Suit Gundam- Ms Sensen 0079 -normal Down...: Mobile

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.

Ensign Rolf Kessler, Federation MS Ground Team 08

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.

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. Mobile Suit Gundam- MS Sensen 0079 -Normal Down...

“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.”

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 collapsed. This time, the mono-eye stayed dark. At Nav Point 7, the resupply team was

Rolf didn’t think. He squeezed the trigger.

Rolf swore under his breath. Forty minutes. His GM’s fuel gauge read 14%. Leg actuators were squealing in the recorded playback—that telltale grind of sand in the knee joints. And the 100mm machine gun? Twenty-three rounds left. One burst. Maybe two.

He walked the GM backward, each step a prayer to the actuators. The ruined city loomed on both sides—dead apartment blocks, a burned-out Type 61 tank, a Zeon supply truck still smoking. Somewhere, a child was crying. Or maybe it was the wind through shattered glass. Somewhere under the wreckage, a Zeon pilot was

It moved.

Don’t move. Please don’t move.

“Yeah. No kidding.”

The Zaku’s mono-eye died first.

“Thunder Lead, this is Thunder 3. Bogey down but intact. Requesting clearance to withdraw.” His voice was flat, recycled oxygen dry in his throat.