The figure piloting the metallic behemoth that the stunned onlookers could only classify as a 'Gundam' was, of course, the individual known throughout the Wasteland as Harry Potter Michael. The sequence of events leading to this spectacular, if reckless, entrance required little elaboration for those who knew his propensity for dramatic solutions.
His journey had begun early that morning, a series of flights culminating in a midday arrival at the legendary Bollywood. The time difference, putting him several hours ahead, was the least of his concerns. A more significant advantage was the fluent English he'd honed in the Wasteland, a linguistic key that, despite the thick, curry-spiced accent of the taxi driver that made comprehension a struggle, served him well. His own received pronunciation, clear and precise, easily conveyed his request to be taken to the naval harbor. A ten-dollar tip ensured a smooth, enthusiastic ride.
Upon arrival, Michael's heart sank. His initial plan—a stealthy infiltration relying on his aura-enhanced agility to locate and liberate an armory's worth of weaponry—was instantly untenable. The harbor defenses, even a day before the main event, were formidable. Guards patrolled with snarling dogs, their routes meticulous and overlapping. Stealth was impossible. Annoyance flared into resolve. If he couldn't sneak in, he'd simply have to march.
His preparations were swift. Pulling a stocking—one that still carried the faint, musky scent of the wolf-girl Lynda—over his head, he became a anonymous specter. He slipped into a nearby apartment building, selecting a third-floor unit. A fortuitous knock revealed the occupant to be a homebound Indian youth, a otaku whose surprise was quickly subdued. A blindfold and some sturdy cord secured both the boy and Michael's temporary base of operations.
A quick trip to a local market followed, funded by his increasingly versatile currency. He returned with several cans of the highest-quality Shell oil and grease he could find. With these precious lubricants in hand, he performed the familiar, dizzying lurch between worlds, returning to the Wasteland and, under guard, to the hidden depths of Base 0005.
His request to borrow the combat exoskeleton was met with little hesitation by Captain Liu. The gravity of the situation overrode any protocol. Under Zhang Tiezhu's guidance, the necessary oils and greases were applied to long-dry joints and actuators. With a press of a hidden button in the machine's armpit, the rounded belly of the 'Demon-Slayer Type-2' hissed open, revealing a cramped, intensely utilitarian cockpit that seemed part steampunk fantasy, part claustrophobic nightmare. Squeezing inside, Michael spent the next three days in a grueling, nauseating crash course, guided by faded technical manuals. The first day was a symphony of vertigo and vomit, mastering little more than a shaky walk and a clumsy jog. The second day saw his stomach settle and his control improve, allowing for basic evasive maneuvers. By the third, he felt invincible, a master of mechanized combat, his actual skill level—barely that of a wartime rookie—irrelevant in his burgeoning confidence.
The return trip to the modern world, the fully-charged exoskeleton in tow, was largely seamless. The only snag was a humiliating, self-inflicted one. Parched from the transition, Michael had casually grabbed a bottle of water from the apartment's refrigerator. Reasoning that he'd survived the lightly radioactive well water of the Wasteland, he assumed this would be harmless. He was tragically mistaken. The legendary waters of the Ganges proved far more potent and hostile than any radiation. Within minutes, a vicious cramping seized his gut, forcing a long, miserable morning sequestered in the bathroom. The final, undignified act of cleaning, faced with only a single hose next to the toilet, presented a dilemma he wished to forever erase from memory. The solution was as crude as it was effective.
Emerging, pale and shaken but functional, he was greeted by the long, low blast of a ship's horn. The演习 was beginning. There was no more time to lose.
Cramming himself back into the cockpit, Michael ignited the systems of the 'Demon-Slayer', a machine that had once struck terror into the hearts of otherworldly invaders. With a roar of servos and a crunch of plaster, he burst through the apartment's wall onto the street below.
Navigating the dense, panicking crowds was an ordeal in itself. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes, not from the strain of piloting, but from the frantic effort of avoiding the civilians who, in their terror, ran directly toward the giant machine instead of away from it. For all his mercenary tendencies, Michael drew a line at harming innocents. He was, as he liked to think of himself, a man of principle, like the legendary Wang Dahui.
The aging exoskeleton, a miracle it functioned at all, offered no comforts like air conditioning. The cockpit became a sweltering metal oven. Fortunately, his chosen staging area was mere hundreds of meters from the first police cordon. Soon, he broke through the worst of the chaos and found himself facing a line of utterly bewildered police officers, their lathis held in white-knuckled grips. Their stunned expressions were almost endearing.
With a grim smile, Michael slammed his foot down on the forward pedal. The power output surged from thirty to seventy percent. The machine lunged forward, each multi-ton footfall leaving a crater in the asphalt, closing the distance at a terrifying speed approaching two hundred kilometers per hour. This very combination of shocking velocity and agility, not raw firepower, had been the key to its success against faster, more powerful foes.
One particularly portly officer, embodying the surprising flexibility for which the nation was famous, managed a remarkable S-shaped contortion to avoid being flattened, only to be sent tumbling head over heels by the wake of the passing machine. Undeterred, the officer proved his mettle. Scrambling to his feet, he produced a slingshot and launched a stone with pinpoint accuracy. It struck the exoskeleton's back with a faint tinkthat was completely inaudible inside the cockpit.
Past the first, almost comical line of defense, the real challenge began. Ahead lay a second cordon manned by armed Marines. Worse, the naval personnel had now recovered from their shock. The massive barrels of ship-mounted cannons were beginning to traverse towards him. In the distance, on the deck of the distinctly Russian-style aircraft carrier, a MiG-29K was powering up, its underwing missiles a stark promise of obliteration. He had no desire to test the exoskeleton's armor against modern ordnance.
His decision was immediate. He pushed the power to ninety percent, into the danger zone indicated on the console. A hail of small-arms fire ricocheted harmlessly off the advanced composite armor, sparking and flashing like impotent fireworks. Proving itself far superior to any "low-level magic archer's" arrow, the armor held perfectly.
Just as the menacing bore of a naval gun finally locked onto his position, Michael made his final, desperate move. Steering the agile machine toward the edge of the dock, he plunged the several-ton mass of metal and technology into the churning waters of the harbor.
The impact was colossal, sending a geyser of white water high into the air. As the bubbles cleared and the machine sank, an unexpected sound reached Michael's audio sensors, filtered through the water: a tremendous, rolling cheer from the thousands of spectators on the shore.
A wave of utter bewilderment washed over him, momentarily eclipsing his fear. What in the world?he thought. Do they really think this piece of black-tech marvel operates like one of their notoriously unreliable cars, stalling out the moment it gets a little wet?