp atmospheric fighters, two Magella Attack tanks, a single Zaku I, and a lone Zaku II. A pitiful force.
I laid out the plan, a simple act of butchery. Mark would take position as our long-range executioner, nestled between the skeletal remains of skyscrapers. Sam, my brawler, would join me in the direct assault. We moved, silent specters in the dead city, establishing our ambush points. Thirty minutes. The clock ticked towards annihilation.
"Mark, any Dopps on radar?" Sam's voice was a low growl.
"Nothing yet. Clear," Mark responded, his tone devoid of emotion.
"Lydia," Sam began, his voice taking on a casual, probing tone. "Since we're just sitting here, tell me, what's a beautiful psycho like you doing in a place like this?"
My eyes narrowed, a flicker of the old rage. "I kill. That's what I do. And I'm damn good at it. You?"
Sam chuckled, a rough, grating sound. "Robbery. Smuggling. Petty shit compared to your masterpiece. Mark?"
"Kidnapping. Assault. Mostly for pleasure," Mark answered, his voice surprisingly calm. "We're all here for the same reason: sanctioned violence, a clean slate. That's what Colmatta promised us, isn't it?"
"A chance to bleed for absolution," I muttered, the words a bitter echo.
Then, the blips on the radar. Zeon. The tanks rumbled forward, followed by the mobile suits, the Dopps circling high above. Mark's cannon roared first, a deafening crack that tore through the pre-dawn quiet. The Zaku II exploded, a blossoming inferno as it entered the city's threshold. The remaining Zeon units erupted in a frenzy of alerts. This was it. The real dance. We burst from cover, unleashing hell. I ripped open a comm channel, a primal, wordless scream meant to shatter their morale, to tell them death was here. Mark's cannon systematically shredded the Magella Attacks. Sam, a whirlwind of destruction, tore through the Dopps. My target, the Zaku I, was a pathetic specimen, armed only with a machine gun and a Heat Hawk, no shoulder shield. My wired missile found its mark, slamming into its head and left shoulder. Before it could even process the hit, my beam saber ignited, a searing line of pure energy. I plunged it through its cockpit, the metal hissing as it superheated, leaving a gaping, smoking void. The explosion ripped through its internal systems, a final, shuddering death rattle.
Too easy. Too quick. The disappointment was a cold knot in my gut. I swept the area, searching for any survivors, any flicker of life to extinguish. Nothing. Every Zeon cockpit was a smoldering ruin.
"It's over. No hostiles detected," Mark's voice was flat, echoing my own anti-climax.
"Let's go. Nothing left to do here," I ordered, the words tasting like ash.
We returned to the Medea, the journey back to base a quiet testament to our collective frustration. Two mobile suits, a few tanks, some aircraft. A waste. The hunger gnawed at me, unsatisfied. Back in the hangar, I noted the Federation's evolving arsenal: the RGC-80 GM Cannon, a bulky, aggressive variant of the GM, with its distinct 240mm shoulder cannon. There were also black and grey versions for the Black Dog Squad. No beam sabers, but the whispers of a new weapon, a "Beam Gun," more potent than anything we possessed, hinted at the true destructive potential to come. Like the mythical RX-78-2 Gundam and RX-77-2 Guncannon of the White Base.
The Briefing brought a report: the Black Dog Squad had not engaged the "Noisy Fairy." That task, for now, fell to another unit, the "Red Wolf Squad" in Europe. The next hunt for the "Noisy Fairy" would be led by Renato, joined by "Witch Hunt Squadron," "Lilith Aiden," and "Barry Abbot." when they return. But for us, another deployment loomed: North Dakota. A large-scale assault on a Zeon base near the Canadian border, alongside a full contingent of Federation forces from South Dakota.
"Tomorrow mission. North Dakota. Near the Canadian border," Renato's voice, devoid of any warmth, summoned me.
The briefing for North Dakota was short, brutal. Six mobile suits from our squad, reinforced by Federation forces. The attack was set for tomorrow. This time, Renato would be leading from the front, a grim promise of true savagery.
I hoped this mission would not disappoint. I could feel the beast stirring, the hunger clawing at my insides. I needed to unleash my ecstasy, to drown out the internal screams with the raw, guttural cries of my enemies.
Back in my assigned quarters, a barren, utilitarian cell that still felt more expansive than my past shelters, I tried to rest. The mission had been a fleeting tease, a mere whisper of the violence I craved. Two mobile suits, a handful of small fry. It was a disappointment, a profound emptiness where the ecstasy should have been. It was boring as fuck.
To be continued.