The nightmares clawed their way back, a relentless tide of my father's vile pleasure, his violation burning afresh in my mind. As his grotesque face twisted in an attempt to force his depravity upon me, it suddenly contorted, dripping with scorched blood, a raw, burned horror. He tried to terrify me, but the gunshot wound to his forehead and the searing burns I inflicted were my doing. I ripped myself from that hellish nightmare, his final, echoing scream ringing in my head, a macabre lullaby. I hadn't known this particular torment since I put a bullet in his skull and torched our house at seventeen, but now, it was back with a vengeance.
I stared at the glowing digits of the clock: 3:30 AM. There was no going back to sleep, not truly. I merely awaited the dawn, that grotesque vision still festering. Morning arrived, cold and unyielding. A quick shower, then a trek to the mess hall, the stale air thick with the scent of synthetic rations and grim determination. Breakfast was a perfunctory act with the other "personnel" before the true grimness of the mission began.
This was the day. Six others and I, the "Black Dog Squad," were bound for North Dakota, a festering wound where a Zeon base festered. We'd converge with Federation forces from South Dakota. Renato, a man carved from the same hard rock as the rest of us, was joining this time, "the witch hunter" still no return from the Arizona wastes.
"Even if you're the only woman in this squad, I'm not going easy on you." Renato's words from yesterday, a guttural promise of brutal equality, barely registered. I didn't care.
We are criminals, every last one of us, our bonds forged in the shared indifference to each other's lives, bound only by the singular, blood-soaked purpose: to slaughter Zeon scum. We are not soldiers; we are living weapons, instruments of death. I crave it. I want to kill. I want to torture. I want to drown in blood and the symphony of fear, a feast far richer than any previous mission offered.
Our transport tore through the sky from the California base, a dark stain against the rising sun, hurtling towards South Dakota. The objective: obliterate the Zeon forces in North Dakota. Any escapees into Canada meant mission failure, a black mark on our collective soul. Canada, that ghost of a nation, scarred by the colony drop, mirroring the devastation in Sydney, Australia, during 'Operation British'. Southwestern Canada, a desolate wasteland, echoed by the scarred landscapes of America and the densely populated East Asia. Even in that dead country, I knew Zeon and Federation forces still crawled, locked in their endless, pointless struggle.
We slammed down at the South Dakota Federation base, a meager outpost, a handful of mobile suits standing vigil. RGM-79[G] GM Ground Types, unremarkable cannon fodder, lumbered about. Their leader, however, rode a stolen MS-06F Zaku II, a grotesque mockery in its white and blue Federation paint. Its arsenal: '120mm Zaku Machine,' 'heat hawk type 5,' and '280mm Zaku bazooka'. Why a Zaku II? Why not an RX-79[G] Gundam Ground Type? It didn't matter. We called him Joe Bayashi, rank Lieutenant.
"Welcome, Black Dog Squad. Major Colmatta already told me you would arrive."
The briefing room was cold, stark, reeking of stale fear and desperate plans. The Zeon base in North Dakota, a colossal ulcer. A monstrous 'Dobday-class' warship festered within its depths, a cancerous growth that needed to be excised or seized swiftly, its devastating cannon a spitting image of the Federation's 'Big Tray'. This was no skirmish; this was true battle, a slaughterhouse teeming with Zeon mobile suits. After the briefing, I felt a familiar gaze, a malevolent presence. One man. Staring. At my body. I left, a phantom itch on my skin.
"He-hey, wait! Hold on!" A voice, insistent, pathetic, halted me.
"What do you want?" My voice was
flat, devoid of warmth.
"Can I know what's your name? You're my type." The words, sickly sweet, dripped from his lips.
"...Disgusting..." I walked away, the nausea rising.
We began the grim march, South Dakota to North Dakota, the Zeon base a hidden cancerous growth deep within the mountain. They knew we were coming, the gate a steel maw clamped shut, no other entrance, no shuttle bays, no information. Force was the only language they understood. No 'Big Tray' for us, its devastating cannon a distant dream, too slow, too cumbersome. So Renato, ever the brute, chose the beam saber.
We moved, a tide of grim purpose, forced forward by Renato's unyielding command. Renato, a man of brutal efficiency, leveled his bullpup machine gun at Joe, who dared to question his methods. Joe had no choice but to fall in line; waiting for the 'Big Tray' was a death sentence, a glacial crawl. We wouldn't waste precious GM Cannon ammo; that weapon was reserved for the heart of the Zeon warship. Our unit: myself, Renato in his GM Spartan, a lone GM Ground Type, and three GM Cannons. Joe, in his stolen Zaku II, commanded four GM Ground Types. Eleven units. More than enough to carve a path through Zeon flesh.
The gate shrieked open, torn by brute force. We plunged into their base, the air thick with the scent of fear and ozone. Code red. Alarm lamps pulsed, bathing the interior in a sickly red glow. Zeon forces mobilized, a swarm from the depths. We were greeted by a "warm surprise": the chatter of Zaku Machine Guns, a hail of lead. Five Zaku units, spitting fire and bazooka rounds, choked the entrance. This was just the outer layer, the vanguard. The battle was a maelstrom. Two GM Ground units from South Dakota, along with our own, were reduced to scrap. We scavenged their weapons, their ammo, then pushed deeper into the abyss. Eight units remaining.
The 'Dobday-class' was gone from its berth. It had slipped away, a phantom, heading towards an unknown exit. Then, another ambush. A Zaku II, a ghost in the shadows, obliterated a GM Cannon hiding near the entrance. I put it down. And then, five more Zaku IIs, a relentless surge. Seven units remained. The GM Cannon, our last hope against the 'Dobday-class,' was paramount. We tore through them again, a whirlwind of steel and fire, this time without losing a single soul. We pressed on, deeper into the base, following the monstrous 'Dobday-class' along its winding escape route.
Yes. This war... this is the war I crave. The sensation of murder, of taking life, it ignites me, turns me on. The screams. The guttural cries of fear. The gurgling pleas as life drains away in a fiery explosion. The sharp intake of breath before the bullet finds its mark. It's a climax, an ecstasy that floods me, an ASMR I long to hear again and again, even in my tortured sleep. I love it! I love it so much! I want more! Give me more! I want MORE! I want to drown in the screams of pain, to be driven to the absolute edge of climax!
We found it. The 'Dobday-class,' still lumbering towards the exit, trapped by the narrow confines. It couldn't bring its main cannon to bear. Five Zaku IIs and a monstrous blue 'MS-06B Gouf,' a beast of a mobile suit, stood guard. Its left hand ended in a '5-barrel 75mm Machine gun,' its shield bore a 'Heat Sword Type-βIV,' and its right arm coiled with a 'heat wire'. Six Zeon forces, with the 'Dobday-class' at their back, against our seven Federation units. Now, this going to be fun.
"You finally arrive, Federation dog, and that stolen Zaku." The Gouf pilot's voice crackled, laced with contempt.
"We will stop you no matter what! I cannot let you win after the colony drop, for what you did!" Joe's voice, surprisingly strong, defied the grim odds.
"Suit yourself. After we finish you, we will launch a nuclear missile in Washington Seattle." The Gouf pilot's promise, a chilling echo of past atrocities.
"Enough talk!! Time to hunt!!" Renato, a man of action, launched forward, the remaining GM Cannon unleashing its fury. I shadowed Renato, a predator behind a predator, tearing into the Zeon forces. Joe moved, and the remaining GMs formed a protective shield around the GM Cannon, which was pouring fire into the 'Dobday'. I shot. I killed. I ripped with my beam saber as a Zaku lunged with its heat hawk.
The GM Cannon's relentless assault struck the 'Dobday's' main cannon, a vital artery. They finally did it, obliterating the monstrous weapon. But the 'Dobday' itself remained, spitting machine gun fire, forcing us to dance on the edge of oblivion. A Zaku's shot shattered my bullpup machine gun, leaving me disarmed. I tore my Heat Knife from my back, a flash of red-hot steel, slashing at the Zaku's body. The pilot, a child, wounded and exposed in the cockpit, a brief, horrifying glimpse. Fear? No. Shock? Not really. Not in this war. I charged, the Heat Knife a searing brand, plunging it into the cockpit. How does it feel? Imagine falling into a caldera of molten rock, your flesh consumed, melted away. That's how it felt.
My forces bled, minor damage from the 'Dobday's' machine gun fire as we annihilated the Zaku remnants. But the Gouf, a demon in blue, seized the moment, systematically tearing apart the GM Cannons, one by one, after they'd finished their grim task on the 'Dobday's' main weapon. This bastard was serious. Renato and Joe unleashed a barrage of machine gun fire, but the Gouf danced, an untouchable nightmare, its attacks aimed at Joe, who barely blocked with his heat hawk. Renato and I, along with the others, were left to deal with the remaining Zaku and the crippled 'Dobday'.
The Gouf, an intelligent beast, turned its focus on me. I met its charge with my beam saber, a clash of wills. It dodged, fluid and deadly. Our dance devolved into pure, brutal close combat. This Gouf wanted me dead.
Joe tried to support me, but that wretched man from the briefing, the one who called me "his type," intercepted him, throwing himself into the fray. Joe, forced, moved towards the 'Dobday' to demand its surrender. I lunged, dodging the Gouf's whip, purging my wire-missile just before my GM Spartan could be torn apart by the explosion. I slashed with my beam saber, thrust with my heat knife, but the Gouf's pilot, a master of defense, used his shield as an impenetrable barrier, frustrating my every attack.
Then, a sudden, blinding flash. That man, his bazooka spitting fire, struck the Gouf's back. The Gouf roared, turning its fury on him, thrusting its heat sword into the GM's gut. I saw my chance. I slammed the Gouf and the crippled GM into the 'Dobday,' a sickening crunch of metal. I seized the bazooka, fired, and watched as the Gouf and the GM exploded in a fireball, the force of the blast ripping through the 'Dobday,' half of the warship tearing free. This is war. Sacrifice is demanded, a bloody tithe to stop that monster. This is the grim reality of the Black Dog Squad.
"You Federation scum... I cannot believe you took down all my unit and the Dobday." The Zeon captain's voice, raw with disbelief, crackled through the comms.
"It's over, just give up!!" Joe's voice, triumphant.
"This is an insult... SIEG ZEON!!!" The captain's final, defiant scream. And then, the 'Dobday' began to detonate, a chain reaction of explosions, tearing itself apart. We ran, a desperate scramble for the exit, the shortest path out of that collapsing hell.
Only I, Renato, and Joe survived, scarred but alive, our machines bearing the grievous wounds of battle. The Medea transport, a beacon of reluctant salvation, descended after Joe's call. Joe returned to the South Dakota base, while Renato and I returned to the cold, sterile embrace of the California base.
"You're not bad at all, Lydia. You really are a true Black Dog Squad." Renato's words, a rare compliment, meant little.
That man, the one who called me "his type"? He never stood a chance. He couldn't have escaped. And I didn't care. Those words, "you're my type," were the most disgusting sounds imaginable. I'd heard them a million times, in the grimy backrooms where I sold my body. So many men, their lust-filled pronouncements, their desire to use me as a "fuck toy" to spill their pathetic pleasure. I chose to end their lives, of course, to strip them of everything. That is the true work of survival.
We landed at the California base, the mechanics already swarming our GMs, their tools eager to mend the broken. The Witch-Hunt had returned. I saw a different Gundam, painted in a stark, predatory grey, and another, unfamiliar GM. Not a Gundam Ground Type. Those belonged to Lilith Aiden and Barry Abbot, the Witch-Hunt's grim harvest. Lilith piloted the red beast, the 'RX-78XX Gundam Pixy.' Barry Abbot commanded the 'RGM-79FD Armored GM'. Two alien mobile suits, never before seen. And the "good news": the Federation had birthed a new weapon, the 'Beam Rifle,' a spitting instrument of death far superior to the solid ammo of old. New GMs, fresh meat for the grinder, had also arrived.
Major Colmatta, a shadow of authority, appeared as I turned to my room. He'd heard Renato's report, a litany of our grim success. I was promoted to Lieutenant, a hollow reward for the blood I'd spilled, for the 'Dobday' and that Gouf I'd sent to hell. My hard work, if you can call this work, was paying off. My criminal record, a masterpiece of depravity, would become legend. For now, only rest. A brief, poisoned respite after the soul-crushing exhaustion of the last mission.
To be continued.