Author's Note:
Alright, I'm a bit tired, so I'll keep this short and honest.
This is something I've wanted to make for a while. There just aren't enough good reader inserts out there—especially when it comes to characters like Lalah Sune, Loni Garvey, Roux Louka, or Sayla Mass. It's frustrating how little content there is for them, considering how compelling they are. So, I decided to fix that.
If you're here, expect a mix: some chapters will be one-shots, others will have actual plot arcs with progression and emotional depth. I loved Witch from Mercury too, so you might see a bit of that influence as well.
Content warning: I write in a gritty, realistic style—think George R.R. Martin meets Gundam. That means there will be explicit language, sex, drug use, and adult themes throughout. This isn't fluff—it's meant to feel raw, grounded, and real.
With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy what's coming. Let me know what you think—I always love hearing from readers.
Chapter 1: Loni Garvey - The Girl from The Middle East
U.C. 0097
The Unicorn moves again.
Another Gundam. Another symbol of hope, or horror, depending on which side of the barrel you stood.
The Zeon—always clawing for relevance—never learned. They clung to ideology like a corpse to memory, hoping the world would change because they believed hard enough. They still wore the banners of lost wars, trusted in passion over power, pride over progress. Even now, with the Narrative, the Nu, and the cursed Unicorn cutting through time like ghosts, there were still machines from the Pezun uprising. The Xeku Eins. Specters from Gryps, limping forward like old soldiers with no one left to salute.
Father tells me to smile. Be gracious. The Earth Sphere is shifting, he says. Zeon might yet make strong allies, if we learn to tame their fire. He speaks of another like me—a girl, my age. A Newtype. A daughter of Mahdi Garvey. He says her father refined Haman Karn's legacy, polished it like a blade, passed it down like an heirloom.
We were to deploy in our Zetas at 1900 hours. Formal greetings first. A handshake. A bow. Maybe a glance that lingered longer than it should have.
Who knows.
Maybe she's cute.
Page 237 — Your Diary Entry
She was.
Your lips curled into a smile, narrow and knowing, a private amusement playing behind your teeth as you took in the dim-lit room. "So, you're the Newtype girl I've heard whispers about," you murmured, voice warm with irony, thick with challenge.
The room breathed shadows. Only the pale blue hue of a hologram kept it from vanishing into pitch—a flickering projection of Full Frontal and a silent, white-haired lieutenant standing at his side like a ghost given form.
But none of that mattered.
Not when she was here.
You stepped forward, arms loose, shoulders relaxed, like this was your stage and everyone else had just stumbled into it. Your eyes scanned the dark, caught on her silhouette—the curve of her cheek, the way her hair fell in wild, defiant curls. Loni.
The hologram shifted. Full Frontal's red visor flared, his phantom form looming above the deck. "A surprise to see you made it," he said, voice velvet over steel.
You let out a snicker that cut through the room. "The Zeta A1s took hellfire damage on reentry," you said, tapping your chest with an open palm, "but the New Decides have crawled out of worse graves."
You turned toward the screen, spine straightening. "Acting First Lieutenant."
It hung in the air like a challenge.
All eyes turned. Full Frontal tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Apologies. All reports listed nine members in your squad. And you were… an Ensign."
You chuckled, wiping dried blood crusted near your temple. The bandage wrapped tight enough to make your eye bulge, a white knot of pressure over a bruise that throbbed with every breath.
"You're right," you said simply. "I was an Ensign. But the others are dead. Acting squad leader bumped me up before he bled out in the cockpit. Said if I was going to pilot the Gundam, I'd better sound the part."
A hush fell across the Zeon ranks aboard the ship. "The Gundam," someone whispered, and like a ripple across still water, the word spread.
You stepped forward again. The air felt thick, like breathing through gauze. Your skull pulsed like a war drum behind your eyes. Still, you found her face again—Loni, standing quiet in the back.
"Isn't that why you called us here?" Your words were calm, but there was flint behind them. "Because you need us."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Loni bit her lip. Hard. Enough to draw blood.
Kirks, tall and shadowed beside her, shook his head slowly. No words. Just that motion.
Yet Loni didn't flinch.
She just lifted her chin, tilted it ever so slightly, like the whole damn room was beneath her.
"Damn kids," someone muttered. You weren't sure who. Maybe Kirks. Maybe a ghost.
Full Frontal didn't move. The red light of the holo shimmered faintly over his masked face. "What do you want?" he asked at last, voice flat. Measured. But there was an edge to it, too. "Is this some performance? Or do you actually want something?"
You sneered.
It was not a pretty thing. It dragged wrinkles across your face, pulled the corners of your mouth into something harsh and human. You clenched your fists, hard enough that your knuckles popped like gunshots.
"Years ago," you said, voice ringing through the chamber, "after the Federation branded my father and the Titans as terrorists… you—Zeon—took some of us in. Absorbed us like meat into the grinder."
You scanned the room.
Your eyes swept across them—officers, pilots, zealots in uniforms bleached by radiation and time, some too young to know better, others too old to change. All watching you like you were a bomb waiting to go off.
"They told us we wouldn't survive in this Universal Century," you said. A smirk spread slowly across your face, savage and electric. You jabbed a thumb into your chest, hard. "But we—the New Decides—we understood the truth behind Zeon Zum Deikun's philosophy. Better than any of you ever could."
A silence spread out, wide and taut.
Even Full Frontal didn't speak.
His lips parted, just slightly. A tightening in his cheek—almost imperceptible. But it was there.
You pressed on. "The Unicorn is not a weapon. It is a sign. A harbinger. The Federation—your great enemy—is a rotting corpse gnawing on its own flesh. It devours its art, its heroes, its architects of change. It cannibalizes progress. Chokes on its own mediocrity."
You raised your hand—fingers spread, shaking. Then curled it into a fist, trembling with conviction.
"To protect the Earth," you said, "we must leave it. Let it return to the animals. Let it be wild again, as it was meant to be. The stars—that is where humanity belongs."
Your breath caught. For a moment, you almost saw it: the shimmer of a distant world, untouched and endless.
And then the Zeon soldiers exploded.
"Guerrilla war! Decades!" someone screamed, voice hoarse and ragged.
A woman's voice snapped like a whip: "This little shit thinks he can lecture us about the war?"
A chair scraped against the floor. A man stood. His eyes were wild, gleaming with old hate and fresh fear. He reached for his coat, flicked his wrist.
The switchblade caught the moonlight like it had been waiting for this moment.
"I'll gut the little smartass!" he roared.
He charged.
You braced—brought your fists up. But the pain behind your eyes flared again, white-hot. The motion threw your balance. You staggered.
Then—
"Enough."
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Firm. Feminine. Cold as steel left out in winter.
"Look at his head," the voice snapped again.
She pushed past the bigger man, not even sparing him a glance. Walked straight up to you. Eyes scanned you, dissecting every inch like a mechanic stripping down a machine. Her gaze lingered on the bandage. The blood. The unfocused haze in your left eye.
"Who the hell let him out of the med bay?" she said. Her lips curled in disdain. "He's probably got a concussion. That's why he's talking like he's seen God."
Your eyes narrowed.
You recognized the voice now.
"Loni…" you said slowly, tasting her name.
The taller man beside her bristled, but didn't speak.
So that was her. Loni Garvey. Daughter of Mahdi. Heir to a philosophy too pure for this filthy world.
And now, you were the one looking her up and down.
She was shorter than you expected—below average in height for a girl—but she carried herself like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Muscle shaped her frame. Not bulky, but lean and sharp, like she'd been carved by the desert wind itself. Her skin held the deep bronze hue of someone who lived beneath suns and sandstorms. She looked like she'd been fighting since the cradle.
The uniform fit her too well. Zeon Officer's colors—red collar, green dress shirt, gold buttons tight across her chest. Your gaze lingered there for a beat too long, and you didn't bother hiding your smirk.
Even hidden beneath military starch and formality, her figure had presence. The orange-yellow Zeon emblem stood like a brand over her chest, its edges catching the light as if to say: mine. A black belt hugged a narrow waist, the red cuffs cinched over wrists you found yourself itching to grab.
She wore shorts. All of them wore shorts.
And there you were—the idiot who'd stormed into the Middle Eastern Desert in a full pilot's suit like a rookie fresh off the hangar deck. You chuckled under your breath. What a damn treat.
Her eyes narrowed at you like you were scum she'd scraped off her boot. And yet, her glare only made your grin widen.
There was heat in your eyes now, but it wasn't fever—it was something raw. Something real.
You took a step closer. Her chin rose, eyes meeting yours.
Teal. Not green. Not blue. Teal, like the cosmos had swirled together just for her. Streaks of comet-light and aurora shimmered in them, and for a second—just a second—you felt small beneath them. Like she could see the stars you hadn't earned yet.
Her hair was thick and wild, mostly black, but with streaks of purple glinting in the sterile ceiling light. It parted on the left, messily, the back tied with a purple band—though strands still jutted out in rebellion. She looked like she'd stepped out of a dream.
Like she was the dream.
You laughed again, quietly this time, and her expression didn't change.
"Is he high…?" she muttered, eyebrows twitching, suspicion growing behind those cosmic eyes.
You shook your head once. "I'll make myself clear then…"
You turned back toward the screen—toward the ghost of Char Aznable.
"I want to hear you say it. Char Aznable, Neo Zeon. I want to hear you admit it. You and Haman Karn said we'd be swept away by the winds of change. That we'd be forgotten. But my father… and the men of Pezun Station—they still live."
A pause.
Then Full Frontal spoke, low and thoughtful. "So that's what this is. To feed some wounded pride."
The room watched, silent.
The platinum-haired sergeant stepped forward slightly—not to warn, but as if trying to ease something sharp. "Commander…"
And that's when he did it.
Full Frontal—the mask, the mystery, the shade of Char Aznable—removed his visor.
Oceanic eyes looked out across the room. Deep, endless, unblinking. You could drown in them. Eyes that had seen the Earth from orbit. Eyes that had seen war, and loss, and something close to destiny.
His voice came firm. "From me, commander of our armed forces—I say this plainly: Neo Zeon needs the New Decides."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
And you… you laughed again.
Right in the middle of their death stares, you were grinning like a madman. Like someone who had already won the game.
"So," you said, spreading your arms wide, "what's the plan, then?"
You could feel the tension crackle in the air like electricity off a psycoframe. "Because I'm ready to get this show on the road. Let's kill some Feddys."
Full Frontal chuckled—an honest, human sound—and a rare smile touched the corner of his lips.
"You came in a Gundam-type, correct?"
You nodded, arms folding across your chest as the blood soaked bandages still clung to your side.
"Me, the lieutenant, and the sergeant—Zeta types. Three of 'em. Funny thing is, I heard Dakar's got its own little factory now, churning out suits like they're candy bars."
Full Frontal turned, slow as gravity. "Ensign Loni Garvey."
She snapped to attention so violently it made the air shift. Her salute was textbook, rigid enough that you figured if someone laid a board along her spine, it would've rung like a tuning fork.
Your gaze slid back to her, amused. She glanced your way—and stuttered. Just a hiccup in her breath, a little stammer.
"I-I…" She caught herself, shook her head like she was trying to jar something loose. "We'll have to utilize the Unicorn at these precise points—if we want to uncover the coordinates of the box." She turned toward the camera as if it were a second superior officer. "That's the whole point of this mission."
"The Unicorn…" You echoed under your breath.
You'd heard about it. Rumors scattered across encrypted channels. A white demon of the battlefield, cutting through squadrons like a scalpel through tissue. Some said it was Federation. Some whispered it had Zeon roots. No one knew for sure. You just knew the death it left in its wake.
And now it was here.
"Bringing it into the city's gonna draw attention," you said. "The kind we might not be able to walk away from."
Full Frontal exhaled like a man who'd already accepted the price.
"Dakar is the Federation's seat of power. The moment Minovsky interference intensifies, they'll send everything. Suits. Artillery. Infantry. Even politicians with guns, if they're desperate enough."
"So then…"
Loni stepped forward. Her boot fell hard against the metal flooring—clank—and your gaze dropped to her legs. Muscled. Tan. Black Zeonic socks to the knee. They looked like they could crush a man's ribs, and maybe that's what had you so distracted.
She wasn't stacked from the rear, but up front? That uniform was working overtime.
She inhaled, and her voice rose like a soldier's, not a girl's.
"We've been fighting since the One Year War," she said. "Commander Full Frontal, I request authorization not only to initiate the siege on Dakar, but to signal all remaining Zeon cells across the colonies and Earth. We won't get another chance like this."
Then—her eyes drifted to you.
She approached. Five foot three, but the way she walked? Her shadow stretched halfway to the ceiling. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides like she was winding up for something.
So this was that NewType pressure you'd heard about. You could feel it through the floor.
Her eyes met yours—those teal galaxies swirling—and something deep inside your chest stirred. Strength. Conviction. Fury. Whatever she had in her, it was contagious.
"The New Decides' war isn't the same as ours," she said, voice calm but iron-wrapped. "But we've been allies before. You came here because you heard the call."
Her eyes narrowed, noticing it. The blood. It had broken through the edge of your gauze, crawling down your ribs in a thin red line.
"Life and limb," she said quietly, "and it was the Federation bastards that took them."
You narrowed your eyes. She was smart. You weren't a fool—you could see what she was doing.
Stoking the fire. Building the myth. Tying your suffering to theirs.
Still, you played your part.
"…We've got our own goals for Dakar," you said slowly. "But I think we can help each other get what we both want."
You looked from Loni, to Full Frontal, and then—off to the taller man who had been watching the whole time, eyes flickering between you and her like he knew exactly where this was going.
She looked exhausted now, one hand planted on her hip. The fire hadn't gone out, but it was burning low. "...Oh? And what's that supposed to be?"
Your lips curled, slow and venomous. "Gundams."
Silence followed. A thick, oppressive hush that made the room feel smaller.
You continued, letting the words breathe power. "After the First Neo Zeon War, it became a quiet truth. Every Gundam ever fielded—repaired, restored, then hidden. Some stashed in colonies. Others buried in black site vaults on Earth. Buried so deep they could rot a hundred years."
"Yes, we're aware," said a cold, unimpressed voice. Platinum hair, aristocratic sneer. Purple eyes that practically glowed with disdain. "What's your point?"
Full Frontal turned his head slowly, gaze settling on the younger man. "You think they wouldn't hide them beneath their own capital?"
The tension snapped like a taut wire. You looked them all dead in the eyes. "An informant got word out before it went bad. Said there's a vault under Dakar. My team's dead, but our mission was simple—ride the chaos, breach the site."
"Dakar's going to be a battlefield," the platinum-haired man snapped. His voice was climbing now, coiling like a spring. "You think the Federation's stupid enough to store their finest war machines where their senators sleep?"
"Angelo," Full Frontal said evenly, his tone gone still, like a father warning a child.
But Angelo was already past the edge.
You smirked, hand flicking lazily forward. The other slid into your pocket. "Let the white-haired pussy rant," you muttered. "Guy looks prettier than the girl. Hell, I bet he likes it like one too."
Loni's expression didn't shift. But Angelo? You hit something vital.
His face twisted into rage. He lunged toward the screen, voice rising like a missile leaving the silo. "The second you're in a mobile suit—no, the second I hear your goddamn callsign—I'm coming for you! I'll burn you out of the sky myself, you son of a bitch!"
The comms feed distorted as he pushed closer, his face warping from fury and proximity, every word punching through static like gunfire.
You laughed, lips spitting foam from the sheer thrill of it. You rose to your feet, raising your fist, voice like a bomb in a tin room. "THEN COME GET SOME, YOU LITTLE BITCH! THAT'S A CHALLENGE, ANGELO! A PROMISE! I'LL PUT YOU IN THE DIRT!"
Zimmerman slammed the comms shut.
Your fist stayed raised for a beat, trembling with adrenaline. Then you dropped it, breathing hard.
"Well," said the dark-haired officer dryly. He glanced at the others. "That was interesting."
You dragged your fingers through your hair, exhaling slow through your nose like smoke from a barrel. "I've still got a mission to finish."
Loni stared at you—not with concern, but something closer to dumbstruck incredulity. "You've got a trail of blood running from your eyebrow to your damn chin…"
You licked your lip, tasting copper. "Yeah, nice work, Detective."
She flinched, but rolled her eyes, turning away like she had better things to care about.
Zimmerman's fingers trekked thoughtfully through his beard as he looked between the two teens. "We're short-staffed as it is... but we could use scouts in Dakar," he said, voice gravel-worn and heavy with implication.
Loni turned to him slowly, her movement deliberate, calculated. Her eyes narrowed like a predator sizing up uncertain prey. "What's the point of scouting," she said flatly, "if I'm just going to level the city with my mobile armor in the end?"
"You pilot a mobile armor?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked back to you. "Didn't think you were the type."
She turned—this time fully—and for the first time, she smiled. It wasn't sweet. It was something wilder, sharper. The smile of someone who lived for war, for carnage dressed in noble cause. Battle talk lit a fuse in her.
"…And I didn't think someone who got shot down should still be walking around with all that bravado," she fired back, that confident smirk never leaving her lips.
"…Who said I got shot down?" You mirrored her smile, your voice a low hum of challenge.
Zimmerman sighed—short, clipped, and final. "Loni, support the foreigner," he ordered, not looking at either of you. "He'll need someone who knows Dakar like the back of their hand."
Loni's jaw dropped. Your expression mirrored hers, albeit with a growing grin.
"W-what?" she sputtered, her voice climbing in shock and betrayal. "That's not fair!" Her fist clenched at her side. "Why do I have to support some foreign hick who—!"
"Loni!" barked the tall man from before.
"She's right," you cut in, laughing openly now, arms crossed over your chest. "This is real rich. I don't need some little girl holding my hand—"
"Easy, Kirks," Zimmerman warned, voice calm but eyes sharp as broken glass. That glare of his said, You finish that sentence, and you're out.
Loni stepped forward, voice trembling not with fear—but something more dangerous. Resolve. "I—I know that even though I'm a NewType, people look down on me," she said. "Because I'm Muslim. Because I was born on Earth. But I don't care." Her voice cracked—but her stance never did. "The Federation murdered my mother. Everything I do—everything—is to make sure what happened to her never happens again. My life's purpose is vengeance, Commander. Justice."
"Loni…" Kirk's voice again, quieter this time.
Zimmerman let out a long breath that smelled of weight and responsibility. "You'll be back in time for the siege. I guarantee it." Then he turned toward you. "I've heard stories of the Zeta Types the New Decides use…"
You couldn't help it—you almost giggled. "I've got my hands on a Zeta Plus D-Type," you said, letting the pride drip from your voice. "It's a real piece of work. Self-takeoff, gas propellants. Push her too hard, and she'll break the sound barrier on the flat."
"I'm glad to hear it," Zimmerman said dryly. "Then the two of you should clear the desert with ease." He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the lines around his eyes. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke to his left. "How long to Dakar?"
"If I push her, half a day. But the Feds—"
"—It has to be clean," Zimmerman cut in. "No risk. The Federation is out there searching, same as us. We move wrong, they get the prize."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," you muttered, waving a hand. "Then I'll take a full day. That should be quiet enough."
Your gaze drifted to Loni again. She was staring at you, not with anger—but with that same look someone might give an insect on the bottom of their shoe.
Man, you didn't know why you liked the annoyance in her eyes—why you kept trekking over her face like a hiker tracing the same trail over and over, hoping she'd smile again. But she didn't.
Zimmerman's voice broke through the haze. "So then... you've received your mission."
Loni Garvey nodded, her smirk tight and held close. Hands folded behind her back like a soldier before a firing squad. "Sieg Zeon," she said, her voice smooth as silk and just as cutting.
They began to funnel out of the room, boots echoing against steel floor. You lingered behind, drawing a breath like it might be your last moment of calm before the storm. That's when you felt her presence—closer now. Loni. Standing beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours.
As the others passed, she looked up at you—and there it was.
A smile. Soft, almost shy. But real.
"We're going to be working together," she said, voice just above a whisper. "So we should at least try and get along."
You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. "I think we'll get along just fine."
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Really? Why so?"
You snorted, a chuckle leaking out before you could stop it. "Well... we're both damn good mobile suit pilots."
What you didn't say—what you barely held back—was: We'd make a great team because your chest would feel amazing in my hands. That's teamwork right there. Let me be the damn bra. You cleared your throat.
"…Well, we're both NewTypes," you offered instead, voice trailing as you tried to keep your grin from showing your teeth.
Her eyes widened. "Y-you're a NewType too?"
You nodded slowly, almost gently. "Seems like me and you've got more in common than you think."
She looked at you, then let her gaze drift down to your boots, as if recalibrating her image of you from the ground up. Then—another smile. This one sly.
"Well, Foreigner," she said. "Maybe you can teach me a thing or two."
She turned then, starting to walk off. Her hips swayed in quiet rhythm, the kind of movement that wasn't performative but natural—built into her bones.
"Hey, where you going?" you called after her, grinning. "Thought we were having a conversation?"
"I've got to pack," she said over her shoulder. "Especially if we're going undercover."
And as she walked away, you caught yourself watching. Not her stride. Not her shoulders. Just the soft rhythm of her ass under the fabric of her uniform—tight, practiced, defiant.
God help you. You were in trouble.