Betrothed to the Enemy
Prologue: A War to End All Wars
Terra date: Winter 76, 1914
The Russian tank groaned as it advanced up the hill, protecting the crew inside from the deadly hail of Spanish bullets being fired from the machine guns defending the city. Behind the metal monstrosity, a squad of infantrymen, clutching their rifles and scrambling up the slippery slope, tried to match speed in order to avoid being chewed up by the storm of lead. At regular intervals across the hill, there was another Russian tank or two grouped together and slowly advancing, firing on the city as they went.
One man in particular chugged along the slope with seemingly inhuman speed, catching up to the tank several times and waiting for his comrades to catch up to him. Long reddish hair poked out from under his helmet, and he waved, yelling, in Russian, "Come on, guys! We're almost there! Madrid is in sight!"
The sergeant snarled back at him "And I believe you're supposed to be behind me, Crown! What the hell do you think you're doing, get back down here!"
Crown, however, paid the sergeant no attention, and kept going, regardless of the profanity being thrown up at him. The deep boom of the artillery guns further down the hills thundered out across the dirt, knocking a few soldiers over, but the infantrymen were more or less used to it by now. They hadn't been trying to take this hill slash city for two hours to give up now, and the artillery had been a big part of that. Russian and Spanish planes soared overhead, blasting each other out of the sky. Indeed, it seemed the Spanish Navy wasn't Isabelle's only militaristic pride and joy. Russian bombers, on destination towards the city to drop their heavy explosive payloads, were being peppered and had the turret gunners had to shoot for all they were worth to live long enough to pull away from the city. Crown couldn't imagine what kind of hell it was like for the fighter pilots.
After the Russian artillery had opened up, the Spanish guns answered, as well as a few mortars, which smashed into the oncoming tank's armor. However, the steel behemoths were not the Spaniards targets, as was show by one round exploding directly behind one tank, tearing the infantry to shreds. Having lost the men it was guarding, and seeking revenge for said perished comrades, the tank accelerated up the slope, firing both barrels for all it was worth. The rounds smashed into the outer wall around Madrid, barely making a scratch, but shelling the Spaniard soldiers with shrapnel and falling brick shards. The lone tank finally made it to the top, about to head for the gate, when suddenly, a rocket launched itself from a spider hole in the hill, smashing into the unarmored treads on the flank, sending the entire tank up in a flash.
"Bazookas!" came the yell over the radio headsets, and the tanks stopped, firing in earnest on the machine gun positions to clear a path for the infantry.
Crown surged out from behind his tank, roaring in anger as he cursed in Russian "You bastards want some of this! Come eat some Russian lead!"
His assault rifle began coughing as he pulled the trigger, firing in bursts as he ran until the gun clicked empty. Well, the magazine was, but the under slung grenade launcher wasn't, and he fired this as he rolled behind another tank, to the surprise of the other infantrymen behind it.
"'Scuse, me, got some Spaniards to kill." He muttered as he stood up again, reloading as he did so before he leapt out into the open again, firing as he went.
Once more, his gun ran dry, and he dropped behind a rock lip to reload after firing his grenade launcher once more. This shot actually did some damage, however, as the screams in Spanish from one of the machine gun nests rang out.
"How do you like that? Now you know how my father felt!" Crown snarled as he crossed the last hundred feet to the sandbags, diving into the trenches, rifle firing in one hand, pistol in the other.
Swiftly, he cleared out the trench he was in, then climbed up, firing at the spider hole before tossing a grenade, which exploded right at the Spaniard's feet. Whooping, Crown started for the gates, pulling a large bundle of explosives out of his hip pouch, ready to slap them on the large, wooden obstacle. Two more Spaniards got in his way, only to be mercilessly gunned down, one Spanish bullet clipping Crown's arm. However, the excitement and adrenaline pouring through him blocked the sensation of the lead tearing out a bit of his skin as he ran up, winding the clockwork mechanism and slapping the pack onto the gates. His headset was blocking out any other sounds through his right ear as the reports of a lone soldier gunning his way up the hill from not only his own platoon but also from the tank crews crackled into his ear. Currently, they were all cheering in Russian, call him the 'Crown Bear.'
Crown grinned, pulling the pin on the explosives before running back down aways and yelling "Got it! Who's gonna stop me now?"
The answer to that question came in the form of a large caliber bullet tearing into his back, ripping through his right lung, and bursting out his chest. Crown staggered, trying to draw breath, but his other lung didn't seem to be able to draw enough oxygen. Crown fell to his knees, dropping his gun as the radio crackled "Sniper! Crown's been shot!"
And then, from his own sergeant, "Your highness!"
Crown, who was actually in fact Prince Nikolai of the Russian Empire, toppled over, his vision blacking out. The last thing he saw was someone in Russian regulation fatigues reaching down for him.