This is my first Mobile Suit Gundam fanfiction to ever be showed to more than one person, so you should feel special for reading it. But seriously, I started working on this as a sequel to another story, but I ended up liking this one a lot more, so if I get a lot of good reviews for it, I might start putting on the original one (after A LOT of editing). I guess I should also mention that I take a lot of liberties throughout this story, mainly just to make it better, so for those of you that get mad at me for going against the original series (which is doubtless to happen), please just keep that in mind. Also, the 301st Zeon Expeditionary Brigade and the 11th "Sandman" Mobile Assault Battalion are mine, so please don't use them without my consent. And one last thing, if I mention any other units, they are purely random numbers and names and any resemblance to anyone else's is purely coincidental (i.e. let me know and I'll change them ASAP). So, read, and enjoi.
MSG 0079: No Sympathy for the Sands of Time
Prologue - Introversion
Kuwait, February 14, 0080
Space, that great darkness, the Last Emptiness someone had once called it. It really didn't matter who, more so the fact that it truly was terrifying to think of spending eternity floating through it.
How weird, he had thought many times before, how the hell could a Spacenoid be terrified of space? Well, it wasn't so much being in space, but dying in that coldness, it was terrifying.
His eyes rolled up toward the screen in front of him. The sky was beginning to turn red as the sun began to set, or was it the blood in his eyes? Was the sun even setting? What time was it? It seemed an eternity had passed since they had been attacked, an eternity since he had watched his friends disappear under fire and sand, an eternity since that goddamn Guncannon had blown a hole in his gut.
Silence, aside from the ringing in his ears. The battle was still raging, had to be. There was no way it could be over just yet, could it? His eyes shifted toward the gaping hole in the cockpit, only two feet to his left. Explosions were still erupting everywhere outside, but it was still eerily silent. Sand blew in from the hole, a shell had just hit not even 10 meters from him, and yet he still didn't hear it. There was no need to worry much about it though. No, the pain in his gut and along his left arm told him there was really no point in worrying about his sudden hearing impairment.
A cough, felt, but never heard. A warm liquid trickled down his lip. Blood. It had to be. He didn't feel like wiping it away, allowing it to drip from the tip of his chin down to his neck. Did he bite his lip again? Yes, but that wasn't where this blood had come from. No, that had come from much deeper inside him.
Struggling to lift his head, he saw the wound in his gut for the first time. He tried a few times to lift his left hand to cover it, but realized quickly that his arm was out of commission for the time being when it refused to move. Using his free hand, he tried to lift his left arm, only to find his fingers still tightly wrapped around the joystick. Taking the time to pry each finger off, he examined his wounded arm for a moment. Shredded by shrapnel, but still in one piece for the most part. Shoving it into his gut to stop the bleeding, he couldn't help but wince at the increased pain. At least it would hold of the bleeding for a little while.
What was that? He didn't hear it, more felt it. Spending the greater portion of a year inside the giant machine, it had almost become an extension of himself. What it felt, he felt, because it was him. Footsteps, who knew how many? Who the hell could it be? Fear and adrenaline began coursing through his veins, his heart began pounding hard in his chest. Stop! It'll just make the bleeding worse.
Breath, that's right, just breath. Calm yourself, control your breathing, just calm down! He couldn't speak, the words were coursing through his brain, lightly across his throat. He struggled to slow his breathing. The pain! Ignore it! Calm down, calm down!
The cockpit opened, blinding him slightly from the sun shining directly in. A figure stood there for a moment, no words said, a pistol poised in his hand, aimed directly between his eyes.
This is it, my final goodbye. Twenty-five years, that seems a proper age to die at. So long, Earth, you won't be missed, as I'm sure you'll never miss the Desert Butcher.