Loum

    Januaries are supposed to feel cold. At least, that's what was told by the folks that came down from Earth. Sides can't replicate the sort of conditions one could feel down there, or rather, most people didn't want to experience that, which led to them constantly replicating a nice summer environment.

    Of course, none of that mattered where Amos found himself. After all, unless you were directly in the way of a sun, space was always cold. Freezing, in fact. But this wasn't something he would notice. The machine he found himself in, the revolutionary MS-06C Zaku II, ran at a cozy 35° Centigrade, and the primitive normal suit around him didn't make the cockpit feel any more comfortable. Such is war.
    "Longinus Squadron, prepare for launch." The hangar of the Musai blared loudly, and a bead of sweat rolled over Amos' brow. It's just like in training, and the controls aren't too far from the cranes he had operated. The team goes in, takes out a couple of ships, and comes back. His eyes close.

    The selected survive. Give them a reason to select you.

    The G-forces of the launch were unlike anything he had experienced before. Even the centrifuges were nothing compared to the level of pressure he felt all the way down his spine as he was forced backward into the cushioned seat. Tunnel vision quickly gave way to a full-on blackout. A level of blackness he quickly gave way to a full-on blackout. A level of blackness he had never seen - or rather, couldn't see. A kind of primal blackness that only the permanence of death could.
    "Petty Officer Bletz! Orders!" The shouting of one of the privates brought life back in front of the young soldier's eyes, and only then did he truly see the scale of whatever he was brought into. Ships from both sides firing large beams into one another, explosions in bright shades of pink and purple swallowing the blankness of space around them, and finally his kind, the multitude of Mobile Suits charging forward with large bazookas.

    "Officer!" The soldier repeated once more. Amos' body snapped, and he finally managed to respond.
    "R-Roger. Teams one and two, advance on the Magellan cluster in front of us. Target bridges and rear engines while avoiding the main deck. Team three, provide rear support. Team four, stay further away and keep a low profile. We're going to experience casualties, and you will fill in gaps as necessary."
    His voice was somewhat shaky. Any rookie's would in that situation. No one would blame him for this. He closed his eyes and let out a quick sigh as if to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to face. A second passed. Another. A third. He opened his eyes.

    "Let's murk them." 

    The machine moved surprisingly smoothly, even with all the twists and turns he had to do to avoid being listed in the obituaries. This couldn't be said for the machine gun provided with his machine, and he could feel every contained explosion of the firearm shake the cockpit to his core. The ships weren't designed for weapons like this, and it showed. Somehow, to him... it felt too easy.
    Were there others who were taking out ships faster than him and his team? Certainly, with two suits in particular catching his attention - a salmon pink one, and a dark crimson one, both flying around and taking down opposition left and right. Posers in his eyes.
    Another empty magazine. Another reload. Bright explosions of purple, along with clouds of red, kept filling his vision over and over again. All with just a few pulls on levers and a few pushes of a pedal. The efficiency of this metal beast was unlike anything the Federation had to offer. It's like they were unstoppable.

    Until they weren't. It was nearly instant, only marked to the squadron by a loud cry, which didn't last longer than the blink of an eye. A member of team two had gotten too careless. The only things that showed his position were bits of metal and a disembodied hand of the Zaku II he was piloting. Not just dead, removed from existence.
    Amos froze for a second, a second that would've in any other situation cost him his life. Tunnel vision began to return, or was it his consciousness focusing his sight on the remains, on his first true failure in life? The boy had a family to return to, and now they wouldn't even have anything to fill a coffin. Fear and uncertainty preyed upon his thoughts, and he had to close his eyes again. A second passed. Two. Three...?

    The selected survive.

    He opened his eyes again.

    "Team four, send a reinforcement. Two, avoid further fire while waiting for reorganization. One, follow my lead." Amos' voice wasn't shaking anymore. It didn't have enthusiasm. Only a single emotion oozed through his words, through the individual syllables, as the grip on his controls tightened and his gaze sharpened.

    Cold efficiency.

    The next few minutes felt like a blur to him. The status of other ships, other pilots, and even most of the team following after him, seemed to come to his mind. Reload. The explosions began to lose their contrast, slowly melding into the blank space they lose their contrast, slowly melding into the blank space they were once mindlessly consuming. Reload. The clouds of red grew larger and larger. Even with the gloves around his hands, he could feel his nails dig in and draw blood from his palms. Reload. The selected survive, and he wasn't selected. The rest would be, and he would make sure of it, or die trying. Reload.

    ...Out of ammunition. A ship barrel, pointed right in front of him. Darkness.

    By the time Amos woke up once more, he wasn't in his Zaku anymore. He wasn't even in space anymore. He found himself in a bed, a few bruises on him and his palms slightly scarred, but alive. He had been selected.
    In the coming days, he would find that some of his squadron wasn't as lucky. Though above the average loss count during the battle, five of sixteen had lost their lives. By the time he was able to see his men once again, team two was no more. He didn't mourn for them, for it was their inexperience and overconfidence that brought them where they were. It's what he told to himself as he looked out of his military hospital room, crimson flowing down his hands.

    The Battle of Loum left its scars on the people that participated in it. For some, they were physical. For most, they were mental. For the brave act of letting nearly half a dozen were mental. For the brave act of letting nearly half a dozen men die, and for ruthlessly efficient carnage against his fellow being, Amos Bletz was awarded the title of Major, getting converted to Lieutenant Commander upon transferring over to the Earth Attack Force a week before March. Even the Zabi family showed respect toward him. None of it felt special or honorable to him.

    The Lance of Longinus had pierced the enemy, and taken allies with it. 

This is first of many short stories that will fall under the banner of my biggest passion project: "Mobile Suit Gundam: Broken Tech, Broken Hearts". I currently have two other stories written down which I'll be posting here momentarily, and I'll keep adding to the story as time goes on.

-Tim Cay