The humid air of the base was heavy, not just with the Pacific coast moisture but with the lingering metallic tang of the recent California Base war. We had orders to rotate back to our usual base, leaving the California installation to other Federation forces—a necessary step to secure the launching of the massive Salamis-class warships. The war machine was slowly, inevitably, turning its focus skyward.
But not yet. Not for us.
We were grounded, confined to Earth's gravity well. Commander Earl's reasoning was sound, if frustrating: a calculated fear that rogue Zeon elements remained, watching, waiting for us to commit all forces to space before striking a final, crippling blow.
I sat outside the barracks, the coarse concrete cool against my fatigues. My mind, however, was miles away, struggling to reconcile the promise of a date with Lydia—a fragile, human moment—with the grim reality of the war machine.
"Something happen, Captain Aaron?"
Karla, one of my most reliable Bloodhound operator personnel, stood beside me, her expression a mix of concern and practiced military stoicism.
"Nothing, Karla. Just thinking about what comes next after California," I lied.
What followed was the truth, but it came not from me, but in hushed, horrified whispers from a knot of mechanics nearby. They were trading stories about Los Angeles, a Federation-controlled city that had spiralled into an apocalyptic nightmare. Zeon had taken the city, then, inexplicably, they had withdrawn. What followed wasn't a return to order, but a descent into absolute chaos. The void was filled by the city's criminal gangs, who had scavenged the wrecks of both Federation and Zeon Mobile Suits, cannibalizing them into grotesque, operational war machines.
The syndicate's leader was the stuff of nightmares: a grotesque celebrity and businessman whose rap sheet—arrogance, fraud, human trafficking, cult leadership—was somehow ignored or even celebrated by his supporters.
> The city is ruled by fear. No one, not even the President, dares to touch Los Angeles. It's a criminal-controlled state, a threat to turn all of California into hell if we move against them. >
I moved closer to the group, the details they offered chilling me to the core. These gangs weren't just stealing parts; they were fusing them, creating mechanical abominations. The examples they listed—a Zaku head bolted to a GM body, Z'gok amphibious arms, Guntank legs, and a Guncannon backpack—sounded like something scrawled on a lunatic's blueprint. They were far more bizarre than the hastily developed RRF-06 Zanny Mobile Suit.
I knew Mobile Suits. I piloted a Gundam. The internal mechanisms were complex, delicate, a symphony of actuators and minovsky reactor shielding. One wrong connection, one misaligned fuel line, and the machine turns into a self-destructing bomb. How could un-trained criminals achieve this? This wasn't the work of mere scavengers; this hinted at an engineer, a mad genius behind the scenes.
My blood ran cold. These were not military pilots; they were criminals using military-grade war machines for crime. Los Angeles's economy had utterly collapsed, mirroring the tragic fate of San Francisco, which had been reduced to an un-rebuildable wasteland by the 'Black Dog' squad.
I went straight to Commander Earl's office, the reports burning a hole in my mind.
"Sir, I request to deploy my platoon to Los Angeles," I stated without preamble.
Earl, a man whose face was a road map of every battle he'd seen, just sighed, the sound like sandpaper. He declined immediately."The situation in Los Angeles is too risky, Aaron. It is too far from Chicago, and we have to wait for direct orders from Higher-up," he growled, the risk assessment clear in his eyes: One wrong move and goes bye-bye. "We lost too many personnel at California Base, Captain Aaron Smith. We will not lose more. Do you hear me?!"
"I understand, Commander Earl. I'm sorry," I apologized, my frustration a tight knot in my chest.
"Good. Hold your anger, Captain. I will inform you or any unit available. Fighting that gang is fighting a den of convicts. Now, back to your post," Earl concluded, dismissing me.
He was right. We needed a strategy. Going rogue would violate military policy and put my troops at needless risk. But the thought of innocent civilians—what few remained—being subjected to a criminal reign of terror was agonizing.
I found an operator in the command center, a young man who was easy to convince. I asked for any visual intelligence on Los Angeles, anything that wouldn't catch the Commander's eye. The small monitor flashed to life. The city was a picture of a failed state. Heavily guarded streets, Custom Mobile Suits standing sentinel, and foot soldiers everywhere. The lights were out, total blackness, except for one point: the gang leader's 'castle,' an abandoned military base. It was a perverse beacon of power, the only source of electricity, water, and food.
Then came the truly nauseating details. Enslavement, torture, and the horrific abuse of civilians, including children. The operator zoomed in on a chilling sight: the remains of the massive Mobile Armor Rhinocheros—a powerful Zeon weapon we'd dealt with before—had been dragged off by the gangs. It had no main weapon, but its presence was deeply unsettling.
The next day, the waiting ended with a cold, shocking finality.
We received an order from the President's office. Federation forces from Detroit Base had agreed to assist, but they would execute the operation their way: an overwhelming air-based assault.
The Plan:
* First Wave: One hundred Fly Manta aircraft units would perform high-altitude bombardment, staying out of the range of the gang's
Mobile Suit weapons.
* Second Wave: Following the air strike, our Mobile Suits, Type-61 tanks, and foot soldiers from Chicago and Detroit Bases would move in to eliminate the remaining resistance.
The order came from an outside base to avoid suspicion from the remaining rogue elements in California. But the truth of the strategy hit me like a physical blow. The bombardment. The innocent civilian is involved to get killed... I wanted to object, to scream about the rules of engagement, but I couldn't. To defy the President's order would mean the mission would be handed to someone else—someone ruthless, like the fearsome leader of the Detroit aircraft platoon.
This was a mass murder. We weren't just taking down Mobile Suits; we were wiping out blocks where civilians were likely confined. But the military leadership had made its cynical calculus: Los Angeles was deemed beyond economic repair, requiring ten years to rebuild, much like San Francisco. They had no choice but to scorch it, to turn it into a 'vast land'—a ghost city. This was the 'end of Hollywood'.
The mission commenced. A fleet of Fly Mantas lifted off, followed by the heavy transport Big Tray and our Medea units. I boarded a Medea, my RX-78[G] Gundam ground type fitted with a bulky parachute pack, limiting my loadout to a Beam Rifle and a Machine Gun.
"Is this your first time free fall on a Mobile Suit, Captain Aaron?" Cody, piloting a Mass-Product Guncannon, contacted me through the comms.
"Yep. First time in the Gundam," I admitted.
"The sensation is almost the same as regular skydiving, Captain, but the mass of the suit makes the initial drop brutal," Samantha, in her GM Type-C, chimed in.
Then, a furious static-laced voice cut in. "You three in your Mobile Suits are fine! You don't know how it feels inside the Bloodhound!" Karla—who was crammed with Mariah inside the two-seater jet fighter—was livid.
Cody couldn't resist a joke. "Ah, the Bloodhound cockpit is wide like a plane's, but bad at free fall. You should be fine, Karla."
"No, I'm not! This thing is not a plane! We're rolling upside down in the sky, DIMWITT! This should be on the Big Tray!" Mariah's voice, raw with terror, burst through.
"Guys, we're almost reaching the drop point. Get ready," the Medea pilot interrupted.
The hatch opened. A rush of cold, high-altitude air hit my Mobile Suit, and I felt the heavy shunt as my Gundam plunged out into the void. Below me, Los Angeles was a horror show. The bombardment was underway. Massive fireballs erupted across the city grid, turning the urban sprawl into a churning, smoke-choked wasteland. The Fly Mantas were doing their job: the gangster Mobile Suits were taking critical damage, but the collateral damage was catastrophic.
The parachutes deployed at the designated altitude, slowing our descent until the metal soles of the Gundam's feet crunched onto shattered pavement. The city was burning. Vehicles were aflame, buildings were gutted, and the street was littered with corpses—the result of both the bombardment and the ensuing chaos.
'(...This... this is.... This is too much....)' The President's cold calculation, the necessary evil, was a cruelty I had to witness firsthand.
"SECOND WAVE NOW GO! THE PRESIDENT IS DEPENDING ON US! THIS IS FOR HUMANITY!" The commander's voice, amplified and distorted, cut through the Mobile Suit channel.
We moved out—my Gundam, Samantha's GM Type-C, Cody's Guncannon, and the Bloodhound—supported by Detroit's tanks and Mobile Suits. The surviving gang Mobile Suits fought back with a feral desperation.
I engaged a bizarre fusion Mobile Suit—a Zaku frame with Federation armor plate haphazardly welded on—and fired my Beam Rifle and Machine Gun. The projectile punched through the Zaku's torso, but the machine kept advancing, foot soldiers firing RPGs and assault rifles at our positions.
Their piloting was disturbingly erratic, wobbling and unstable, like operating heavy construction machinery rather than a war-grade weapon. It was a brute force method, devoid of the grace and precision of a military pilot. Then, the true terror arrived. A wave of gang Mobile Suits advanced, spewing liquid fire: Flamethrowers and Napalm.
"Step back! Shoot from distance! Avoid the heat!" I commanded.
I knew the risk: a Mobile Suit's reactor requires a massive cooling system. Direct exposure to fire, especially Napalm, could lead to catastrophic overheating and explosion. I directed Cody to use his Guncannon's cannons, Samantha to cover our flanks with her Vulcan and Machine Gun, while I targeted the most immediate Napalm threats with my Beam Rifle.
"Shit! A Fucking Napalm?!" Samantha's voice was laced with shock.
"These guys are fucking crazy! What are they fighting for that they won't give up!" Cody raged.
"Remember what their leader wants?" I asked, forcing them to focus.
"Um… Money, Power, and Respect?" Mariah guessed.
"Exactly," I confirmed. "That's all they fight for. That celebrity and billionaire fights for that, no matter the blood cost. This isn't a battle, Mariah. This is a siege against a well-funded cult. Karla, status!"
"The tanks and soldiers have cleared the foot gangsters. Some Mobile Suit teams are heading to the leader's mansion—wait! Something huge just arrived!" Karla warned, her voice tight.
My instincts screamed. "Stop!" I yelled. The ground shuddered beneath my Gundam's feet. The monstrous, grotesque figure of the scavenged Mobile Armor Rhinocheros burst from the earth.
It was a chimera of terror. Half-Zaku, half-GM parts were crudely fitted around its turret. The missile pod had been replaced with a Guntank's lower body, and its main long cannon was a catapult rigged to hurl more Napalm barrels. It opened fire: machine guns, bazookas, cannons, and jets of fire rained down, forcing us to scatter.
"Captain, we can't get near that thing!" Samantha shouted.
"Cody, hit the Guntank replacement. Samantha, disable the turret part. I'm going for the Napalm catapult!"
"Captain, that's too reckless! The Napalm will incinerate you!" Samantha pleaded.
"Don't worry, reinforcements from Detroit are approaching," Karla reported.
Bazooka and cannon fire slammed into the Rhinocheros, striking the rear turret and the Guntank section. The Mobile Armor roared to life, fighting back, tossing barrels of Napalm at the new Federation units. Simultaneously, the remaining gangster Mobile Suits rushed our position. I gave my final, most dangerous command. "Cody, Samantha, take the remaining gangster suits with the others. I can handle the Rhinocheros. The Guntank and the back turret are crippled. Just the front turret, core and the Napalm catapult remain!"
I advanced alone, my Beam Rifle in my right hand, Machine Gun in my left, facing the two frontal turrets of the behemoth. I dashed to the side. The right turret, equipped with Zaku Machine Guns, sprayed fire. I dodged and fired the Beam Rifle, vaporizing the turret. The other turret, armed with Bazookas, swung towards me. My Machine Gun and Vulcans chewed into the turret, silencing it.
Now, it was just the massive core and the Napalm catapult. The core's machine gun opened up, and the catapult began to swing, preparing to launch its payload.
"Captain Aaron, we're coming to help with the distraction!" a Federation pilot called.
"I'm counting on you!"
Guncannons and GM Cannons fired on the Rhinocheros's exposed rear. It took the bait, turning its massive body. My perfect chance.
I dashed forward, using the last of my thrust, and jumped onto the Rhinocheros's carapace. I emptied every round: Vulcan fire, Machine Gun rounds, and a continuous stream from the Beam Rifle, tearing into the crude armor and aiming for the main body. I fired until I saw the flash of secondary explosions and the catastrophic rupture of the Napalm barrels inside.
"Get away! Everyone, clear the area! It's carrying Napalm!" I screamed through the comms.
The Rhinocheros lurched violently, but instead of exploding on the spot, it began to lumber blindly towards the gang leader's 'castle'. It slammed into the stronghold and detonated in a massive, searing fireball, consuming the remaining people inside. The mission was over. Los Angeles was a burning hell, the Napalm turning the city into a wildfire. A ghost city, just like San Francisco, by Presidential decree.
I ejected the Gundam's cockpit, stepping out into the sickening reality of the aftermath. The air was thick with the stench of oil, burnt plastic, and incinerated human flesh. People had been reduced to crisp, unrecognizable forms. Karla offered me the backseat of the Bloodhound. Cody and Samantha would handle the Mobile Suit recovery.
I looked into the cockpit of one of the destroyed gangster Mobile Suits. It was not a command center but a crude, jury-rigged cabin: no radar, no complex monitors, just levers and a steering wheel, like a heavy excavator. It was a cockpit built for a criminal mind, not a pilot. As we moved through the wreckage—past the incinerated gangster leader and the corpses of the young, the old, the male, and the female—I felt a profound, Sydney-Colony-Drop sense of horror.
Then, Mariah slammed the brakes. A person, a survivor, stumbled into the street. Unconscious. I ran to them. It was a woman with short red hair, bandages covering her head and left eye. Beneath her tattered, makeshift homeless attire, I saw it: a worn-out Federation female Mobile Suit pilot outfit.
"MARIAH, QUICK! GET TO THE MEDIC! THERE'S A SURVIVOR HERE!"
"A survivor, Captain?!" Karla was stunned.
"No time, she's still breathing!" I lifted the small woman and carried her to the Bloodhound.
Mariah, her fury forgotten, slammed the speed. We raced to the Big Tray warship, the medical facility. The outfit's emblem was unmistakable: "Los Angeles Base". She was a ghost, a remnant of the Federation forces who had survived the Zeon attack and hid as a homeless person.
The database confirmed her identity: Katarina Banks, Ensign, Guncannon pilot.
She would be taken to Detroit for recovery, and when she woke, she would tell us what happened before the Zeon invasion, and how she had survived the chaos.
Looking at this fragile, surviving pilot, a horrible realization solidified in my mind. The enemy was no longer just Zeon. It was terrorism. It was Mobile Suits in the hands of cults and convicts. This war was going to become a mess. I just prayed Lydia was safe, somewhere far from the madness, until the fighting was finally done.
To Be Continued.