The air in Thunder Bay didn't smell like the great lakes anymore. It smelled of cheap engine grease, stale ozone, and the sour, copper tang of fear.
Several months had passed since the Federation tightened its grip, but under the new regime, the "liberators" had become an occupying plague. I walked down the sidewalk with my head low, my eyes tracking the heavy, rhythmic thud of a patrol. A squad of Federation soldiers—their uniforms unbuttoned, reeking of confiscated distillery booze—stumbled out of a local diner, laughing as they shoved an elderly man into the gutter just for being in their way. Federation soldiers stationed around the city began brutalizing the populace, committing acts of violence against civilians regardless of age or gender. Federation personnel wandered the streets intoxicated on cheap booze, harassing every woman they encountered. Many were dragged into motels or hidden alleys and assaulted; the soldiers felt entitled to do as they pleased, justified by their belief that the people of Thunder Bay were Zeon sympathizers who harbored "murderous gangsters" in the hood.
The situation for the Federation Military Police (MPs) was equally fractured. Commodore Genevieve Cholmondeley had returned to the Federation's main base and sought to seize control of the MP units stationed at different outposts. Consequently, the MPs could no longer assist us; instead, they began treating us as enemies, actively hunting for the Mad Angler hideout. Everything turned to chaos the moment Genevieve returned to Thunder Bay. Federation Forces had died with the One Year War. Now, only the vultures remained.
"Hey, you! Workman!" one of them barked, pointing a submachine gun toward me.
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Just heading to the shift, sir," I said, keeping my voice flat, devoid of the spark they usually used as an excuse to crack a skull.
The soldier sneered, his eyes bloodshot. He looked me up and down, then spat at my boots before waving me off with a flick of his barrel. I didn't look back. I couldn't. If I did, I might see what they were doing to the young woman they had cornered in the alleyway two blocks back. The muffled pleas echoed in my mind, a haunting soundtrack to a city under siege.
The situation at the workplace—a local food processing plant—was no refuge. The factory floor, once filled with the rhythmic clatter of machinery and friendly banter, was now a tomb of silence. Federation Mobile Suits stood watch around the city, making the atmosphere so intense it felt like being trapped in a mouse trap. They prowled near the factory, searching for any sign of Zeon spies. It wasn't just the city or the factory; every corner of Thunder Bay—from schools to places of worship—was under constant Federation surveillance.
High above us, looming through the skylights like vengeful gods, were the shadows of RGM-79[G] GM Ground Types. Their visor-style cameras flickered with a cold, pale light as they scanned the worker lines, looking for any sign of "Zeon sympathizers." We were trapped in a mouse trap, and the Federation held the cheese.
"Markus," my supervisor whispered, his face pale as ash. He caught me by the loading docks. "I need you to run the Simpson Street route. Now."
I wiped grease from my hands, my stomach dropping. "Boss... Simpson Street is a kill zone. The MPs and the regulars are practically at each other's throats over there. It's a gauntlet."
"I know, I know," he hissed, glancing nervously at a Federation guard leaning against a crate of rations. "But the shop needs the delivery. If we miss it, they'll claim we're sabotaging the supply chain. You know what they do to 'saboteurs' at the gallows."
I nodded slowly. I had no choice.
I wanted to refuse the delivery to Simpson Street. Every time I drove that route, Federation personnel would stop the truck for "inspections," interrogating me and scrutinizing my ID and cargo. Every street was guarded by soldiers and RGM-79[G] GM Ground Types patrolling the neighborhoods. On Simpson Street, the sheer density of soldiers and idling Mobile Suits made movement nearly impossible. Driving the truck was an exercise in terror. Every intersection was a checkpoint.
"Out of the truck! ID! Manifest!"
I stood in the biting wind while a corporal tossed my cabin, throwing my personal belongings onto the wet asphalt. They weren't looking for contraband; they were looking for an excuse.
As I reached Simpson Street, the atmosphere shifted from tense to suffocating. The "Black Dog" mentality had infected the entire garrison. The routine at the shop on Simpson Street had changed as well. We could no longer use the secret tunnel because of the heavy soldier presence. Now, deliveries were only made after the store closed. The owner would hand over the keys, and I would drop the crates in the storage room. Luckily, the storefront used a harmonica-style folding gate, which didn't draw suspicion from the Federation when locked.
Leaning against a jeep nearby was a man who looked like he'd been carved out of flint: Nox O'niel Nielson. He didn't even look at me as I unloaded the crates. He was watching the civilians with the detached hunger of a predator. Beside him, soldiers were kicking in the door of a neighboring tailor shop, screaming about "unpaid protection taxes." Thunder Bay felt less like a city and more like a torture chamber. It was being colonized by a problematic Federation faction, behaving much like the "Black Dog" squad—taking over without destroying the infrastructure, but crushing the spirit of the people. Perhaps this was what would have happened if San Francisco had obeyed Major Michael Colmatta to avoid bloodshed. It felt as though these Federation officers wanted to continue the war long after it had been officially declared over.
After finishing my delivery, I unexpectedly came face-to-face with Nox O'Neil Nielson as I exited the shop. He wasn't alone. He was with a group of soldiers who entered the store with an air of arrogance, disrespecting the owner and the civilians as if they were the "saviors" of Thunder Bay. Across the street, a Federation Jeep was parked next to a lone Mobile Suit: a Gundam Ground Type with a shoulder painted blood-red, armed with an XBR-M-79a Beam Rifle—the type usually reserved for the Guncannon.
After finishing my delivery, I unexpectedly came face-to-face with Nox O'Neil Nielson as I exited the shop. He wasn't alone. He was with a group of soldiers who entered the store with an air of arrogance, disrespecting the owner and the civilians as if they were the "saviors" of Thunder Bay. Across the street, a Federation Jeep was parked next to a lone Mobile Suit: a Gundam Ground Type with a shoulder painted blood-red, armed with an XBR-M-79a Beam Rifle—the type usually reserved for the Guncannon. My hand went to the heavy wrench in my pocket, but I relaxed when I saw Bridget Rhodes sitting at my kitchen table, talking quietly with my wife and son.
"The Mad Angler is ready, Markus," Bridget said without preamble. Her face was lined with exhaustion. "The engines are hot, the fuel is topped off. The last of the friendly MPs secured the shipments before Genevieve stripped them of their rank."
"Then we leave tonight?" my wife asked, her voice trembling with a mix of hope and terror.
"It's not that simple," Bridget cautioned. "The Federation presence is too dangerous right now. If we try to break out now, they'll intercept us. I have personnel disguised as civilians working throughout the city, and I won't leave them behind. We need better timing."
"...Better timing," I mused. "Like a festival, a parade, or a presidential arrival. Something to distract them. Once they're occupied, we can slip away unnoticed."
"Exactly," Bridget nodded. "We can escape through the lake routes once the tanks are topped off. From there, we head to your wife's hometown in Cuba."
"We can blend in at Baracoa," my wife added. "Also, Bridget told me there's a hidden HLV in the forest left by a Zeon Remnant unit. If things get worse, we can use it to reach Mars—she told me about it before you arrived, Markus."
"I see... so we just wait for the right moment," I said.
"Yes. I'll take my leave now," Bridget said, standing up. "I'll be at the Mad Angler if you need me. Let's pray we avoid any more disasters." She left in her car, driven by a silent subordinate.
The news was a relief, but the wait was agonizing. With Genevieve in control, the city was a cage. Bridget had specifically warned me about Nox O'Neil Nielson, Genevieve's right hand. He was a cruel, dangerous man who piloted that iconic RX-78[G] with the red shoulders. She warned me not to provoke him at any cost; our goal was escape, not a suicide mission.
The next day, a disturbing broadcast aired on live TV. Genevieve Cholmondeley announced that the MPs were officially under her command and their former leader had been stripped of power. Then came the horror. The MP personnel who had remained loyal to the previous commander—including Rudolf—were led to the gallows. Genevieve ordered their execution by hanging, broadcasting it live across all of Canada as a warning. The city fell into a deathly silence as we watched. When the bodies stopped swaying, Genevieve addressed the camera.
Every screen in the city—from the jumbotrons in the square to the dusty set in our living room—flickered to a live feed. Commodore Genevieve stood on a raised platform in the city center. Behind her, a row of men stood with nooses around their necks. I recognized them. The Military Police leadership. Men who had tried to maintain some semblance of law. Among them was Rudolf, a man I'd shared a smoke with just month ago.
"Now listen up, vermin! Thunder Bay, Ontario, is now under my control! I don't give a damn if the war is officially over; you vermin better obey us! If you cooperate, fine. If not, I'll label you all Zeon supporters and turn Thunder Bay into a living hell! If anyone dares to resist, you will be executed!"
As the traps dropped and the bodies jerked, a stunned silence fell over the citySuddenly, a bottle was thrown from the crowd. It missed Genevieve, but it signaled the people's rage. Genevieve didn't hesitate. She ordered her troops to open fire on the spectators and the television reporters. The air filled with the cracks of rifles and the rattle of GM Bullpup machine guns. The screams and terror of the people marked the true beginning of Genevieve's regime.
My phone rang. It was Bridget, telling us to get to the Mad Angler immediately. I grabbed my wife and kids and navigated the least suspicious routes to McKellar Island. When we arrived, the hangar was packed with Zeon Remnants, all seeking refuge from Genevieve's purge. The panic was palpable. We fled to the Mad Angler's secret berth at McKellar Island under the cover of the ensuing chaos. The hangar was a hive of panicked Zeon remnants. Inside the sub's belly, a shouting match was echoing off the bulkheads. Kirk Szyslak, a Major General with fire in his eyes, was nose-to-nose with Bridget.
"We have to move now, Bridget! If we stay here, we're toast! We must escape or fight back! The Mad Angler is fueled and ready!" Kirk yelled.
"Don't you realize our situation, Kirk?!" Bridget shouted back, her voice strained. "We are no match for their full force! If we leave at the wrong time, their Mobile Suits will hunt us down in the open water! If we fight, we lose everyone! Have you forgotten? The MPs helped us with fuel and repairs, not ammunition! We're dry!"
Kirk spat on the floor and walked away, his pride wounded and his rage unchecked. The debate ended in a stalemate. Kirk stormed off, and Bridget dismissed the personnel to their posts. I could feel the despair of these Spacenoids—Zeon soldiers who had lost everything and were unable to return to space or continue a war that was already over. It was a nightmare. A crewman led me, my wife, and my son to our quarters. It was a decent room for a warship, though far from fancy.
My wife was worried about Bridget's mental state after the clash with Kirk, so we went to her office to talk. Bridget explained that while she and Kirk held the same rank, they were worlds apart. Kirk was impulsive and hot-blooded, believing violence was the only answer regardless of the risk to the crew. Bridget, however, felt responsible for every life on board. Her goal was to get them to safety, either with other Remnants or off-world via an HLV.
"So, Bridget... When do we leave?" I asked.
"Based on MP intelligence, we move in June, during Canadian Armed Forces Day," Bridget said. "The soldiers will be distracted by the celebrations. It's our best shot."
"But the MPs have been taken over," my wife noted worriedly. "If Genevieve is in charge, that plan might be compromised."
"You two should head home for now," Bridget instructed. "Pack only what you need. Meet me back here just before the festival."
We headed home under the cover of night. The guards were slightly less vigilant following Genevieve's speech, but the streets were haunting. We saw civilians being beaten, people arrested as "spies," and the lingering shadow of the day's executions. The Mad Angler was our only hope of reaching Cuba, but we had to survive until June.
Later that night, tucked into a cramped, cold metal cabin with my family, I looked at an old, crumpled photograph. It was from the North America campaign—me, Sammy, Alleyne, and Lydia. We were smiling in front of a Christmas tree. Barry Abbot and Lilith Aiden were there, too. I realized then how confusing military life is. It's hard to tell the "good side" from the "bad side" when there are monsters in every uniform. Sammy was KIA at California Base, and I could only pray that Lydia and Alleyne were safe, wherever the tides of war had swept them.
We were all 'Black Dogs' then. We thought we knew who the monsters were.
Now, as I listened to the hum of a dying submarine and the distant echoes of Genevieve's execution squads, I realized the uniform never mattered. The monsters were just the men who forgot how to be human.
"Hold on," I whispered to my sleeping son. "Just until June."
To be continue