The humidity of June in Northern Ontario was a stifling weight, but it was nothing compared to the tension coiled in my gut. For months, we had lived as ghosts in Thunder Bay—Zeon Remnants playing the part of dockworkers, mechanics, and quiet neighbors. Now, the countdown had begun. Tomorrow was Canadian Armed Forces Day. To the Federation, it was a celebration of power; to us, it was the smoke screen for our salvation.
We had stripped our lives to the bare essentials. My house, once a sanctuary, was now a shell. We'd sold the furniture to strangers and signed away the deed to fund a new life in the tropics of Cuba. Watching a young couple walk through the rooms where my daughter Jennifer had taken her first steps was a bitter pill, but the "Mad Angler" was our home now.
I drove the final load toward McKellar Island, taking a winding, overgrown detour through the industrial ruins where no Federation patrols dared to venture. The hidden passage led us into the belly of the beast: the massive, rust-streaked hull of the Mad Angler submarine, tucked away in a derelict dry dock. We arrived to find the rest of the Zeon Remnants—men and women who had been living as ordinary civilians—preparing for the departure.
Inside, the air smelled of recycled oxygen and machine oil. Jennifer was already tucked into a bunk bed, sleeping soundly alongside other children. They were oblivious to the danger, their dreams protected by the thick steel of the sub. My wife and I shared a small, cramped cabin, our hands finding each other in the dark, seeking a comfort that words couldn't provide.
At 22:00 hours, Sergeant Major Bridget Rhodes called the senior personnel to the briefing room. The holographic projector flickered to life, bathing the room in a ghostly blue light as it mapped out the Great Lakes. She explained that our journey would begin at McKellar Island and end in Cuba. The route was treacherous. We would have to pass through Sault Ste. Marie into Lake Huron, navigate past Detroit and London near Lake Erie, then head from Buffalo into Lake Ontario. From there, we would travel through Montreal and Quebec toward the open sea.
"Listen up," Bridget's voice was rasping from exhaustion. "Our window opens at 13:00 tomorrow. While the Federation is busy parading their shiny toys in the city, we slip out. But the route is a nightmare." She traced a finger along the light. "From McKellar, we hit Sault Ste. Marie, cross Lake Huron, and squeeze past Detroit and London into Lake Erie. Then Buffalo, Lake Ontario, and the gauntlet: the St. Lawrence River."
The room went silent as the map zoomed in on Montreal and Quebec City.
"The river narrows here," Bridget continued, her face grim. "In the old days, when Zeon held these cities, we could glide through. Now? It's a Federation chokehold. If we get spotted in the narrow channels, the Mad Angler becomes a 200-meter-long coffin. We'd be better off in Moosonee, but we don't have that luxury. We move fast, or we die."
She noted that if the ship had been stationed in Moosonee, the escape would have been much easier and safer for submerging. Our departure was set for tomorrow at 13:00, when the festival would be at its peak and the military's guard would be lowered. My wife leaned in, her whisper trembling. "Markus... can we really make it through Montreal? If we're stuck in the shallows..."
I squeezed her hand, feeling the calluses from months of hard labor. "We don't have a choice. We stay here, and Genevieve's 're-education' squads eventually find us. We move tomorrow, or never."
As Bridget dismissed us, The crew began securing the Mobile Suits on the deck to prevent shifting during transit and moved the last of the supplies into storage. Everyone was anxious to escape the tyranny of the Genevieve regime for the sake of the Zeon Remnant. I caught sight of Kirk Syzlack. He was leaning against the bulkhead, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wasn't looking at the maps. He was looking at Bridget with a thin, oily smirk that made the hair on my neck stand up. It wasn't the look of a man preparing for a desperate escape; it was the look of a man who knew a secret the rest of us didn't.
The morning of the festival felt like a funeral. We sat in the mess hall, picking at rations. The Mad Angler was prepped; the Mobile Suits were locked in their magnetic cradles to prevent shifting during the dive. We were scheduled to leave at 13:00, but the morning felt heavy. During breakfast in the mess hall, Bridget sat with my family to discuss the narrow waterways again. Despite the calm, a sense of dread sat in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly, a sound like tearing metal.
"Sergeant Major Bridget!! Bridge, NOW! We have incoming contacts!"
We bolted. By the time we hit the bridge, the monitors were flooded with thermal signatures. Emerging from the treeline of the mainland were five hulking shapes: RTX-65 Guntank Early Types. These weren't the nimble suits of the front lines; they were massive, dual-cannon beasts designed for one thing: crushing civil unrest with overwhelming fire.
I knew the specs of the RTX-65 well. Formally adopted by the Federation in U.C. 0065, it featured large-caliber cannons and quadruple autocannons in its manipulators. While the later RX-75 was a specialized long-range support unit, these early types were essentially massive, overwhelming tanks used to maintain "public order."
"Attention, Zeon scum! We have found your hideout!" a Guntank pilot shouted over the open channel. "Surrender now or we will open fire!"
"How?" Bridget roared. "We were ghosting their sensors!"
"Because I gave them the frequency, you naive bitch."
The comms channel cracked open. It was Kirk. The monitor showed his MS-09 Dom sliding out of its bay, but he wasn't joining our defense. He was moving toward the exit.
"Kirk! What have you done?" Bridget screamed.
Kirk's laughter was distorted by the signal. "I made a deal with Genevieve Cholmondeley months ago. You lot are the 'main event' for the festival. A live Zeon hunt to boost her ratings. I get my payout and a clean record. Enjoy the fireworks! I have business in the city.""
He boosted away, leaving us blind and cornered. Kirk escaped in a MS-09 Dom he had stolen. He was a traitor and a ringer.
"I'm going out," I said, already halfway to the locker.
"Markus, it's five against one!" Bridget protested.
"If those Guntanks open up on the hull, the Mad Angler sinks before it even leaves the dock! Cover the civilian evacuation!"
I scrambled into my Zaku II FS. As the hatch hissed open, the world exploded. The Guntanks were already lobbing 120mm shells, the shockwaves rocking the submarine.
I didn't have time for a machine gun. I grabbed two Heat Hawks—one in each hand—and ignited the thrusters. I came out of the hanger like a demon, weaving through the industrial cranes as the Guntanks' quadruple autocannons stitched a line of fire across the concrete.
"All of you, return to your base," I broadcasted. "Let us leave, and there will be no more bloodshed."
The Federation pilots laughed. "Leaving? You're a coward, Zeek! The President will give us medals for taking down these Remnants and their sub. You're just part of the show!"
"Surrender, Zeek!" a Federation pilot boasted over the open frequency. "The cameras are rolling! Give the people a good show!"
I looked up. News helicopters were circling like vultures. This wasn't a battle; it was an execution for TV. This wasn't just an arrest; it was a televised "Zeon Hunt" for Armed Forces Day. Before they could zero in, I threw one Heat Hawk, embedding it in the head of the lead Guntank to blind its sensors. It spun through the air, a glowing orange streak that buried itself deep into the sensor array of the lead Guntank. It went blind, its cannons firing wildly into the dirt. I dived behind a grove of massive pines, using the foliage to mask my heat signature.
The Guntanks pressed in, their cannons roaring. Even the blinded one continued to move. I used the trees as cover, making it difficult for the helicopters to track me as well. I maneuvered behind them and reclaimed my thrown Heat Hawk. One Guntank tried to fire at me, but I dodged, and the shell hit another Guntank instead. Four units left.
The remaining units fired blindly into the forest. One attempted to ram me. I jammed my pedals down, narrowly avoiding the collision and retrieving my second weapon. I threw both Heat Hawks, disabling the heads of two more units. Then, I closed the distance and delivered a heavy metal punch to the head of a fourth. They were all still mobile, but their primary weapons were failing.
"Get this fool! Even if we can't shoot, we'll ram him!" the crew yelled.
They charged at me like bulls in a ring. I timed my jump perfectly; two Guntanks collided and exploded in a ball of fire. Two units left. Suddenly, Bridget arrived in her Dom Test Type, finishing off the remaining Guntanks with her Zaku Bazooka.
"Looks like I made it, Markus. Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yeah, thanks. But I'm nearly out of options here. Go on without me, Bridget—I'm going after Kirk."
"Wait, Markus! I'm coming with you!"
"No! He's dangerous, and if I don't stop him, the Mad Angler is a sitting duck!"
An operator's voice broke in. "Don't worry about us, Markus. Take Bridget with you. We'll pick you both up later with two Luggun units. Go arm yourself and catch that traitor."
I returned to the Mad Angler to equip a Zaku Machine Gun and a Magella Top Cannon. I told the crew to protect my wife and Jennifer. As the Mad Angler moved out toward the escape route, escorted by Sealance units and Z'Goks firing blank missiles to ward off the news helicopters, Bridget and I sped toward the city.
The city of Thunder Bay was a nightmare of parade floats and panicked civilians. Kirk was ahead, his Dom skating over the asphalt toward City Hall. Guntanks and GMs, making it hard to track Kirk. Strangely, Kirk was heading toward City Hall, where the President and high-ranking Federation officials were gathered for the festival. Even more bizarrely, the Federation troops weren't stopping him. We arrived to see Kirk's Dom slashing through GMs that were only equipped with paint guns for the parade. But as we approached the city center, the "celebration" turned into a slaughterhouse. There was no sign of Nox O'Niel Nielson's Gundam.
"Sieg Zeon!" Kirk shouted, firing his Sturm Fausts.
The rockets slammed into the stage, killing the President of Canada and Genevieve. Kirk hadn't just sold us out; he had assassinated the leadership. But then I noticed the guards—their reaction was off.
Suddenly, several RGM-79 GMs moved to stop us, but they were cut in half by a Red Shoulder Gundam Ground Type. It was Nox. Behind him were GMs with their right shoulders painted red, and they weren't using paint—they were using live ammunition to tear apart their own comrades and the news helicopters. A civil war had started right in front of us.
"What is this?" Bridget gasped. "They're killing their own!"
We watched in horror as Kirk reached the podium. He didn't stop. He fired his Sturm Fausts directly into the VIP seating. The explosion turned the stage into a bonfire of cedar and silk.
A bloodied, burned figure crawled from the wreckage of the stage. It was Genevieve. She had survived the blast, but she was a mess. Genevieve Cholmondeley crawled out of the wreckage, her legs gone, her face a mask of gore. She looked up at Nox's Gundam, her voice a pathetic wheeze over the loudspeakers. "Nox... save me... I'm your commander..."
Nox's voice boomed from his suit, cold and filled with a long-simmering rage. "You're a parasite, Genevieve. You cut our combat pay to fund your social pet projects while we bled in the dirt. You sold out the military for 'global elite' crumbs. The era of your ego is over."
"You son of a bitch... Nox!" she screamed. "You're my right hand!"
"Oh, shut the fuck up, fatso!" Nox sneered over his external speakers. "I thought that rocket would have finished you."
"Are you... fragging your own Commodore?!"
"It's more than that," Nox growled. "I'm taking your position, your power, and your money. I'm done with your ego! You cut our military pay to fund your personal social agendas and LGBTQIA+ projects! You take money from global elites while your soldiers starve. It's unacceptable!"
"HOW DARE YOU!" Genevieve shrieked. "Those people are more respected than you!"
Nox didn't argue. He didn't use a beam saber. He simply lifted the massive foot of the Gundam and brought it down crushing her instantly. The sound was like a wet balloon popping. Genevieve Cholmondeley was erased from the pavement. Kirk taunted Bridget one last time before fleeing the scene, and she gave chase, leaving me alone with Nox. Nox turned the glowing eyes of his Gundam toward my Zaku.
"Now," Nox hissed. "Let's see if you Zeon remnants have more spine than that fat cow did."
Nox charged me with his beam saber. I fired my Magella Top Cannon, but he dodged. Out of ammo, I drew my Heat Hawk. Amidst the chaos of GMs slaughtering one another in the streets of Thunder Bay, our duel began. The city was burning, the Federation was eating itself alive, and I was the only thing standing between Nox and the Mad Angler's escape.
To be continue.