"Everything seems so much clearer after it's all gone. You see what you wanted, what you needed, what you always had but never realized. It's a clarity that is hard to understand, a state which you kick yourself for not reaching earlier. Yes, everything is so much clearer when it's all gone." - Yzak Joule, formerly of ZAFT, C.E. 76, three years after the Break.

"Men are at war with each other because each man is at war with himself." - Francis Meehan


Terminal File

The year is Cosmic Era 79, six years after the Break of the World; the worst terrorist attack in mankind's history. Attempts to break up the colony proved less effective then hoping, sending the earth into an ecological and economical tailspin. The devastation was made worse by an accidental misfire of the Junk Guild-held GENESIS Alpha device. The resulting collapse spawned a desperate three-year war that left 5/6th of the PLANT colonies destroyed or uninhabitable, many losing contact with each other entirely. And at the end, it saved nothing but to render space as dispopulous as earth. Even the land of peace, the Orb Union itself, disolved into civil infighting before the waves claimed it once more...

Now, in the ruins of the world, many struggle to survive. Refuges crowd the Junk Guild-constructed and operated Waystations, massive facilities clustered around a nuclear or geothermal power plant, each holding millions of people. The others cities are flooded or destroyed, only now are settlements springing up again. It is in this world that factions, remnants, bandits, and vagabonds make their lives. This is the Broken World.


Ruins of Boston, Massachusetts, North America, June 5th, CE79

"Goddamn it!" was the only thing Launo felt applicable in his current situation, pressing his mobile suit back into the recess of the wall as another beam impacted nearby. His heavy panting was drowned out by the alarms which blared in the cockpit, the GAT-01 Strike Dagger protesting rather loudly about how screwed it was, and by extension how screwed Launo was. He knew he couldn't keep this up for much longer; if the mobile suit didn't burn out, then he would. The motors in the left knee where grinding hard, sending spark with every movement, and he could smell the burn from the other joints all the way in the pilot's seat. He'd tried to stretch times between a proper overhaul too much, tried too many time with discount hangers when he did have it maintenenced. Yet another warning light began to blare as he threw himself across the street, charging through the knee-high water. Water which was rapidly leaking into the mobile suits lower extremities as the waterproofing failed. Launo's unit was literally coming apart at the seams.

The pilot threw himself behind another rotting skyscraper, a viridian beam streaking past him and hitting down the street. The impact and explosion began to collapse the structure, forcing Launo to begin evading once gain. Yes, goddamn fit the situation quite well. He should have known better then to take a job that smelled so keenly of Zodiac. He had known better, he really did. He never took the Zodiac jobs, or jobs that smelled like Zodiac. Or jobs that it appeared Zodiac might have once imagined. Same thing went for the flip of it, avoiding Phantom Pain in every way possible. It was better for business, pleasure, and life expectancy that way, as far as he was concerned. And he wasn't concerned about their ideals, or rhetoric. It was the same old garbage they'd said before the break, and he hadn't listened then either. Why any of it mattered now was beyond him. Old habits die hard, he supposed. The piercing beam rifle reminded that wasn't all that would die hard if he didn't keep moving...

He wasn't sure if the mobile suits where Phantom Pain. They weren't regulars, though, the pilot knew that much. Phantom Pain, like Zodiac, was far looser then their previous organizations, both of which already allowed the aces and specialists to color their mobile suits in various ways. But the gaudy paint jobs of these mobile suits where beyond even beyond those lax standards, a haphazard mish-mash of stripes and marks combined with strange mixes of neon oranges and greens. The patterns weren't known to him, but more then a few wannabes painted up their units to give the impression of greater skill then they actually had. Not that these two seemed to have much trouble pinning Launo down. The twin suits, a GAT-01D1 Duel Dagger and GAT/A-01E2 Buster Dagger, far exceeded Launo's own Strike Dagger. But they were rare, as well, and hard to maintain.

So, that meant one of two things: irregulars or mercenaries. And given the quality of their gear, despite the flash and pomp of the paint, the former seemed the most likely. Launo swore again. Irregulars were the bane of many freelancers; unstable or unsuited for regular duty, even with the loose organization of the post-Break militaries, irregulars were still too skilled to be discharged or locked up. Given gear, ammo, and fuel and sent out on loose missions to enforce the ideals or purposes of Phantom Pain, or protect the group's interests according to the irregular's own understanding of them. Most took this as a very loose mandate to do whatever the hell they wanted. Others committed atrocities that made even the hardliner regulars sick to their stomachs.

Yeah, Launo was fucked.

He slammed on the controls, brutally sending the Strike Dagger around another corner as a massive blast from the Buster Dagger's impulse cannon tore through the building he had been hiding in. Launo was only more convinced of their irregular status by the wanton disregard for the city ruins, something Phantom Pain wasn't so keen on. Here, in the flooded ruins of Boston, there was so much history. Much of which was being vaporized and slagged with each attempt to vaporize or slag Launo instead. The slippery pilot wasn't about to lay down his life for history, though. He'd his own story to write, which didn't involve getting turned to vapor by a bunch of whacked-out psychopaths.

Well, at least not HERE it didn't.


Launo Denman was a former Earth Alliance soldier, serial #336321-234-92. Rank, 2nd Lieutenant. Age, 27; blood type, A positive; hair color, strawberry blond; eye color, blue. As per last official physical, in accordance with standard Earth Alliance regulations, circa CE.0074, weighed at 172 lb., or 78 kg. Height, 6' flat, or 1.8 meters. Merits include Distinguished Service Cross, a Bronze Star, and the Valentine Service Merit, amongst others. He was a member of the 6th Mobile Suit Regiment, out of Georgia. Certified Top Grade on GAT-01 Strike Dagger, GAT-01D1 Duel Dagger, GAT-01A1 Dagger (including AGM/E-X01 Aile Striker, AGM/E-X02 Sword Striker, AGM/E-X03 Launcher Striker), and GAT-02L2 Dagger L (including AQM/E-A4E1 Jet Striker and AQM/E-M11 Doppelhorn Striker), . Certified Second Grade on GAT/A-01E2 Buster Dagger and GAT-706S Deep Forbidden. Cross certified basic on enemy models ZGMF-1017 GINN and ZGMF-515 CGUE, as well as theoretical basics in other ZGMF- models. Projected qualification on and Re.100 series of mobile suits is top grade.

Psychiatric profile described him as a creative and solid soldier, if one without a hardcore code of loyalty or ideals. His job was soldiering, nothing more. Concerns over repressed feelings of regret or similar problems did not manifest, or concerns over over detachment that might make him a danger to himself or those around him. Any further concerns outweighed by service marks and qualifications. Marked as stable for service.

Turned down service in 81st Autonomous Mobile Group "Phantom Pain" three times.


Pacific Ocean, Near the Equator, June 5th, CE79

"Descent Team 17 ready for orders, Home."

"Roger Descent Team 17, proceed to quadrant Q22X-TN25 in the staging zone. Good luck down there, stay safe." the operator said, no hint of true concern at all. It was a false gesture, an attempt at easing nerves foisted upon him without any true feeling to support it. It was, in short, a lie. They didn't care if he was safe, just that he brought them something usable.

Michael gulped down a breath of recycled air, pausing to collect himself. He'd done this half a dozen times already, deep recovery dives having become the primary focus of his job as of late. It was no question why; the pay was the best he could get. Duty had played a part early on, but that had burned out after he first one of his buddies had popped, their mobile suit crumpling up like a tin can in a compactor. The fact that it was an instantaneous and painless death did little to assuage his fears. But he wasn't going to hyperventilate, not again. That hadn't ended well the first time, and had only served to get him killed in yet another way. He didn't to add yet another method to the list.

He deftly handled the controls, mobile suit sliding through the ocean with ease. It was designed for that, then further modified to serve as a recovery unit. This, of course, meant most of it's weapons had been stripped as well, yet another thing that never sat right with Michael. He resolved to spend the rest of his life on solid ground after this, his sea legs having been throughly amputated. The suit began it's descent, it's home submarine drifting out of view as he continued to sink into the depths. He double checked his sensors, his nerves remaining on high despite their universally positive readings. Too many stories of death coming faster then any diver could react to burned him out, but fear kept him coming back. Fear of what might happen to him if he tried to run without fulfilling his contract, fear of fates far worse then a death, even A death down here. That was a fear which drove him back under the waves, counting the days till he was a free man again at last and praying he lived long enough to enjoy the sizable payoff he was getting from this.

He looked to his left and right, making sure the SONAR was accurate in reading his diving partners, both in their own mobile suits. Everything was fine.

"Alright, 17-2 and 3. Lets get this over with." he said, the massive mobile suit rapidly sinking as it headed for it's assigned goal.


Terminal File

Michael Amsel is a member of Zodiac, West Pacific Chapter. Green uniform. Age, 31; blood type, B positive; hair color, golden blond. eye color, green. Records, abet old, have him at roughly 170 lb. and around 6 feet in height. Known for service since the the first Bloody Valentine War, Michael is a certified diver with numerous accolades for his service in the naval theater. However, given the ZAFT organization, concrete records are hard to find. However, it is known that he was a moderate in politics, and that he had decided to emigrate to Orb due his love of the ocean. He rejoined Zodiac after the Break due to old ties and great need of a job. However, the West Pacific Chapter is not known for being the friendliest. Of the seven Zodiac chapters, the West Pacific was the most commonly despised outside of the factional conflict that existed between Zodiac and Phantom Pain.


Unknown location, Pacific Ocean, June 5th, CE79

The slow drip was the only sound. Give enough time, it would erode away everything, the slow inexorable advance eating away at the foundation day by day, year by year, second by second. Water was a constant foe, sometimes fast and sometimes slow. You could divert it or guard against it, but in another way or another form it would show up once more. Even here, a place hardened against it, would eventually fall with enough time and lack of attention. Not that anyone was left to attend to it, all long having died or fled. The collapse had been hard for Orb, a combination of economic devastation, political infighting, and the ecological shift brought on by the Break of the World. The rising seas and other factors had led to Orb becoming unstable in a literal sense.

The Orbian political scene, dominated by strong personalities, was a battleground between Representative Cagalli Yula Athha and her hardliner followers who preached the Orbian ideal, attempting to bring unity and peace. Her side, however, fell into the pitfalls of extremism all the same. Many attributed things to her that she would have never supported, nor her father. In her name, great travesties where born. From the misuse of her ideals of peace came pain. The Seiran family found the political refuge on the far side of this, but was marred by corruption, hypocrisy, and lies. They sought to abandon Orb and it's ideals, to join with the false rage of the world against an equally false foe. The Sahaku family, on the other hand, had already abandoned it's home, ironically saving itself from the demise of Orb as a result.

Ame-no-Mihashira remains a fixture in the heavens, and continues the Sahuku's enigmatic goals even now. But Ame-no-Mihashira was not the only mobile suit factory, nor the Morgonroete facility on terrestrial Orb. Other facilities, on Orb and the outlying islands, held secrets of a previous age and new discoveries of the Break.

And in once such facility, a single solitary facility, on a single solitary island, sat a single solitary tube, with a single solitary figure. A boy, not a day over fifteen, sat in a pod in the center of a strange darkened room. The only light came from the pulsing. green glow which radiated from the pod. Eerie shadows danced across peculiar devices in the room and lit the young boy up, who rested in nothing more then a white gown. The pod was vaguely oval, like an oblong egg holder turned into a technological marvel. Wires streamed from it, snaking through the room like a cable rainbow, and linked into the various machines surrounding the device, some going into the floor and ceiling. It as a laboratory, that much was clear. And it held a secret...

The slow drip was the only sound.


Aboard the Lesseps class (refit) Goethals, middle of the Pacific, June 5th, CE79

Bernd Armbruster tossed some of the manila folders back onto the table with a sigh. "Are you sure these are the ones? Nothing all that remarkable about them..." he said, eying his captain carefully. He was no stranger, having served with the captain for almost half a decade now, but that only scratched the surface of the bond they shared. It was odd, in a way. At 36, he was amongst the eldest members of the crew. And he held considerable prestige amongst them as well. But his captain, a young man by most accounts, commanded near awe from them. Each of the crew, Bernd included, had a story to tell about the captain and how he had, in one way or the other, saved them. Be it literally, as was in the case of many of the more recent joiners, but some others had more specific means. Others kept their stories hidden, safe to say each had their own reasons for this, and Bernd didn't begrudge them it. It had taken him some time to open up with his own story.

The captain had found him, as he found all of the crew, in their moment of greatest need. For Bernd, it was a point in which the once alcoholic man had fallen on hard times, doing enforcer work for the local mob. He drank to drown out those feelings, the murmured voices in his head. He had to shut them out. But the captain came, and he spoke to Bernd in a way no one had ever spoken to him. On a level different. He had taken the man, spent months with him to ween away the dependency and shown him a whole new world. The feelings where back, the voices more constant, but with it came a new clarity, a new existence.

Porsche said he had been her destiny. He had saved her from a life of crime and piracy, one of constant abuse by her fellow 'mates,' and a death at the hands of the ZAFT forces. Bernd didn't know anything about destiny. All that mattered was he was dedicated to the captain, sworn to repay the life he had been given a second chance at.

He felt the captains bemused grin before it ever crossed his face.

"I am sure, my friend. They have their parts to play, and they will need our help. The others, they will help us more then we could ever help them."

"But..."

"Do not worry, Bernd. Please, go inform Andrew of the destination. I'll be there shortly."

"Sir..." was all Bernd could bring himself to say, bowing respectfully and heading to the bridge. Waltfeld would be happy to get things underway again, at least.

Back in the office, the captain let out his own held sigh, his long blond hair falling around the Victorian mask he wore. He glanced down at the folders in front of him, eyes scanning the profiles and lists. At least two where like him, and he was eager to meet them some day. The others each had their part to play. He pulled open the drawer, quickly taking out a small case of oval pills as his eye caught the sheets labeled N. Roanoke, R. Burrel, V. Dare, and J. Nara. He pushed them aside as he gulped down the pills, revealing three others; S. Asuka. A. Zala, and C. Zala. But the last two brought him a smile. Even in this time, there where points of joy to be found. The captain stood, leaving the strew folders across his desk, and headed for the door. He adjusted his mask as he left, heading for the bridge with due haste. Idly, his brain began to wonder. How long would he have to keep up his Masquerade. He already knew the answer.

Until it was done.


Ruins of Boston, Massachusetts, North America, June 5th, CE79

Launo cursed twice for his luck. Phantom Pain irregulars where one thing. One very bad thing, but still, one thing. But now, that was the last of his worries. What ever God he had offended, he made a silent prayer requesting a stay of judgement just this time. His prayers were quickly adding up, the list including to please let his unit not die on him now, and various pleas for divine intervention. But this was not the intervention he wanted. The pilot guided his mobile suit to glance around the corner again as another explosion rocked the flooded city. The air was steamy now, sizzling energy as the mobile suit battle began to unfold. Launo watched as a strangely equipped ZAKU let a beam boomarang go, carving through a building on it's way to the enemy. Another, a GOUF of some sport, flew above the buildings, raining down a torrent of fire from an arm-mounted gatling. Two others, both equally customized ZAKU units, supported the other two.

The Zodiac Specialists, North American had come. The Strike Dagger pilot was piecing together a picture from snatches of conversation he was overhearing. Apparently, the not particularly bright Irregulars had decided to call in some friends. What they got was a trio of Dagger-like mobile suits that Launo had not seen before, only heard about. However, these units where not here to support. Instead, they opened fire on the irregulars, apparently citing something about 'gross misconduct in accordance with the ideals of the organization." The units, which he knew only by the name Hyperion, carried a back mounted defensive barrier which weathered all of the two Irregulars attacks, counterattacking with rapid-fire hand-held weaponry of some sort.

And the Zodiac Specialists had shown up after that.

"Shinn, watch it! You're being to reckless!" shouted a young womans voice, laced with concern. The reply came from a smooth and older male, a simple response which spoke instead of free spirit. "Ah, let him be, Lunamaria. Shinn will be Shinn."

Launo simply hid, counting his options as a war broke out around him...