My name is Lydia Mercer, and the lie of redemption clings to me like the stench of a freshly dug grave. They call me a pilot now, a soldier for the Federation, but the truth is simpler: I am a blade, honed by a lifetime of brutality, unleashed on a new battlefield. My past isn't a rap sheet; it's a tapestry woven from screams and viscera, a monument to the monster I became. Death row was my rightful inheritance, the cold embrace of the gallows my only solace. But salvation, in its most twisted form, arrived. The Federation, choked by the encroaching tendrils of Space Zeon, offered a pact with the devil: kill for them, and my sins would be washed away in the blood of their enemies. A clean slate, they whispered, their promises hollow as a tomb. I took it, of course. Survival, not morality, was my only god. Earth was burning, a funeral pyre for humanity, and the desperate seek comfort in the arms of any demon.
The Federation base reeked of stale ambition and the simmering fear of men facing oblivion. I was just another condemned soul among a horde of them, each clinging to this macabre amnesty. Being a woman in this squalid, male-dominated pit of military training barely registered. My childhood hadn't been a crucible; it had been an abattoir, a landscape of broken glass and shattered bones that didn't forge me, but warped me into something inhuman, something exquisitely cold. Let me tear open a wound from that past, a glimpse into the raw, festering darkness that devoured me whole.
I was fifteen when the world didn't implode; it simply ceased to exist. My mother, a creature of ice and casual cruelty, declared her love for another man, a fleeting fancy, and discarded my father like a broken toy. The man I called "Dad" didn't crumble; he shattered, his grief curdling into a festering, all-consuming rage that he unleashed upon me, his only remaining tether to a life now lost. The violations began then, a horrifying ritual of degradation that repeated itself countless times, each act carving deeper into my soul, stripping away layers of humanity, leaving me hollowed out and flayed. Terror was a constant companion, a suffocating blanket, but beneath it, something else stirred – a nascent, chilling hunger for retribution. It wasn't a desire; it was an infestation, festering and growing stronger with each assault, until, at seventeen, it finally burst forth, a malignant bloom.
He was drunk, as always, sprawled on the couch, lost in a stupor that mimicked death. The silenced gun, a relic stolen from some forgotten drawer, felt impossibly light in my hand, a mere extension of the fury that consumed me. One shot, precisely aimed at his temple, then another, directly into his heart. The first kill. A visceral shock, yes, a shuddering breath, but then… the sensation. A surge, a jolt of pure, unadulterated power that coursed through my veins, an intoxicating rush that not only silenced the screams in my head but replaced them with a perverse, humming calm. It was… ecstasy. I meticulously stripped his body of anything valuable, a chilling practicality, grabbed some clothes and the paltry cash I could find, and then, with a strange, detached calm, I doused the house in accelerant. The flames roared, consuming the past, transforming the scene into a tragic, accidental fire. A new life, born not from ashes, but from the searing heat of consumed flesh and fresh blood.
Survival became more than a creed; it was an addiction. The wilderness, the decaying skeletons of abandoned buildings – these became my sanctuaries from the suffocating judgment of a world I no longer belonged to. I scavenged for odd jobs, anything to keep the gnawing hunger at bay, and then, out of sheer necessity, I sold my body. Prostitution, they called it. A transactional exchange of flesh for coin. But it wasn't long before a new, darker impulse emerged, a predator instinct awakening within me. There were moments, during the act, when the urge to exert absolute control, to inflict pain, would seize me. A pillow pressed over a client's face, stifling their desperate gasps until their struggles ceased; my hands tightening around a throat, the exquisite feel of life draining away beneath my touch. Male or female, it didn't matter. The violence, the raw, guttural screams, the final, shuddering silence – that was the true currency, the real ecstasy, a perverse ballet of power. I would then raid their homes, taking anything of value, leaving behind a carefully staged accident, a fleeting ghost of normalcy. The sound of pain, raw and unadulterated, was a symphony to my ears, a lullaby that soothed the ravaged, howling corners of my mind. And when I gave birth, a tiny, squalling life brought into this brutal world, I sold it without a second thought to a childless couple.
Survival. It was the only truth.
Now twenty. Five months spent living on the fringes, shrouded in shadow. Then, one day, a fleeting glimpse. My mother. With another man. And a child. A child she had chosen, a family she had built, while I rotted in the aftermath of her callous abandonment. The hatred, a festering, putrid wound within me, erupted. She had discarded me, had left my father to shatter, creating the monster I had become. I remembered his pleas, his desperate, pathetic attempts to hold onto her, to our family. Her icy refusal, her contempt for his "boring" life, for us. And now, this picture of domestic bliss, a vile, sickening mockery of everything she had destroyed.
"Hello, mother," I purred, my voice as cold as the grave.
Her face, a mask of shock and dawning horror, finally recognized me. The daughter she had cast aside, now standing before her, a walking testament to her indifference, a nightmare brought to life. If she hadn't left, if she hadn't shattered our lives, perhaps I wouldn't be this broken, this twisted thing she now saw. Without a word, I raised the gun. One shot for her, another for her new husband, a third for their innocent child. Three
lives extinguished, a grotesque act of cosmic retribution. But before I could turn the gun on myself, before I could finally silence the relentless clamor in my head, they arrived. The Federation Criminal Police Organization (FCPO). They had found me, not because of the recent carnage, but because of a previous "accident." A female client, strangled in her bed, her valuables plundered, her vehicle stolen. I had tried to burn the evidence, but this time, I had been sloppy. The consequences were swift and unforgiving: death row.
As I languished in that sterile cell, awaiting the ultimate judgment, a
visitor arrived. Major Michael Colmatta. A Federation officer, his face etched with the weariness of war, yet his eyes held a predatory glint that mirrored my own. He offered me a chance, a reprieve from the gallows: join his ranks, fight Zeon, and my criminal record would be expunged. A second chance. A new canvas on which to paint with blood, but this time, with official sanction, a license to kill. I accepted without hesitation. The idea of legitimate slaughter, sanctioned by the very system that condemned me, was intoxicating.
I was transported to a military base in California, herded like cattle with
the other condemned. Sweat, blood, and a simmering, violent anger became my constant companions as I clawed my way up the ranks, from seaman recruit to warrant officer. The training was brutal, relentless, pushing me to my physical and mental limits, but I thrived on it. The more demanding, the better. Each punch thrown, each drill completed, was a reaffirmation of the monster I was. And finally, after countless hours in simulated cockpits, I earned my wings: a mobile suit pilot.
The Federation's arsenal was evolving. Beyond the venerable Type-61 Tanks, M353A4 Bloodhounds, and FF-S3 Saberfish fighters, they now possessed true giants, the instruments of our vengeance: the RGM-79 GM, the rugged RGM-79[G] GM Ground Type, and even the mass-produced RX-79[G] Gundam Ground Type. And more, I was told, were in development, whispers of even greater destructive power.
Our mobile suits were armed to the teeth: the HWF GMG·MG79-90mm Bullpup Machine Gun and the YHI YF-MG100 100mm Machine Gun for the GM Ground and Gundam Ground Types. We also had access to a
devastating array of secondary weapons, designed for maximum carnage: the BLASH HB-L-03/N-STD Hyper Bazooka, the YHI FH-X180 180mm Cannon, the YHI 6ML-79MM Missile Launcher, and the YHI ERR-TYPE.Doc-04/380mm Rocket Launcher. For defense, two types of shields, flimsy promises against the inevitable: the FADEGEL-RGM-M-Sh-003 and the RGM•S-Sh-WF/S-00116•Ap-A. And in close quarters, the elegant, terrifying gleam of a beam saber, a scalpel against Zeon's brutish Heat Hawks, designed for tearing flesh.
During training, I favored the GM Ground Type. Its handling on Earth was superior to the standard RGM-79 GM, but my eyes were always on the mass-produced Gundam, with its superior armor, its potential for inflicting greater damage. Then, Major Colmatta delivered another order, another shift in my grim destiny. I was to join Black Ops, a unit he had personally formed for the Federation, known ominously as the Black Dog Squad, stationed in North America.
The Black Dog Squad. A chilling name for a chilling purpose. Officially, we were tasked with hunting down Zeon's "Noisy Fairy Squadron." Unofficially, we were a dumping ground for the Federation's most problematic pilots, the ones deemed too unstable, too dangerous for conventional units. We were the rabid dogs, the broken toys, unleashed where others feared to tread. Under the command of the vicious Renato Germi, a man who reveled in cruelty and held the power of summary execution over his subordinates, we were less a cohesive unit and more a barely controlled pack of psychopaths, operating on the fringes of official mandate, our violence condoned, even celebrated.
Being the sole female member of the Black Dog Squad didn't faze me. In fact, it solidified my sense of belonging. Here, my darkness was not only tolerated but embraced. We were given specialized mobile suits: the sleek, black RGM-79S GM Spartan, along with black-painted RGM-79[G] GM Ground Types. Renato, as unit leader, had a custom head design on his Spartan, a grotesque crown for his twisted authority. But it was the GM Spartan that truly captured my attention, its agility and power far surpassing the earlier GMs, even the mass-produced Gundams. This was it. My comfort zone. A place where my innate violence could
finally find its proper, sanctioned outlet.
I yearn for real combat, for the opportunity to unleash the beast within, to feel that intoxicating surge of power once more. Let the Zeon's "Noisy Fairy Squadron" come. Or whoever else dares to stand in my way. I crave the sensation, the exquisite release that only killing can provide. The cleansing fire of destruction.
To be continued.