"This ain't a song for the broken-hearted,

Or a shattered prayer for faith departed.

An' I ain't gonna' be just a face in the crowd –

You're gonna' hear my voice when

I shout it out loud!"

"It's My Life"

Bon Jovi

So you want to hear my story, huh?  Fine then – settle back for a long, wild read.  Even as I look back on it now, safely on the other side of the adventure, I can hardly believe or understand half of it.  But the whole account that I write is true.  Truth is a hell of a lot stranger than fiction, after all.

If I were to tell you that the story started in FC44, when I was born, that would be a lie.  It didn't start with me.  Not by a long shot.  It didn't even start in FC31, when Gradda finished building…well, I guess I might be getting a bit ahead of myself.  Or maybe behind.  I don't really know.

The story started six years before that.  It all started with a book – a simple book that Grandda chanced to find in the gigantic "dungeons" of our family's Neo-Ireland castle.  A book that was a 140 years old; a book that piqued Grandda's imagination and granted him the inspiration to design and build a technological feat that would revolutionize the gundam world.

A gundam that would accomplish the impossible and triumph where another failed.  A gundam that would stir awe in all those who gazed on her.  A gundam that would change my life forever the instant that I stepped inside of her cockpit.

But I didn't know about that gundam that day, long ago, when my life took its first turn down a strange, twisting road.  I didn't know then, at 16, that I would find adventure beyond my wildest dreams.  I didn't know about Grandda, or my family legacy, or my family secrets.  I didn't know that love was just around the distant bend in my life, or that I would discover honor, loyalty, sacrifice, friendship, and triumph.

All I knew was that I was a brokenhearted teenage girl, feeling incredibly small in a world that had suddenly spun out of neatly ordered control.  All I knew was that my mother lay dead in a casket and that I was trying to find the strength for the hardest performance of my life.

Mom wanted me to sing at her funeral.  Who was I to say "no"?  Even after her death, I couldn't bring myself to defy my mother's wishes.  She was all that I had in my life – singing was my way of honoring her.  So, I struggled to steady the waver in my voice long enough to warble the words of "Amazing Grace."

All of my life, I've been told that I have the voice of an angel.  Clear, loud, strong, and sweet – the kind of voice that could rival the musical superstars of the day.  I knew that the sound of my voice brought comfort to the mourners gathered around the edge of the grave.  But it only mocked me, daring me to finally break down and cry, to wail piteously as the dark oak casket was lowered slowly into the ground at my feet.

I closed my eyes so I couldn't watch.  I was determined to do this one thing, if only for Mom.

I wonder if she can see me?  Is there really a heaven?  Is she looking down at me right now?  Does she hear me?

I remember thinking those thoughts as I sang.  My mind wasn't on the words – those came out on autopilot, part of a perfectly memorized routine that no longer required any thought on my part.

Like a whispered invocation, I breathed the end of "Amazing Grace" into the still air.  My eyes flickered open to see the last shovelful of dirt being patted firmly into place on top of the grave.  It was over.  It was the end.  Reality sunk in.

Mom was never coming back.  I was all alone.

"Maxine?" an unfamiliar hand hovered uncertainly, just shy of my shoulder.

I turned and came face-to-face with my estranged father.  Until a few days ago, I had never known him; I had never seen his face.  But there he was, suddenly thrust into my life in the cruelest twist of Fate imaginable.

Blinking away tears, I peered up at him.  I could see why Mom had fallen in love with him.  He was roguishly handsome, with wavy black hair, bright blue eyes, and a pleasant, handsome face.  I knew that I took after him and I knew that Mom had never stopped loving him, even though they had been divorced years before and had never spoken to each other since.

"Maxine," he repeated, finally daring to place his hand on my shoulder.  "I'm…sorry…"

I nodded, not knowing what else to say.  There were tears shining in his eyes – I knew that he spoke the truth.  But why had it taken this tragedy for the two of us to finally meet?  I had dreamed of our reunion for years, but I had never imagined that it would take place at the head of my mother's gravestone.

"Maxine?" another, less welcome voice grated in my ears.

I turned my head slightly and caught sight of my Aunt Jo, bustling pompously forward.

"I suppose I'd best be goin'," Da patted me on the shoulder and turned to go.

"Please!  Don't!" I cried, whirling around and grabbing his hand.

We stood there for a few minutes, gazing at each other.  My heart pounded in my chest – I had just lost one parent.  I wasn't about to lose another one so easily.

"I'm afraid ya' can't," Da shook his head sorrowfully.  "I wish ya' could, Maxine, but Mary…your mother…she wanted ya' to stay here in Neo-America wi' your Aunt Jo."

"I don't want to stay here, though," I wailed, tears streaming down my face.

I don't want to stay with Aunt Jo, I risked a hazardous glance at my mother's bristling sister, who was scowling at the exchange between Da and me.  "Can't I come with you to Neo-Ireland?"

Oh!  How badly I wanted to go with Da.  I had heard stories of the beauty – as faded and blasted as it was – of Earth.  The miraculously semi-preserved, emerald majesty of Neo-Ireland was a thing of legend to me.  How I wanted to see it for myself!  As much as I loved Neo-America, Celtic blood ran strong in me and I wanted to see my father's land.

And even more importantly, I wanted to finally have a father.  And I wanted to call the pale-faced, quiet, solemn young man standing awkwardly at a short distance, my "brother."

But even that was denied me.  Da sighed deeply and clasped his calloused paw over my small hand.

"Max, ya've got to be strong."

Tears pricked painfully at the corners of my eyes.  Only Mom had ever called me "Max."

"But you and Patrick are family, too," I whispered piteously, glancing toward my silent brother.

"I know," Da sighed once again and suddenly wrapped me in a tight embrace.  "But I've got to respect your mother's wishes."

His thick Irish brogue drifted softly into my ears.  I could feel his heart beating beneath my cheek and I clung to him, sobbing like the lost child that I felt like.

When he finally let go of me, it was for good.  He kissed me gently on my forehead and surrendered me to the stern custody of my Aunt Jo and Uncle Jack.  Then, he turned his back to me, put his arm around Pat's shoulders, and walked away.

I lost all three of them that day.  My mother.  My father.  And my brother.  I would never see Da or Pat again.  One slipped out of my life in her fevered sleep and the other two walked slowly away, their shoulders sagging.

I called after them, just once.  There was a slight falter in Da's step, but then he quickly recovered and disappeared around the corner of the whitewashed church.  I was left alone, in the keeping of strangers.

Right then, at that very moment, I vowed deep within that I would never let another person I loved walk out of my life.

I would run before they did.