The air was thick with the smell of scorched earth and spent ordnance. After the savage surprise attack on Kyushu, the Ten Zudahs—mobile suits far more agile than their blocky appearance suggested—were locked in a battle.
"Push them back!" A Japanese pilot's voice cracked over the open frequency, his TSF's guns spitting tracers at a streaking, black shape. The Zudah, a machine of pure speed, danced around the barrage, the rounds carving craters in the city street.
"I can't see them!" Another pilot screamed, his words cut short by a blinding flash of light as a Zudah's machine gun ripped through his cockpit. The TSF crumpled, a smoking ruin.
"Retreat! Now!" A third pilot ordered, only to have a chilling silence follow as a Zudah's spiked shield-blade punched through his armor, silencing him forever.
The UN and Japanese forces, battered but having bought precious time, finally fell back or were destroyed. But for the Zudah squadron, the clock was still ticking.
"We have to hold out for one more hour until the retreat signal," May's calm voice crackled over the secure channel. She was the commanding officer, and her tone, while steady, held a tight leash on frustration.
"That's easier said than done, Captain," Jim replied, a touch of dark humor in his voice.
"They may suck, but there are a hell of a lot of them."
Jim's Zudah and two others were currently pressed into the shadowed shell of a high-rise, ten enemy TSFs closing in on their position.
"We are stretched too thin," May conceded. "All teams that are able, pull back to my position. Those who can't, stay put. We'll fight our way to you." The communication cut out with a decisive click.
Jim grinned beneath his helmet. "You hear that, boys? The boss wants us to play here a little longer."
The ten TSFs rounded the corner, their massive mechanical footsteps shaking the rubble.
"Fire!" Jim shouted, popping his Zudah out of its hiding place. His heavy machine gun roared, a steady stream of large-caliber rounds tearing through the lead TSFs. Three exploded in spectacular fashion before Jim slammed back behind cover.
"Report! Anyone of you still kicking?" he asked, a joking lightness masking the tension.
"Yeah, I'm still here," came the first reply.
"Same here," the second followed.
"Good. Regroup to the outskirts, we're getting out of here." Jim ejected his empty ammo drum and slammed a fresh one into his Zaku Machine Gun.
"Copy."
"Understood."
The comms went silent again.
"Alright, let's go—"
CRACK!
A blinding impact rocked Jim's cockpit, the world dissolving into a jarring tilt. He groaned, the sharp pain radiating from his skull.
"Grrrah!" He forced himself upright, the Zudah's systems flashing warnings.
"Head's not heavily damaged. Good."
He stabilized his machine and immediately scanned for the source of the shot—a sniper TSF, now attempting to reposition.
Got to get out of here, he thought, his internal systems screaming. He zoomed toward a damaged highway ramp, but a moment too late. Multiple TSFs, hidden in the surrounding ruins, opened fire from unknown locations.
"Can't see!" Jim yelled as his screen became a riot of flashing lights. Bullets and shells hammered his armor, the hits and ricochets causing internal sensors to overload.
"Now!" a voice commanded over a localized frequency.
"What the!?"
Before he could react, Jim saw a solid line of UN main battle tanks deployed across the highway ahead. He was trapped in a crossfire. A volley of high-explosive anti-tank shells slammed into his chest and legs. The impact was deafening; the world went black. He tumbled down the embankment, a broken heap of steel.
The two surviving Zudah pilots made it to the pre-designated meeting point, their machines limping, their faces grim.
"Where's Jim?" May demanded.
"We lost contact with him right after we managed to break clear to the outskirts," the pilot said, his voice flat with exhaustion.
"Where was his last known location?"
The pilot quickly transmitted the coordinates to her main screen.
"Somewhere here, Captain."
May's Zudah surged forward, her machine's jets howling a challenge to the night. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"
"No man is left behind," she vowed, the familiar, unbreakable code of their unit burning in her mind.
Then, her comms chirped. Jim.
"Finally!" she whispered, a wave of profound relief washing over her. But the sight that greeted her on the video feed was horrifying. Jim's face was streaked with blood, his breathing labored.
"What happened to you!?" she stammered.
"Don't worry, we're coming to you now—"
A strong, mechanical grip stopped her.
Another Zudah pilot, the squad's second-in-command, had grabbed her machine's shoulder. He shook his head slowly, a silent warning.
On Jim's screen, his words were a struggle. "Sorry, Captain. I... Agh! I screwed up." He was breathing heavily, and the distinct sounds of heavy vehicles and approaching footsteps could be heard outside his shattered cockpit.
"I have no time left," he choked out, looking around wildly. "I just want to say... Live, okay? Live."
As, a anti-tank round slammed into the top of his Zudah's canopy, penetrating but shattered when it hits the armored. A razor-sharp fragment ricocheted, severing and gashing his arm, which instantly began to bleed profusely. He ignored it, his eyes fixed on a small, sealed cover under his control panel—the emergency self-destruct.
He looked at May's face one last time, a tear-streaked smile crossing his bloody lips.
"Come on, you bastards!" he screamed, flipping the external speaker switch. The sudden, raw human shout surprised the UN and Japanese soldiers closing in.
"SIEG ZEON!" he roared, a final, defiant cry of war and loyalty.
Then, he pressed the hidden button.
On May's screen, the image of Jim's face was instantly replaced by a blinding, white explosion, followed by a deafening roar that shook the very ground under her Zudah's feet. The blast engulfed everything around him, a massive fireball that momentarily illuminated the night sky, wiping out the line of tanks and the TSFs that had surrounded him.
Silence. Only static remained on her screen.
May stared, her body rigid, her breath caught in her throat. Her soldier, her comrade, was gone.
A hand—the Zudah's heavy steel finger—gently tapped her machine's shoulder.
"Captain," the new second-in-command said, his voice now a simple,.
"We need orders."
May swallowed hard, the taste of ash in her mouth. She took a final, shuddering breath, her grief a lead weight she had to shed. The mission, and the lives of the eight Zudahs left, came first.
"We will retreat back to the Wall," she ordered, her voice clear and ringing with renewed authority. "We hold there until we have the signal to fully withdraw."
She turned her Zudah, marching away from the burning pyre that was Jim's final battlefield. The eight remaining Zudah pilots nodded their silent agreement and fell in beside her, their silhouettes grim against the distant glow of the battlefield. They walked as one, the ghosts of their fallen comrades marching with them.