The calendar on the wall It was day 29, just forty-eight hours until the dawn of year 0080. While the Federation consolidated its power across the globe to crush the last of the Zeon Remnants, I sat in a hollow silence. My girlfriend, Lydia, had finally been extracted from the "Black Dog Squad" and was now assigned to the "Witch-Hunt" team under Barry Abbot, but even that relief felt distant. My mind was anchored in the ruins of Detroit, specifically on the medical ward holding Ensign Katarina Banks—the
woman I had pulled from the wreckage of Los Angeles.
"Captain Aaron, you've been staring at that coffee for ten minutes," Karla's voice broke through the fog. She sat beside me, her expression softening. "Why were you so eager to push for Los Angeles when we were stationed in Chicago? It wasn't just tactical, was it?".
I took a slow, bitter sip. "I spent the first twelve years of my life there, Karla. Before my parents moved us to Auckland, New Zealand, for the farm, L.A. was home. I wanted to see if anything was left.".
"And?" she asked quietly.
"And it's gone. Just like San Francisco," I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. "North America is becoming a graveyard of dead cities, even before the Zeon war finished the job.".
A chime interrupted us. I was summoned to the communication room to receive a report from the Detroit Federation base. It was the intelligence brief on Katarina Banks. She had woken up two days ago, but the report wasn't a standard medical update; it was a descent into a nightmare.
The record began on a Saturday night at 11:00 PM. Katarina had been on leave, celebrating her son's graduation with her family and wife. Then the sirens screamed. Zeon forces, led by Ederich von Nacht—the man they call 'The Fool of Zeon'—descended like a plague.
Katarina had ushered her family into a reinforced bunker and rushed back to the base, donning her flight suit to defend the city. It was a slaughter. The Federation was outnumbered, their ranks shredded by the suddenness of the assault. Her Guncannon was torn apart by enemy fire; she barely escaped the cockpit before the machine vaporized.
She watched from the ground as the city of Los Angeles was systematically erased. Buildings became pillars of flame, and the air filled with the screams of civilians being hunted by Zeon units in acts of sheer brutality. Bleeding and desperate, she crawled into the subway tunnels, following the tracks into the darkness until she collapsed from blood loss.
When Katarina finally regained consciousness five weeks later in Encino, saved by an old woman, the world she knew was extinct. Even before her body had fully recovered, she dragged herself back to the city to find her family.
But Zeon hadn't just occupied L.A.; they had broken it, and in the vacuum they left behind, a "Celebrity" warlord had risen from the ashes. The city was no longer a battlefield; it was a hellish cult-state. Rainbow flags were smeared with the words "Love is Love" written in human blood. The city's PA system, once used for emergency broadcasts, now blasted a cacophony of music celebrating narcotics, occultism, and every conceivable depravity—from cannibalism to the most horrific acts of violence.
The "Celebrity's" minions were monsters. They had salvaged wreckage from the war, cobbling together bastardized, modified Mobile Suits to terrorize the survivors. Men, women, and children were rounded up, some turned into sex slaves, others treated as "human cattle" to be slaughtered and eaten.
Katarina moved through this apocalyptic landscape like a ghost. She reached her home, only to find the bunker door wrenched open. It was empty.
The record detailed her search through the "City of Angels." She saw beheaded corpses lining the streets and bodies hanging from skyscrapers. The "minions" drove recklessly, using their modified Mobile Suits to stomp on running survivors like they were cockroaches, laughing as they did so.
Seeking shelter in a ruined university, she heard the echoes of laughter and agonizing screams. She peered into a classroom and saw the ultimate betrayal of humanity. Her wife was being brutally gang-raped and beaten. As Katarina watched, paralyzed, the attackers drew a large knife and beheaded her wife mid-violation. They didn't stop there. They continued to desecrate the corpse, laughing and kissing the severed head.
Katarina fled into the sewers, the only place left where the dead didn't scream.
By the time the Federation finally ordered the counter-attack from Chicago and Detroit, Katarina was a hollow shell. She made one last desperate push to a local school. Inside, the stench of blood was suffocating. She witnessed minions violating and strangling children of all ages.
She found her son cowering in a restroom, moments away from being attacked. Using a fire hydrant as a club, she took down his assailant, seized their rifle, and began a desperate run for the city limits.
The escape was a "hunt," with minions chasing them like a pack of hyenas for sport. On the open road, a minion leveled a Solothurn S-18/1000 anti-tank rifle. The heavy round struck her son's head. In a heartbeat, Katarina was left holding only the headless body of her child.
She sat there, surrounded by the enemy, until the Federation bombardment began. The shells fell indiscriminately, killing minions and trapped civilians alike. An explosion threw her through the air, knocking her into the dark once more. When she woke, the city was silent. Her son's body was gone, likely vaporized or buried in ash. She crawled until her blood ran out, which is where we found her.
I stared at the screen as the report ended. The Captain from Detroit confirmed my fears: "She's not recovered, Aaron. Her mind is unstable. The trauma... it's too much.".
I thanked him and ended the call, my head throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. This wasn't just about Zeon anymore. The "Celebrity" and his minions were a new breed of terrorist—civilians seizing military hardware to enact their own twisted visions. If this was happening in North America, it was surely happening in Europe and beyond. The world was fracturing into warlord-led fiefdoms.
"Squadron 7! I repeat, Squadron 7! Please move out to DuPage County ASAP!".
The speakers snapped me back to the present. No more time for ghosts. No more time for the Los Angeles of my childhood. Whether it was Zeon remnants fleeing California or a new cell of terrorists, the mission remained the same: survive. I have a date with Lydia to keep, and I won't let the world burn before I get there.
To be continue.