“Copy. Pull back to Nav Point 7. Don’t engage anything.”
Ensign Rolf Kessler, Federation MS Ground Team 08
Twenty-three rounds. Tracer fire walked up the Zaku’s chest, sparking off the hardened steel, chewing into the cockpit hatch. The axe spun loose, clattering against the GM’s shoulder armor. Too close. Too damn close. Mobile Suit Gundam- MS Sensen 0079 -Normal Down...
The Zaku lay crumpled against a collapsed highway overpass, its heat axe still clutched in its right manipulator. Zeon ground crew had painted teeth on its shoulder shield. Cute. Now its pilot was either dead or leaking into the cockpit, and Rolf was supposed to sit here like a parked tank.
He powered down non-essentials. No radar—gave away position. No comms unless encrypted burst. Just the hum of the reactor and the slow drip of hydraulic fluid from a bullet graze on the GM’s left thigh. He watched the Zaku. “Copy
Rolf looked back toward the overpass. Somewhere under the wreckage, a Zeon pilot was already cooling. No burial. No name. Just another entry in the operational log.
“Yeah,” Rolf said, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. “Normal down.” Tracer fire walked up the Zaku’s chest, sparking
At Nav Point 7, the resupply team was already setting up the portable catapult. A young tech with grease on his face waved him into the repair cradle.
“Normal down, Ensign,” the tech said, not looking up from the GM’s shredded knee. “You walk or you get carried. That’s the rule.”