"Ah, you're finally here!"

Richard closed the door behind him and walked towards Wellington's desk. "Yes, it was a fun day!" he said, smiling.

"Glad to hear it," Wellington said, unimpressed by his friend's enthusiasm. He was sent to gather intel, not have fun. "So what happ–" he stopped mid-sentence. Something had caught his eye. "Is that blood?" A napkin with spots of bright red stuck out of Richard's pocket.

"Yeah, I have to get that washed…" Richard answered.

Wellington stared at him confused and concerned, but his friend kept his innocent smile on, as if nothing had happened. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's not mine," Richard replied. "Made a detour on the way back to grab some things. A couple of guys jumped me. Probably just a coincidence."

"By God, are they okay? Did you call an ambulance for them?"

"Wasn't necessary. I went easy on them."

Wellington calmed down. He let out a short sigh. The attackers were lucky that Richard was alone. Wellington didn't want to think what their fate would have been had he been accompanied by anyone he cared about. But something was fishy. Why would someone just randomly attack?

"Who was aware about this detour of yours?" the boy asked.

Richard knew what his friend was thinking. "The people with me and the pilots. Although someone might have overheard on the Enterprise. But I still think it was a coincidence."

Wellington stood silent for a few moments, as if pondering the possibilities, but ultimately dismissed his thoughts. "No matter," he finally spoke. "How did it go?"

"Great. I had Patton pour bleach in Top's fuel tank!"

"You did what?!" Wellington's voice echoed through the room and beyond. His eyebrows twitched.

"Hush, keep it down," Richard pleaded. Wellington was one of the few people who raised his voice at him. He normally didn't mind, but those weren't normal circumstances. "Nobody must know."

"Especially Darjeeling… right?" Wellington rubbed is forehead. He wasn't happy, but he lowered his voice. If Darjeeling found out, his previous ruse would have been for naught.

Sun Tzu held that the ruler should not interfere in matters of war. With one single move, Eton's captain had jeopardized the entire operation. That was not like him. If Wellington, or Darjeeling, or anyone he cared about was in trouble, Richard would risk life and limb to help, but he never put anyone else at risk. That was his code of honour. Perhaps he did not realize the peril, Wellington thought, but his friend was not stupid, so it had to be something else. "If they find out we've done something to their tanks, they'll report it to the Federation."

"They won't. Top will be too busy playing the guitar." His grin showed how confident Richard was, but to Wellington, it made no sense. The boy shook his head and stared confused, waiting for clarification. "I've put on one hell of a show for them when I visited," Richard explained. "Top is an arrogant fool. I made sure he'd be obsessed with rehearsing to catch up with me rather than training. Without him, the lead Sherman won't go anywhere."

So that was why Eton's captain had brought Sharpe, Castus and his maid, Lottie, with him. Dressed in her usual maid outfit, Lottie didn't seem exceptional, even if she was young and beautiful, but underneath hid the voice of a rock star. Sharpe and Castus were the last gears in Richard's band, both playing the bass and drums respectively, and with Richard as the guitar and occasional lead singer, their band had many fans.

Wellington constantly insisted that Richard instead focus on more pressing matters, but he never managed to convince his friend to abandon his more pointless hobbies. Richard's gamble was perhaps a way of proving Wellington that almost everything can be of use at a certain point.

For better or worse, Eton's glorious strategist could not deny that, if successful, Richard's stunt would give them a much-needed advantage over Roosevelt. Top's Easy Eight was bound to have the best crew. Taking it out of action could tip the balance… unless the crew switched tanks, of course.

Richard kept smiling, but Wellington wasn't convinced. His angry frown turned into a look of concern. The boy felt his friend should have consulted him first. "That's a big if." Wellington sighed.

"No bigger than the risks you've taken." Richard's smile vanished. He instead gave Wellington a piercing gaze. "You almost got all of Kuromorimine drowned, and the match with Pravda relied too much on Katyusha underestimating us."

"Napoleon was too naïve to see through my plan," Wellington defended. "And I told you there was no risk of drowning–"

"And I trusted you. Now it's your turn," Richard said.

"Very well," Wellington sighed again. "Just warn me next time." The boy paused for a moment. He looked out the window at nothing in particular, as if thinking for a comeback line. "At least my risks wouldn't get us disqualified."

"And mine don't get people hurt," Richard said. His smile had returned. Wellington preferred him that way. "What does that make us? You, lawful neutral and me chaotic good?"

"Yeah, something like that. Although I wouldn't exactly call myself lawful." He was normally against such silly classifications, but if forced, Wellington would have described both himself and his friend as neutral good. They both had their fluctuations, but that's how he saw it.

The methods he was forced to use had certainly ruined his image in the eyes of some. That undeniable fact served only to pain his heart. Other, however, looked at him with respect for having proven such intelligence and ingenuity, but that respect did not alleviate the pain much. Guilt weighted on his heart, but in the end, so long as he accomplished his goals and stayed true to his friends, it was enough.

Wellington rested his head on the back of the armchair and stared into the ceiling. "Why bleach?" he asked.

"Well, it's like water, but with a pinch of Chlorine for super oxidizing. The water sinks under the gasoline, so the fuel pump will fill the fuel lines with water instead of gasoline and the engine will have some major problems." Richard delivered the explanation with the usual fervour he showed when he played teacher. Wellington found his thirst for knowledge in all matters utterly useless, more so than even his hobbies, especially in an age where every answer was at the tip of your fingers, on the internet.

"I hope this doesn't backfire on us," Wellington said.

"It won't."

"I hope. I've got enough things on my mind as it is."

Wellington had once more given himself away. Attention from Richard on the matter was the last thing he wanted… but he could not deny that it was, perhaps, the one thing he needed. Richard predictably showed instant interest. "What's wrong?" His friend didn't even bother to evade.

"People may call me Wellington, and while I share many of his virtues, I lack his endurance," the boy explained. "I, like him, can cope with a huge workload and little sleep, but only for so long. I can't work for 90 hours with only 9 hours of rest like he did at Waterloo."

"Then… get some sleep," Richard suggested, as if it were obvious.

"I can't! I have a ton of things to consider, tactics to come up with, and the only thing I can think about is…" Wellington hesitated, but Richard's stare displayed a curiosity that couldn't be overcome unless sated. There was no turning back. "…Assam." For a couple of seconds Richard didn't react, as if the thought hadn't registered with him yet. Wellington, on the other side, looked nothing like the infatuated youth that would normally say such a thing. His expression instead was that of a man fed up with what he was going through. For someone as cynical as himself, love was new and troublesome feeling that kept him from functioning properly, which was a major drawback mere days from the Sensha-dou finals.

When Richard finally reacted, he almost burst into laughter, but desperately tried to control himself as to not humiliate his friend. He slapped Wellington on the back. "Congrats, mate. You're in love!"

"Tell me something I don't know," the boy said, the irate look in his eyes still painfully obvious.

"I, for one, can't be happier that I love Darjeeling as much as I do. She's perfect and I'll never find anyone better than her." Richard's optimism was nothing new. "I want to marry her."

"Slow down, Richard. It's a bit early to think of marriage."

"What about you and Assam. Don't you want to be together forever?" Richard innocently asked. Wellington was unimpressed by his naivety.

"Sure, I have no intention to break up with her, but I'm being pragmatic. No need to think about tying the knots this early."

"I guess I love Darjeeling more than you love Assam."

That much was obvious. Wellington knew his friend well enough. Twice the emotion, whatever he did, he did with passion. Whatever he was, he was with passion. His feelings knew no moderation. No matter how smart, no matter how sensible, his mind was still a slave to his heart. When he loved, he loved twice as strong. When he hated, his hatred was twice as intense. When he suffered, he did so twice as much and twice as long. Sadness, joy, anger, he felt everything tenfold.

"How am I supposed to get work done?" Wellington complained. "If only I could share the workload, as unlike Wellesley as it might be… But Monty is only operational a quarter of the day and I have no one else." He let his head drop on the backrest of the chair again and let out another one of his trademark sighs.

Richard's response was to smile as always. His pool of confidence had no end. "I might have an idea…" he said. "What if I got you Chi-Ha-Tan's Shogun?" Wellington wasn't sure what his friend meant, but he would take any advantage. Richard took his phone out formed a number. The room stood in silence for a few moments, nothing but the sound of the clock to accompany it. "I want a VTOL ready first thing tomorrow morning," the boy said into the phone.

Curiosity overwhelmed Wellington. The girl had experienced Roosevelt tactics first hand. Her insight could prove invaluable and shave hours off his research. As soon as Richard put his cell down, he spoke. "How would you get me the Shogun?"

"Oh, I know her for a while. We've had a few kendo matches." Richard once more smiled confidently, with a faint sign of smug satisfaction. He had proven his friend once more that anything can turn into an advantage. If he kept that up, Wellington would be forced to stop pestering him about wasting time.

"Fine. I'll call Heinz then. Maybe he'll lend a hand."

"Can I get you anyone else?"

"I don't want Manstein, but Napoleon might have something useful to say. Don't invite her, just see if she has anything to say about Roosevelt. I bet she'll be eager to highlight any weakens of theirs she knows, if she knows any."

"Done!" Richard turned to leave, but stopped in middle of the room and looked back. "One last thing." His expression had suddenly become serious. "I don't like Roosevelt. There's something about them… And since they're not girls, you don't need to hold back. You have my blessing. You may pursue victory… at any cost."


Wellington sat in his chair like he usually did, going through his papers like an overzealous accountant, trying to figure out the best ways to defeat the enemy. He had focused one hundred percent on building the best possible strategy for the finals, to the point where he neglected Assam. But she still was on his mind more than he was comfortable with.

The door slowly opened, then closed, as if handled by a sloth. Monty dragged his feet to Wellington's desk. "Bad news," he said.

"What is it?" Wellington asked.

"Results came in from the Crusader training." Wellington didn't say a thing. He simply stared at Monty, waiting for him to proceed. The boy yawned, then continued. "80% accuracy for the 6 pounders."

"What?! That's great news!" Wellington erupted. What fine fellows they had made of them, he thought.

"No. There was a discrepancy in the numbers…" Monty argued. He let out a tired sigh. "I mean, 60% accuracy for the 17 pounders, but with less training, 80% accuracy for the 6 pounders," he tried to explain. Wellington looked at him baffled.

"I don't understand."

"So I did some research… checked some numbers… turns out the 17 pounder lacks long range precision." Silence. Wellington wasn't sure whether his ears were tricking him. "So far we blamed it on the gunner skills, but… I even ran the older numbers," Monty continued. "Turns out the Crusaders were more accurate even if the crews had gained more experience by the time they manned the Fireflies. At first I thought it was because they didn't adapt yet to the 17 pounder, but after going through the archives…"

Everything became clear. The first matches were fought with 2 and 6 pounders manned by unexperienced gunners, so accuracy was to be expected to be low. Wellington finally understood. They had just stumbled over a fact that eluded them all that time, something that they had failed to anticipate and prepare for. He felt a large hole in his stomach. "Why didn't any of the gunners tell us anything?" he mumbled.

"The battles were fought at close ranges. Maybe they didn't notice. They're not exactly seasoned fighters, you know," Monty said. He appeared to be surprisingly composed despite being the barer of horrible news. But Wellington was horrified, too shocked to be bothered by his friend's lack of concern.

"By God… but during the Gordost match, Tadatsune hit Peter's T-44 from almost a kilometre away," Wellington still clung onto the hope that the numbers were wrong.

"A lucky shot, I'd say. Accuracy is around 50% at that range, from professional gunners… APDS is even less accurate, but we took the Maus from under 100 meters… and every other shot from 17 pounder before was at close range or missed horribly." Monty was right. Wellington could no longer deny. The numbers did not lie.

"The 17 pounder was already difficult to load and lifted a ton of dust with every shot, and now this! By God…" His plans were to purchase more Fireflies, make them the backbone. He already had two more than he had Comets – a terrible mistake.

"Yeah, for all intents and purposes, the 76mm on the Easy Eight is superior in all ways…" Monty concluded.

"I was convinced it was a great gun." Wellington's voice trembled. He had put much hope in Britain's tank killer.

"Yeah, it has a long barrel, so I presumed it had high precision myself. I check penetration table, but I must admit I didn't look into accuracy tests."

"Then we're doomed…" Wellington said, utter despair in his voice. His head fell on the table with a thump. "The 17 pounder was our best gun." He swallowed dry to fight the lump in his throat.

"Not really, we still have the 77mm HV on the Comet."

"That's derived from the 17 pounder. It's shorter, uses less powder in the shell charge, thus having lower velocity. It's probably even less accurate because of it," Wellington said without lifting his head from the desk. "And it has lower penetration."

"Not really. After I discovered this whole fiasco, I went in the archives to make sure we don't miss anything else. Turns out the 77mm HV is significantly more accurate, probably because of the lower recoil. Don't forget Sharpe pinned that BT-7 from more than a kilometre away with it."

Wellington's face lit up. Hope refilled his heart, washing away all previous disappointment. "Oh, thank God," he sighed relieved, but another thought made him cringe. "Do you realize how close were to utter defeat against Gordost? I had sent the Shermans to engage the heavies because we needed the mobility of the Comets to bait Peter's T-44s, and because the 17 pounder was better against thick armour… It was an extremely lucky coincidence that the Shermans fought at short range. Had they been forced to engage Peter's medium tank squadron, we would have been crushed."

"Yeah. You're a lucky bastard," said Monty. He was somewhat impressed how fast Eton's commander had recovered from the abysmal state he had been in mere moments before.

"Got get some sleep," urged Wellington, completely back to normal. "I'll need you again tomorrow."

"Those words are like music to my ears," said Monty as he left the room. "The first part, at least."

The first thing Wellington did after Monty's departure was to grab his phone. He rapidly punched his gunner's name on the touch screen, eager to question him.

"Sharpe, did you not notice the 17 pounder had horrible precision?"

"What? I… I did."

"Then why didn't you tell me?!"

"Huh? I thought you knew."

Wellington audibly brought his pam on his face. He hanged up without even saying goodbye, probably leaving Sharpe even more confused. "Bloody hell," he mumbled to himself, but worrying about the past was pointless. He had more important things to do.

Silence returned to the chamber and Wellington let it fill his mind. It had been a stressful day. Perhaps it was wise to give Assam a call. He owed her at least one bit of attention. The girl hadn't come that night to serve him tea like she usually did. It was a bit peculiar, but he hadn't paid it any heed before that. Come to think of it, she should have dropped by around the time Richard was being debriefed…

A cold shiver went down his spine. She heard their conversation! It was certain! He knew her well enough to gauge her reaction. Even if she did arrive early enough to hear about Richard's sabotage, she probably wouldn't mention it to Darjeeling. No, that wasn't what bugged him.

Most girls would be happy to know their boyfriends couldn't stop thinking about them, but Assam was different. She'd blame herself for standing in his way to victory. He had to call her at once– No! He had to go to her in person.

In one swift move, Wellington got up from his desk and ran to the door. Leaving his office behind, he rushed to the Tea Garden like a whirlwind. He couldn't help but think that Arthur Wellesley had little success as a husband. Wellington hoped he'd have better luck. He had to fix his mistake. Some might have called him dishonourable. Some might have called him insensitive or rude even, but his heart was not frozen. He could not bear the thought of making Assam suffer. Something had to be done.