The synthetic tang of the mess hall still clung to me as I finished breakfast. Sam stalked over, his eyes glinting with a morbid pride as he announced the customized GM Spartan was ready. He'd ensured no other 'Black Dog Squad' member, especially not Renato, would dare claim a superior machine. The cold Black and Grey paint was replaced with a more sinister Black and Brown, and the optics now glowed a predatory red. The unnecessary grenade skirt was ripped off, replaced by a basic one, and the shield on the shoulder was gone. He'd stripped the variable components to match the speed of that Zeon fool, Ederich.
My arsenal was a testament to brutal efficiency: the familiar 'minigun', a hyper bazooka strapped to the backpack, and a heat knife on the left back waist—a nod to the savage pleasure of close-quarters slaughter. Sam claimed the red cockpit hatch and camera were a nod to the original GM Spartan, but it felt like a brand of bloody ownership. He suggested a mock battle; I accepted the inevitable training.
I slid into the cockpit without bothering with a pilot suit, the cold metal a familiar skin. Sam took his place in the Gundam Ground Type, and we lumbered toward the training area. The bullets were paint, a mockery of the carnage to come. He was using a machine gun with blank ammo, while I held the minigun. As I tested the movement, the machine felt utterly different. It flew higher and dashed faster. Sam had purged the original Spartan's lopsided design—right side for attack, the left side less than nothing for defense—making it a balanced instrument of death by removing the unnecessary weight and variables. It was the same frame, but now it was a light, responsive killing tool.
"How's that, Lydia?" Sam's voice was grimly satisfied over the comms.
"Impressive, Sam," I answered, the ease of control unnerving. "The removal of the variable systems and shield makes it easier to handle... a more direct connection to the kill".
"I wanted to build a total custom, something beyond a simple repaint, but you know Renato," Sam's voice held a venomous edge. "He can't stand anyone in the Black Dog Squad having a better toy than him".
"It's fine. Shall we begin the butchery?" I asked.
We began the mock battle. The GM Spartan's newfound speed was a sickening thrill, Sam's Gundam Ground Type a lumbering target unable to keep up. Only when he loaded his heavy carrier equipment did my dash speed become manageable. This new machine, purged of its weaknesses, obeyed me, an extension of my own savage will. The grenade pack and shoulder shield removal didn't just ease control; they honed its murderous focus.
The game was abruptly terminated by an alarm—a shrill harbinger of fresh calamity. We were summoned to the briefing room for news that would drown us deeper in the war's filth.The attack on San Francisco was merely the overture. Los Angeles, the Federation's primary control center, had fallen last night. Zeon had won; the Federation had surrendered the city. It was an absolute holocaust. Civilians, celebrities—all reduced to corpses. Hollywood, the symbol of their decadence, was annihilated. Buildings were pulverized, the economy crushed, and the Federation's vital supply line severed, now under Zeon's bloody control.
The architect of this carnage? 'The fool of Zeon, Ederich von nacht,' who had unleashed a new machine. It was not a Zaku, a Gouf, or a Dom, but the 'MS-18E Kämpfer'. A grim spectacle of dark green and blue, marked by red shoulders. It was armed with leg-mounted missile packs, dual giant bazookas, a shotgun, and a machine gun. He had used it as a distraction, drawing Federation forces while Zeon units attacked from civilian areas and the forest.
A flash of memory, a ghost from the past, seized me. Katarina Banks, the Ensign who piloted the Guncannon, whom I'd escorted from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. She was likely K.I.A. or a prisoner. Facing Ederich was a death wish. This latest atrocity followed swiftly after San Francisco's destruction.
"Lydia, that bastard has a new model," Mark spoke, his voice heavy. "This is no joke."
"Of course it's no joke," Sam spat. "First a Zaku II, now this. The man evolves his capacity for murder".
"I know," I ground out. "If we face him again, the cost will be high".
The units began to scatter; the 'Witch-hunt' unit was mobilized. Renato, ever the petty commander, ordered Mark, Sam, and me—the Black Dog Squad—to Omaha, Nebraska. We were alone; all other Federation personnel had fled. Sam took his Gundam Ground Type, loaded with a container pack carrying a rocket launcher and bazooka. Mark piloted his GM Sniper Custom. I was in Sam's customized GM Spartan. Alleyne, as usual, was our operator on the Medea. Our target: the Zeon defense force in Omaha Nebraska.
We landed, stepping out of the Medea into an eerie stillness. We were too late. The Zeon forces were already dead. We kept our guard up, radar sweeping for any hidden enemy. Sam noted the massive destruction. Fresh corpses of Zeon soldiers littered the ground. Destroyed Magellan attack tanks, Zaku Is, Zaku IIs, and even the wreck of the warship Gallop were strewn about. Strangely, there were no destroyed Federation mobile suits.
"This is wrong," I contacted Alleyne. "No Federation suits. Is there a base nearby?".
"Ah—Yes, Lieutenant. There's a Zeon base further ahead, not far," she responded.
"Mark, Sam, follow me," I ordered, moving toward the base.
We reached it. It was a scene of utter, brutal obliteration. The base was a ruin, mobile suits burning, the ground littered with dead Zeon soldiers and more destroyed Magellan attack tanks. As we walked through the desolation, Alleyne's voice cut through the comms.
"Lieutenant, two mobile suits are in front of you. They are not Zeon".
Two black and white units. One, white, with a Gundam-like face and a kingly crown on its head, carried a massive weapon on its back. The other, black, wielded a bazooka and had a distinct backpack. The white unit signaled us in Morse code. The message: the base and Zeon forces had been dealt with. Some had fled. Their movements were by order of Graves. Then, as silently as phantoms, the two mobile suits fled.
Our mission was a joke. The Zeon forces had been wiped out by these unknowns. No survivors, the base irrevocably destroyed. The chance for Zeon's return was negligible. Before the despair could settle, reinforcements arrived. Eleven units of 'MS-09 Dom'. One, the commander's unit, stood out—yellow and blue, with a custom shield pilfered from a Zaku II shoulder and a commander's antenna.
A rough male voice crackled over their comms: "We are too late. Looks like those two are the ones who destroyed the base".
"The report said it was two suits, White and Black," a female commander's voice corrected. "They must have miscalculated. Formation Ouroboros".
Five Dom units split left, five right, the commander holding the center. Facing the Dom meant facing speed, and this was infinitely more dangerous than the last mission with Katarina Banks. Doms didn't just carry a Giant Bazooka and Heat Saber; they also packed a 90mm machine gun and two Strumfauz. The commander had a unique bazooka and a Zaku machine gun with a bayonet knife. Mark and Sam took position behind me. The Doms began to circle. We were trapped in a circle of death. Smoke dischargers would grant us an advantage, but the Doms' speed meant they could use the cover to launch a devastating surprise attack. The Doms opened fire, a torrent of Bazooka shells and machine gun rounds. Our only choice was to break the formation, to silence their weapons. Suddenly, a multiple shot delivered a blinding flash, burning our visual sensors.
"Shit! I can't see! The visual is burned!" Sam screamed, panic in his voice.
"Use the radar! The radar is all we have!" Mark yelled back.
"Everyone! Fly high and dash forward! They'll be on us if we don't move!" I roared.
"Lieutenant, please let me guide you!" Alleyne's voice was a lifeline.
We flew high, dashing blindly as Doms' Heat Sabers slashed at the air where we had been. The heat-blindness was total, the panic a cold knot in my gut. I could hear the Doms chasing. Alleyne informed us of the weapon that had caused the blinding terror: the 'scattering beam cannon'.
When my vision finally cleared, I was careening toward the city area, a concrete jungle that could be turned into a trap. Mark contacted me, positioned on the tallest building, ready to snipe. Sam was in a nearby building area. Alleyne's guidance had saved us from immediate execution.
The enemy divided their forces: four Doms to Sam and Mark, and three, including the Commander, toward me. Our combined firepower was formidable: Sam had his machine gun, bazooka, and rocket launcher. Mark had his Sniper Rifle and a Bullpup machine gun. I had the minigun and bazooka. We all had our beam sabers, the tools for the intimate kill.
The Doms entered the radar, moving cautiously. The city, littered with buildings and wrecked mobile suits, hampered their high-speed movement, leveling the playing field. Alleyne suggested the ultimate move: activating the 'Minovsky Particle Dispersion pod'. I hadn't used the jammer since the Katarina Banks mission.
I ordered Sam closer and Mark to aim. Sam jettisoned his weapon pack, increasing his mobility. As the Doms closed in, I released the Minovsky Particles and the smoke discharger. The Doms' radar was jammed; their visual was swallowed by smoke. I heard their communications—they were forced to move slowly, terrified of colliding with each other or the buildings.
This was the chance for the snipers. The thick smoke made their flash attack useless. I became a silent shadow, slowly walking behind a Dom. I plunged my heat knife directly into the cockpit or shot them with the wire missile. Sam used the opportunity to blast them with his Bazooka and Rocket Launcher.
"Mark, Sam, report," I contacted them.
"Two units down," Sam responded.
"Four... wait, five units," Mark corrected.
The body count was ten Doms. The last one was the Commander.
The smoke began to thin, revealing the female Commander's Dom. She had waited.
"Just as I expected," the pilot's voice was a predatory purr over the comms. "You attack when the smoke starts."
The Commander's Dom moved with a terrifying, unpredictable speed. Sam's ammo was depleted. Mark's attacks were effortlessly dodged. I abandoned my heavy weapons. I blocked her charge and engaged in hand-to-hand combat, drawing my knife and Beam Gauntlet. She threw her bazooka and Zaku Machine gun aside, meeting me with her spike shield and heat saber. She swung the heat saber. I parried with my knife and slammed the beam gauntlet against her Dom shield. A bloody clash. I ordered Sam and Mark to hold position. This kill was mine.
"You're a female pilot, aren't you?" she spoke during the fight, her voice vibrating with a twisted kinship. "Your attack style is... just like mine".
"So what?! Are you seeing your reflection?!" I snarled.
"I can sense you," she laughed, a sound that crawled under my skin. "You are a wild animal hunting for blood, killing for pleasure. You are like me. We are soldiers, yes, but more so, we are killing machines, thirsty for blood. I can feel the weight of your kills, the joy in your murder. I can't wait to cut you in two".
"I see," I replied, the realization cold and sharp. "We are both murdering maniacs on this battlefield, then, aren't we?".
"Let's see who survives, Black GM!" she shrieked. "Becoming a murderer is very fun for us!".
She tried the scattering beam cannon again. I blocked it, evading the blind terror. She charged, her spiked shoulder leading the attack. The Dom was a high-speed hovercraft of death. I had my hand-to-hand armament, one shot left on the wired-missile, and one smoke discharger. I dodged the spike, but instead of finishing her, I cut the Dom's right hand that held the dangerous heat saber. She only had the left arm and the spike shield. She threw the spike shield and grabbed the Zaku Machine gun she'd dropped. I threw my heat knife, desperately trying to stop her before I grabbed my minigun. My throw missed. Her Zaku Machine gun had a bayonet knife. She could shoot and stab simultaneously.
I used the destroyed buildings for cover, but the Dom's speed allowed her to easily dodge my shots. She was laughing inside the cockpit, a terrifying sound of pure, unadulterated enjoyment. She thought we were alike—a darker, crueler version of me. A lunatic born into war. I threw my hyper bazooka. She didn't dodge. She cut it down. What she didn't know was that she had also cut the live ammo inside. The bazooka exploded on her back. I immediately fired my wired-missile at her head and cockpit. She just laughed harder and harder as she collapsed. I walked toward the wreckage. The missile explosion had torn open the cockpit. She was alive. Her face was covered in blood, and her bloody guts were exposed. Her arms and legs were useless. Yet, she was still laughing, a psychopathic, maniacal sound.
"*Chuckle*... Come on... I dare you...." The Dom pilot spoke, her voice a bloody gargle.
I aimed. I fired. Her laughing intensified, growing louder and louder even as her Dom exploded and she died. The sound, her eerie, triumphant laughter, still ran in my ears. There was no way to survive that. Mark and Sam approached, shaken. The pilot was utterly insane; her laughter was eerie even in her death. We, the Black Dog, were known for our problems and bad records, but this pilot was pure, concentrated evil and lunacy.
We called Alleyne to pick us up. This mission was brutal, but the real trauma was the pilot who had claimed we were the same, her eerie laughter ringing, an impossible echo, inside my skull. Aboard the Medea, Mark and Sam praised the GM Spartan's handling. Sam was proud, seeing his craft perform such savage work. The handling was now incredibly responsive. Mark, however, pulled me aside. "Hey, Lydia. I need to talk to you. Private". We left the cockpit area. Mark's serious eye contact was chilling. He warned me: Renato and his cronies were becoming predators. They saw me as sexual prey, their lust fueled by my success. Renato was determined to prevent my rank-up—given by Major Colmatta—and my professional ascent. He was terrified I would usurp his command of the Black Dog Squad. I already knew. My only aim was to clean my criminal record.
We arrived back at the base as night fell. I glanced at my customized GM Spartan, a wicked pride in Sam's work. I headed to the mess hall for dinner with Alleyne, who, despite her military role, was often overwhelmed by the pressure and missed her family. Captain Barry approached us. He spoke of Lilith and the 'Noisy Fairy Squad,' who had new, more powerful mobile suits. They were witches, he said, but could be called 'Fairy'. We would likely meet them soon. He commented that Alleyne and I looked like a mother and son. A cruel twist of fate. Before the Federation, I was a prostitute. I had sold my baby to a childless couple for survival money. I only hoped my child found a better life than this filth.
I returned to my room, stripping off my clothes. I looked in the mirror, but all I saw was the female soldier I had killed. Her eerie, dying laughter was a relentless playback. We were the same, she had claimed: killing machines.
A sudden, excruciating pain struck my head. The Zeon soldier's laughter became a deafening roar, a sound that threatened to explode my skull. I slammed my head against the wall, again and again, until it bled. My blood dripped down the wall. Only then, as I crumpled to the ground, did the sound finally vanish. I grabbed a towel, trying to staunch the blood.
That Zeon soldier... she could have been a Newtype pilot. Her laughter was no ordinary sound. And her words—that we were alike—forced me to confront my own real, cruel side.
To be continued.