2301 A.D. – Jomhuri-ye Krugis
As the sun slowly fled beyond the earthly horizon, the heavens above burned like a raging inferno. The barren world below quaked as smoke and ash filled the air, the familiar, copper undertone of blood filling each breath, chased by the heady burn of gunpowder and decay. Screams of agony rang throughout the filthy skeleton of what was once a peaceful farming village, drowned by the thunderous roars of explosions and crumbling edifice.
My home was beautiful, once. We were kind to our neighbours who were, in turn, kind to us. We shared with our community, worked together for the benefit of all and were prosperous because of it. No one starved, everyone had a roof above their heads, and we were happy. It was peaceful…until the serpent entered our garden with his wicked tongue.
Spent cartridges chimed against the crack-ridden pathways of the village, released as gunmen fired at their respective enemy lines. Empty magazines littered the battlefield, freed from their slots with a deft pull of a lever. Fresh ammo were quickly snapped in place, bolts drawn and released, as soldiers continued the bloodbath.
Falu-red eyes combed the battlefield, shoulders tense as friend was registered from foe. The odds were against them with three enemies for every ally, a dozen of whom were piloting MSER-04 Anf Mobile Suits, suits far more capable of combat than their own repurposed construction units. They were outnumbered, outgunned, out everything that could ever be possibly conceived. Arms dwindled faster what could be replenished and the last of their medicine was spent on the wounded the night before.
Food and water ran out the week before. With their supply lines gone they made do with what they could and scavenged the dead for whatever rations they carried, feeding on what the fallen would no longer need and taking their unspent ammo to continue the battle.
We were hungry. It didn't matter we were desecrating the dead. It didn't matter, because in the end our hands were already stained with blood, stained and sinned beyond anything you could ever dream of. Another sin to stain our souls wouldn't make a difference, not when they're already as black as a moonless night with what we've done.
Their reinforcements should've arrived days ago, along with the promised provisions and ammunition they desperately needed. They were assured by their allies that aid would come through secure channels. Since that day, communications were as silent as their dead, their requests for support unanswered as the battle raged on.
What few scouts they could spare to search for aid never returned, dead by enemy hands or left, deserting their comrades in hopes of survival.
They were up against killers better trained than they were. The latest firearms to hunt with, a steady supply of rations to gorge themselves upon, and countless of sacrifices to satiate their uncontrollable bloodlust – all in the name of a bloody crusade to hate and oppress a people who forever yearn for independence.
We were only children, brain wished and ill prepared for battle against monsters. The guns we fought with belonged in museums, relics of our countless failures. The harabum muqaddasah was doomed from the start and the people who trained us knew. It's why they trained us in the first place; better for fodder to die in their place and reap the rewards. I just didn't realize it until it was too late. The others…they died ignorant, still believing what was preached about Allah.
It was clear as to who their precious God stood for; the sickly-sweet proclamation uttered from the lips of a charlatan prophet proved to be nothing empty promises. Ali-Al Saachez was a deceiver, a monster – Iblīs given form. His whispers of magnificence, of faith and obligation to Allah enticed them like flies to honey. In the end, they paid it with their lives.
Soran Ibrahim cursed her enemies, cursed her god and most of all, cursed Saachez to Jahannam and back for simply existing, for destroying their lives with his taint.
In the end, I can't place the blame entirely on Saachez. I am responsible for my own actions. For every life I took, for every evil I committed – all of it is on me. But I won't let him get away; I won't let him continue to taint and destroy innocent lives. I will kill him, even if it kills me.
A shriek cried from her right, young and familiar ("Biryar," she recognized), cut off abruptly as soon as it sounded, muzzled by the rapid fire from an enemy mobile suit, bullets piercing through flesh and bone with nauseating ease. Soran reached deep into her pocket withdrew a grenade; with a rifle in one hand and grenade in the other, she bit the pin of the bomb and jerked her head, separating it from the ball and threw it at the suit before heading for cover as quickly as she could.
She leapt over fallen debris as metal combusted behind her, bypassing broken furniture and shattered stoneware as she ran for her life. Eyes swept over bodies as she sprinted past, unable able to recognize comrade from foe, their bodies crushed beyond recognition by lumbering suits. Soran aimed her M16 at a filthy MSER and quickly took out its optic scope, rendering the pilot virtually blind.
An explosion shook from behind, throwing her forward into ground. With a pained groan Soran forced herself to move, dragging her aching body from the blood stained floor. She retrieved her assault rifle as she stumbled ahead, leaping for cover behind a wall a distance away from where she fell.
Soran froze, recognizing painted dishes and shattered cups scattered across the cracked ground in an equally familiar room. Dead ahead was a battered wooden table, upturned on its back, legs broken and strewn about. Heavy traces of old blood stained the surface nearby, a dirty, broken doll dressed in a dusty lavender gown laid nearby.
"Tavî . . ." Soran blinked, breathless with disbelief. A sharp pain pierced her heart as memories began to flood senses.
The agonized cries of a man and woman echoed in her mind, the memory of an unforgivable sin forever marring her soul. Their horrified screams and enraged roars were silenced with the pull of a trigger, gunfire echoing against worn, familiar, stone walls. The final plea of disbelief fading as blood drained away, life waning until nothing but empty shells were left in their wake.
"Bâwk . . . dâyik . . ." she murmured, voice shaking as she fought to regain her composure. Soran swallowed the lump that had settled in her throat and hung her head. "Bibûre," she apologized.
A mechanical hiss cut through the air as missiles were released. They launched themselves into the air, soaring through the war torn skies, smoky grey trails staining the air as they flew to their intended target.
Sensing danger, Soran quickly dove towards the ground, dodging the hail of gunfire that tore through the wall she hid behind. Cursing the heavens above Soran gripped her rifle as she ran for better cover, dodging gunfire and explosives, leaping over fallen rubble and still corpses. She avoided the second barrage of bullets sent her way, aimed, then fired her own weapon at the enemy, adding to the body steadily rising count.
Several yards ahead a MSER rotated its cockpit and faced her, its crosshairs aligned and targeted upon her person. There was no time to move, no time avoid her fate. Her executioner was but a hairsbreadth away, ready to bring her to damnation for every sin, every brutality she had ever took part of.
This is the end.
Before the trigger could be pulled, a pulse of light descended from the heavens, piercing the MSER before her. The attack tore through the metal armour as if it were silk, splitting the mobile suit straight down the middle. The pilot was dead before the suit hit the ground, before they could utter a prayer – before they could blink.
All around her mobile suits begun to fall by the same light of judgement, sparks flying loose as host and suit died from the unprecedented attack. The earth trembled as each suit crashed into the ground, enemy units scrambling to defend themselves from their new foe. Eventually, all signs of the battle began to fade as the death toll rose one by one.
Cautiously, Soran stepped out from behind her alcove and searched the skies for the source. And there it was – floating high above was a mobile suit of unknown origin, beautiful and sleek of silver and light, it was beyond comparison to any other mobile suit she ever laid eyes upon. Particles of energy shone from a cone-shaped engine mounted upon its back, bathing the body in what could only be described as a holy aura.
She watched as the unknown mobile suit slowly turned around mid-air, its steely gaze fixed on her overwhelmed self, seemingly assessing her entire worth. Falu red eyes trailed upwards towards its crown, scanning the word etched upon its steely silver brow. "Gundam," she carefully read, her limited knowledge of the western tongue just barely able to decipher the words. Soran drew her gaze to the beautiful light once more, belatedly realizing each peak stretched out like the wings of an angel.
For the briefest moment, her broken conviction, once warped and violated by the denigrations of a monster, began to spark anew while the fate of her existence was held in the palms of cold, metal hands.