Rolf saw it through his GM’s primary camera—a flicker, then a dead glass orb. He didn’t cheer. He’d learned not to. A disabled Zaku wasn’t dead. It was a trap.
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.
The Zaku’s mono-eye died first.
The mono-eye flickered back on—emergency backup power. The Zaku’s torso twisted with a grinding shriek of damaged servos. Its remaining arm raised the heat axe. Not to swing. To throw. Mobile Suit Gundam- MS Sensen 0079 -Normal Down...
The Zaku collapsed. This time, the mono-eye stayed dark.
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.
“He’s dead. For real this time.” Rolf’s hands were shaking. He flexed them inside the control gloves. “I’m Winchester. Zero rounds. Legs are yellow. Request immediate extract.” Rolf saw it through his GM’s primary camera—a
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.
Silence.
“Yeah. No kidding.”
“Thunder Lead, this is Thunder 3. Bogey down but intact. Requesting clearance to withdraw.” His voice was flat, recycled oxygen dry in his throat.
It moved.
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. A disabled Zaku wasn’t dead
Don’t move. Please don’t move.
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.