The method for joining a "Mafty branch" was not difficult. Or rather, on this chaotic soil of the Americas, a vast number of real and fake "Mafty" websites had appeared on the internet.
While the vast majority were either scam sites or information hubs set up by "Mafty fans," this did not stump Char.
After navigating through various leads, he eventually found a website for a "Mafty Underground Resistance Center."
Following extensive data investigation and analysis, he locked onto a "branch" called the "Mafty Florida Guerrillas."
Using the persona of "Damien, a small-scale engineering MS pilot of three years who became a vagrant in America after being deported by the Hunters," he secured an invitation from them.
Char donned a pair of non-prescription glasses scavenged from a charity donation point and a set of reasonably decent clothes.
After randomly picking the lock of an unknown unlucky soul's bicycle on the street, he rode toward the location provided by the "Mafty Guerrillas."
As for his original clothes, after a moment's thought, Char had thrown them into a fire and burned them. It was just a set of clothes, after all; if necessary, he could simply get another set later.
As he drew closer to the objective, the urban landscape grew increasingly sparse until nothing remained but endless farmland. Char also noticed two sedans following him; every time he passed one or two intersections, they would turn off, and another car would take over the surveillance.
Clearly, they were guarding something. As his movement became more purposeful and he neared the target location, the atmosphere on the road grew tense.
"Mafty Guerrillas... is it?"
Char narrowed his eyes slightly, guessing the identity of these two vehicles.
As Char turned onto a small path, as if confirming Char's destination, one of the sedans that had been monitoring him suddenly surged from behind and sped in front of him.
With a drift, the entire car skidded sideways, blocking the path. At the same time, the other sedan stopped ten meters behind him.
Facing this sudden turn of events, Char stopped pedaling. As he gripped the brakes, the bicycle came to a halt on the path, sandwiched between the two cars.
Under Char's gaze, the window of the car blocking the path suddenly rolled down, and a rifle barrel poked out, aiming at the stationary Char.
The doors of the car behind him also swung open, and two white youths stepped out, also leveling rifles at him.
"You've entered private property, brat. You're in a hell of a lot of trouble!"
A fourth white youth stepped out from the car blocking the road. He carried a gun, resting it on the hood of the car to aim at Char's head. "I'll give you thirty seconds to get the hell out of our territory!"
Facing four lines of fire, Char didn't panic in the slightest. He raised his hands with practiced ease, attempting to soothe the emotions of the four men.
In a place like the Americas, there was no guarantee that an overstimulated individual wouldn't actually pull the trigger.
"Relax, friends, I'm not here to cause trouble."
Char spoke as clearly as possible. "I'm someone whose residency permit was lost. I was deported to space once by the Hunters as an illegal resident. I saw online that there was work available here, so I came."
Upon hearing Char say "deported illegal resident," he noticed the two men in front of him move their index fingers from the triggers to the trigger guards.
While they wouldn't open fire in an instant, the situation remained quite precarious.
"...I don't care who you are—illegal resident or vagrant—get lost!"
The white youth was still relentlessly trying to drive Char away. "There's no work here!"
The scene fell silent for two seconds. Char didn't turn his bike and flee as the youth expected; instead, his blue eyes seemed to be scrutinizing the young man.
"Florida Guerrillas... Mafty?"
Char made his tone sound speculative, acting like a reckless greenhorn.
Upon hearing Char's words, the white youth's eyes widened instinctively. His finger moved back to the trigger almost instantly, applying slight pressure.
"I'm Damien. I applied through the Mafty Underground Resistance Network for the position of small-scale engineering MS pilot."
Char recited the persona he had established on the "Mafty Underground Resistance Network."
Clack...
Char stood his ground, watching them deflect their muzzles.
At Char's words, everyone instinctively pointed their rifles at the ground or directly toward the sky.
"You're the pilot from the website with three years of engineering MS experience?"
The white youth gritted his teeth, shifting his rifle to his back by the strap. He walked up to Char, looking furious.
"...Yes," Char replied.
The youth suddenly grabbed Char by the collar and, without hesitation, landed a punch right on Char's face.
"You reckless idiot! You almost got yourself killed!"
A burning pain spread across his cheek, yet Char didn't feel any anger.
He understood that what came next was the most important step.
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Inside a barn on a farm bordering a vast forest, ten men wearing cowboy hats and dressed like farmhands were staring at Char, who stood in their midst.
"Boss, this is the small-scale engineering MS pilot who signed up to join us online," the white youth who had just been aiming a rifle at Char said as he walked over to a middle-aged man.
"...You're Damien?"
Looking at Char, the middle-aged man in the cowboy hat asked, "Why do you want to join Mafty?"
"I actually used to have a job here on Earth..."
Char spoke with a tone full of loathing, even hostility. "But just as my residency permit had expired by a single day, while the new one was still on its way, those Hunters... they snatched me up and deported me to a frontier colony!"
"I went through hell and back to return here. My job, my property—it's all gone. They took everything from me. I became a vagrant!"
"Even my lover... she..."
As he reached the emotional peak, Char let out a curse. "Damn the Federation, damn the Hunters..."
As Char spoke, he recalled the members of the Zabi family he had killed with his own hands and remembered what they had done to his family. His palms began to tremble involuntarily, as if he were consumed by a fit of rage.
Everyone present was deceived by Char's performance. After all, with such deep-seated hatred, it was assumed he must have endured immense suffering.
"Easy, brother, don't get worked up. At least you found us..."
The white youth named Pete, who had punched Char on the road earlier, suddenly felt a strange wave of guilt. He reached out and patted Char's shoulder. "Every comrade here shares an irreconcilable enmity with the Federation. We gathered together to take revenge against the decaying Federation and their twisted system."
"We are the rebels who bring destruction to the corrupt Federation!"
'That was a lie.'
Watching this youth look so guilty while spouting such "righteousness" so easily, Char laughed inwardly, though his face maintained an expression of excitement at having found his comrades.
Based on his own investigation, these people were no different from a gang of bandits or highwaymen. The reason he came here was for a different condition entirely.
"That's great... truly great."
"Whew... Damien, calm yourself first."
Seeing Char's somewhat exaggeratedly excited expression, the middle-aged white man named Bryan spoke up. "I'm Bryan. Since you've joined us, this is the beginning of your revenge against the Federation."
'A simple-minded greenhorn like this is the easiest to control.'
But for now, it was time to make use of this simpleton's skills...
"The march of revenge cannot stop for a moment. Time is tight, and we need your strength as a small-scale engineering MS pilot."
The man named Bryan stood up from the hay bale he had been sitting on. "Pete, continue the operation as planned. You must successfully raid the designated Federation bank and bring back the Federation's ill-gotten gains to fund our operations."
"Understood, Captain Bryan."
Pete, the young man who had just been comforting Char, nodded to him. He led a group of men as they donned various strange masks and left the barn.
The so-called "planned operation" was nothing more than occasionally hitting small banks and using their weapons to secure "operational funds." They had scouted the small banks across the neighboring states and were already well-versed in this routine.
"Do your best—for our revenge against the Federation!"
Char spoke with a tone of indignant fervor.
How could he not know what these people were about to do?
Currently, aside from Char and Bryan, two other men remained in the barn. But then, as those two pulled away the wooden planks used for camouflage on the floor, lights flickered on, illuminating the previously dark barn.
Inside a hollowed-out pit, an MS appeared that Char had never seen before.
"This is the reason I sent the invitation to you, Damien."
Bryan patted Char on the shoulder. "This GM II was something I managed to get from the black market only after collecting several rounds of 'operational funds.'"
Looking at the machine before him called the GM II, Char couldn't help but be momentarily stunned.
'So this is the new machine the Federation developed... the improved model of those GMs from after 0079?' It felt somewhat foreign, yet strangely familiar—was it just a minor modification?
"However, this machine's OS has issues. I've only learned the bare essentials of piloting an MS. I need you to help me adjust this thing's operating system and assist with my training."
Seeing Char in a daze, Bryan gave him a hypocritical pat on the shoulder, spouting one "righteous" line after another. "After all, fighting alone gets us nowhere. We need more pilots and more MS to take our revenge on the Federation!"
"And as your captain, I must lead the charge!"
"...Alright!"
Char nodded, acting as though he had been completely swayed by Bryan's words.
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Although he had never personally handled a Federation machine before, all principles lead to the same end.
After fumbling around for a bit and using the excuse of it being his "first time touching a combat MS like this" to gloss over his initial unfamiliarity, Char managed to master the operational logic of the GM II.
He could tell that this man named Bryan, despite spouting "righteousness" while buying an MS with money stolen from a bank heist, knew absolutely nothing about the machine's systems or operations.
It was glaringly obvious; aside from replenishing consumables like fuel for the GM II and its beam spray gun, Bryan hadn't touched a thing.
The machine had been sitting there for at least two or three weeks, waiting for someone like Char to show up and calibrate it for him.
"These options, and these over here—it's best not to adjust them. Otherwise, the GM II's OS will run into conflicts, and recalibrating it would take at least a week or two."
Char calmly adjusted the OS of the GM II to match his own familiar operating style while providing Bryan with a step-by-step explanation.
Watching Bryan's satisfied expression, Char had already calculated the man's fate.
He intended to lure the Hunters or some other unit here, ensuring Bryan died in an "accident" so that he could claim this MS and the surviving team for himself.
Simple, yet effective. Moreover, Char had absolute confidence in his MS piloting skills.
At the very least, he felt that the Federation units, who were likely stuck in a state of simulated-enemy training, couldn't compare to him—a man who had just come off the battlefield with his reflexes still razor-sharp.
Besides, the outcome of a battle isn't decided by MS performance alone.
The adjustments to the machine lasted from morning until night. Bryan, having no formal MS training, was led miles astray by Char's deceptive explanations.
However, plans rarely keep pace with changes.
Just as Char was tricking Bryan into learning how to walk and fire the gun—while drilling into him the concept that "the Hunters' Jegan Type-A units have been stripped of their armaments and only have crotch machine guns, so they can't beat your GM II"—a series of rapid, dense noises and the sound of car engines running at high speeds rang out.
Bryan frowned and exited the panoramic cockpit—a design that Char found quite fascinating.
Two scarred vans arrived near the farm. Pete, who had gone off in his mask to "collect operational funds" from the small bank, was firing backward with a face full of terror, as if being chased by something.
"F, what are you doing?!"
Seeing Pete's state and hearing the sound of MS movement following behind him, Bryan burst into curses. "How did you lead the Federation's people here?!"
This farm was in a remote location; under normal circumstances, no one else should have come this way. But now, it was clear that a unit equipped with MS was advancing on their position.
"S, we just finished switching cars when we bumped into the Hunters!"
Pete felt wronged as well. The operation had started smoothly enough—from robbing the bank to switching cars to evade the search, everything had gone without a hitch.
But just as they were preparing to evacuate via the pre-planned route, they ran head-on into a Hunter unit and were chased all the way back.
"Damn it..."
Watching that figure slowly approaching through the darkness of the night, Bryan bit his lip anxiously. "Damien, is the MS adjustment finished?"
"Captain, not yet! The OS options need to undergo a self-check, otherwise the machine's processor will burn out!"
Char had no intention of letting this opportunity slip away. He came up with a random excuse to brush the man off while his hands never stopped moving, rewriting the machine's OS to mold this GM II into his own image.
'Hold out for at least five minutes, old man! Come on, loading bar, move faster!'
"Five minutes?! Damn it, we'll have met God long before five minutes are up!"
Looking at the two armored vehicles that had already stopped nearby—with Hunter troops exchanging fire using pistols and rifles—and the two Hunter-type Jegans following behind about to enter the fray, Bryan snatched a rifle from one of his subordinates. "F it, fire back!"
Ten members of the so-called "Mafty Guerrillas" unleashed a dense net of fire with semi-automatic rifles against the Hunter unit, suppressing the Hunters so effectively they couldn't even raise their heads for a moment.
"Enemy fire is heavy! Requesting MS assistance! Requesting support from nearby units!"
Seeing such fierce resistance, the commander of this Hunter squad began to exaggerate over the comms. "This could be a Mafty stronghold! Requesting backup, fast!"
Even if the people on the other side weren't actually Mafty, since they were robbing banks and resisting inspections, there was no harm in slapping the Mafty label on them.
After all, once they were dead, the reports could be written however they pleased—they might even receive commendations for "valiantly intercepting Mafty."
Though, in this case, their guess wasn't actually that far off the mark.
"Understood. MS have reached the battlefield."
'Thud...'
Two Hunter-type Jegans stepped onto the battlefield, assuming the role of "tanks."
The twin machine guns at their crotches began spraying bullets at the ten men who were using buildings and cars as cover to fight back.
"We're pinned down! Fall back! Fall back!"
Seeing his team suppressed to the point they couldn't look up, their original defensive line crumbling instantly, Bryan shouted at the top of his lungs, "Retreat into the barn!"
As long as they could reach that place—as long as they arrived at that spot—that GM II could become the key to turning the tables.
In the next second, a Hunter Jegan delivered a short, sharp kick toward Bryan's position.
Despite the short distance, Bryan was sent flying, slamming into the barn wall before crashing heavily to the ground.
The Hunter-type Jegan's crotch machine gun thoughtfully followed up with several rounds into the immobile Bryan, tearing large holes through his body.
"Boss! The boss is dead!" Pete screamed in terror at the sight.
At this stage, although the Hunter-type Jegans had been stripped of all armaments except for the crotch machine guns, they relied on the machines' limbs to shatter the "Mafty Guerrillas" defensive line.
With the defense broken, six men were lost in an instant. Just as the forces began to close in on the remaining four—
The wooden roof of the barn was smashed open from the inside, and a dark shadow soared into the night sky.
The beam spray gun spat out pinkish-purple beams. A few short bursts destroyed the head camera of one Hunter-type Jegan; following a small explosion, the blinded machine staggered and fell backward.
Immediately after, the shadow delivered a flying kick in mid-air, slamming the remaining Hunter-type Jegan to the ground.
Its right leg stepped directly onto the machine's head, crushing the Jegan's sensors into scrap.
"Though there are some differences from what I imagined, the performance is decent enough," Char remarked.
He felt the vast field of vision provided by the panoramic cockpit and linear seat, along with a somewhat peculiar operational feel.
Then, he maneuvered the GM II to draw the beam saber from its back with the left hand, thrusting it upward from the Jegan's abdomen.
Based on his knowledge, an MS cockpit was usually located between the waist and the chest. By thrusting the beam saber in this way, he could effectively cover the likely cockpit positions.
Observing that the beam saber's cutting speed was slightly slow due to insufficient power, Char nudged the output higher.
The pilot of the Hunter Jegan watched in despair as the beam saber broke through the bottom of his cockpit, vaporizing him.
'Boom...'
The beam saber finally broke through the upper chest of the Hunter Jegan, and the machine exploded.
"HQ, the enemy is Mafty! They have an MS!" the Hunter squad leader screamed into his communicator, terrified as he watched the GM II effortlessly take down two Hunter Jegans.
The pilot of the other Hunter Jegan, whose head monitor lens was completely shattered, watched the GM II walk toward him.
He instinctively operated the machine to raise its hands, as if begging for mercy.
In the next second, two pinkish-purple beams struck the Hunter Jegan's raised hands, blowing them apart. The beam saber then plunged without hesitation from top to bottom into the Jegan's upper chest.
Only two seconds passed before this Hunter Jegan also lost power, underwent a secondary explosion, and crashed heavily into the ground.
The Hunter squad began commanding its remaining members to retreat, waiting for support from nearby units. Meanwhile, Char finally had a moment to observe the machine's status.
"Is it because the machine is a bit old, the enemy's armor is a bit tough, or a bit of both?"
Looking at the consumption rates displayed on the monitors, Char frowned slightly. "The energy drain is high... and is it a power output issue? It's not piercing through efficiently."
Seeing Pete and the others who were still standing there in a daze, Char opened the comms.
"Hey! Run toward the forest, now! I'll hold them off!"
As if waking from a dream, Pete and the three other survivors dove straight into the woods.
Beep beep beep... beep beep beep...
The radar warning shrieked in his ear. Char followed the radar's indicators and looked in the direction it pointed.
"Oh... they got here that fast?"
Seeing several clearly advanced and extremely burly Gustav Karls, along with three Jegan Type-Ds that shared a similar frame to the Hunter-type Jegans, Char raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Well then, let's see what you've got—the strength of the Federation's new generation of MS..."
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