"You know," Gunther commented, idly tapping on the steering wheel as he drove. "I did not expect you to actually follow through with this."

I shrugged. "You were the one who sent me to the Handler branch of the Officer's Academy in the first place."

"Not becoming a Handler," he groaned, annoyed. "I meant filing a report to requisition the interception cannons. The same cannons that have been gathering dust for almost nine years. That, according to you, required you to file a thirty-page report – which you insisted really meant sixty in bureaucrat-speak – and went through all the trouble to type it up, provide audio logs, and wait the full one hour while they checked what the protocol for a request no one had ever made involved."

"Oh, that." Really, couldn't he have been clearer? "Well, you know what they say – when given the rulebook, you play by all the rules, Gun."

"You just made up that saying."

"So I did. Sue me." I paused deliberately. "Oh wait, you can't. Silly me. Shame that we pig-bloods are citizens of dubious moral character, huh?"

He glared at me coldly. "Don't use that name."

"Right. Sorry. Force of habit." I did actually feel a bit of shame at that – I knew how much he still sorely yearned for things to change.

He gave a sharp tsk, then turned his attention back to the road, where we were now returning from the two-hour long drive to the administrative building in charge of the relevant channel for operation of the interception cannons.

Ah, good old Gunther. He would have made a fine member of the fifth category of Handler. Instead, here he was, wasting his talents as a transport officer – which, translated, really meant glorified chauffeur; with the occasional resupply task requiring him to carry out a low-altitude flight outside the Gran Mur for the Eighty-Six to continue fighting a pointless war. His tall and handsome looks really were wasted on him, seeing as his outspoken views tended to startle all the girls he'd ever dated.

He was also my oldest friend.

Well, the oldest living one, at least. The Colorata I knew growing up were likely now all dead, and most of the Alba had jumped on the bandwagon of what everyone else was doing and severed all ties with me after word spread of my uncle's abandonment of their way of life.

Gunther, like myself, was an Alba – his older brother was the one who had married a Colorata, and refused to leave them behind, joining them in the internment camps nine years ago. With no guardians left for him, he had been carted off to the same social rehabilitation programme as myself. The Animal Farm, as people tended to call it.

Transport officer wasn't that bad, though. He was able to smuggle some items out from inside the Eighty-Five Sectors, furnishing the Processors out in the field with much-needed supplies, and fought the good fight in his own way.

By pure coincidence, both our fathers had been fighter pilots back in the day when aerial combat and support actually meant a thing. They both died on the very first day of the declaration of war, during the doomed alpha strike that had been planned against what the Republic had thought to be the Empire's forces, their crafts torn to shreds by anti-air Stachelschwein, if they weren't first blown up by a single stray Eintagsfliege making its way into the delicate mechanical innards of their fighter jets.

I did ask him why he hadn't just signed up to become a Handler, once. He merely shook his head, a far-off look in his eyes, and said that there was no way he could handle what it was that they did. Too much responsibility, he claimed.

Funny how he could say that with a straight face, when what he was doing technically amounted to treason. Still, all the better for me, since I got an excuse to both hang out with the sole remaining friend I had, and to have a personal chauffeur drive me around at my beck and call. Bless his heart, he was always too nice to refuse.

"Spence –" He hesitated, giving me a sideward glance. "I know I shouldn't even need to ask this, but… you aren't going to turn out like the other Handlers, are you? You promise you'll protect the Colorata as best you can?"

I waved dismissively. "Games are only fun when you give your best effort, Gunther. I'm not going to be like those idiots who think it's fun watching blips on a grid disappear without having made any significant contribution to that outcome. You can relax."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded to himself, satisfied. "That's good. But Spence… you should stop lying to yourself."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"This!" He kept his eyes on the road, but waved a hand in frustration. "Pretending that you're this emotionless robot, that you don't care about the Eighty-Six! That nothing gets to you at all, and that you chose to become a Handler just because you think it might be fun!"

I tilted my head. "That was why I became a Handler."

I had, of course, spilled the beans of the Republic's drones to Gunther. I knew he could keep a secret, and it wasn't as though he had anyone else he was willing to blab to other than myself. Two little piglets in the pigpen – that was how we had always been since the Republic's upheaval.

"Don't lie, Spence. I know you. You probably care about the Eighty-Six more than me. You care about fighting the Legion that took everything away from you. I still remember what you did to that annoying jerk Johannes after he insulted Saya –"

Hair neatly tied into a braid. A warm smile that could captivate the entire world. A hand outstretched; an invitation. A look of curiosity, a face scrunched up in concentration.

And in the instant the image appeared, I smothered it down. 13, 169, 2197, 28561, 371293, 4826809, 62748517… I methodically went through the geometric series that made up the collective powers of 13, up until the exponent reached 11, at which point there was no longer a need to continue, since I had reverted to a state of calm. It was a quick mental exercise that my father had taught me ages ago that he utilised when he absolutely needed to focus, and that I had since adopted, adapted, and refined as my own in various forms.

Saya was gone. The Colorata were gone. Home was gone. Father, mother, uncle, auntie, Saya – all of them gone.

All that was left was myself, and the games that I played. My constant companions.

And Gunther, of course – but he didn't count, since he only arrived after both our lives had changed.

"What happened with Johannes was seven years ago, Gun. People change. Saya's probably long dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere out there. If she was lucky, maybe she died with auntie." There was not even an inflection in my voice. "And everyone knows that the Legion is going to expire soon enough. There's no point playing a game if you already know how it ends."

I remembered being angry, once, after that open secret had been leaked to me. I remembered having once sworn to take the fight to the Legion, and to avenge the lives that had been taken away from me.

In hindsight, I had been stupid and irrational. Still, though, it had helped me to grow, to see things objectively, and realise that sometimes games were horribly unfair to the point where there was no meaning to gameplay at all.

Gunther changed the topic. I appreciated that. That variant of the exercises was starting to lose its meaning, since I was memorising numbers rather than actually calculating them by this point. "How's your Squadron?"

I shrugged. "Doomed, pretty much. I don't think they like me very much."

"Gee, I wonder why?"

"Point taken. Still, I'm hoping this gives them enough of a wake-up call, that I don't have to resort to plan C."

"You have a plan C? It doesn't end with the interception cannons?"

"Oh, you sweet summer child. You and Third Squadron will just have to wait and see for what else I've got planned."

He shook his head, exasperated. After a moment's hesitation, he spoke. "Spence – look after them, okay? Even if they hate you – they don't know what you're like. They'll be counting on your tactics, even if they don't realise it."

"You do realise you're asking me to attempt to out-think an army of mechanical drones, when every single Processor under my command would likely want nothing more than to carve out my guts, hang them on display upon their base, and decorate their Juggernauts with my blood?"

"Don't deflect with melodrama and sarcasm," Gunther snapped. "It won't work on me, Spence."

Shame. That was usually my most effective disarming tactic.

"Fine, fine. Never played a game where the pieces hated my guts, anyway. Would make for an interesting experience."

"You'll lead them well, Spence. I know you will. The Legion won't know what hit them."

"That depends on whether or not they actually are programmed to learn new information, in which case, it is likely that –"

"Yeah, yeah. I get the idea." He sighed, and continued driving. "Why are we even heading to the old training grounds, anyway?"

The Republic had done away with a standing army of their own, since they had their Eighty-Six to do all their fighting for them. In their infinite wisdom, the bigwigs still at least kept up the pretence of having military installations within the Eighty-Five sectors, to keep public opinion in them strong. They were mostly abandoned, with only one or two unfortunate souls ever assigned to guard the entire complex that were several kilometres across in length and breadth. As far as I knew, even those on guard duty tended to doze off, or otherwise leave their posts because no one ever bothered to check up on them.

And that meant that today was my lucky day. It had taken a good amount of digging around – I only had the right channels open to me after graduating as a proper Handler. Still, the Republic's broadcasts proudly displaying their so-called unmanned drones had to come from somewhere, and through my research, it seemed that the depot here housed several Juggernauts that saw occasional use as the subjects of inane propaganda pieces whenever a politician wanted to sway public opinion in his favour.

"Can't just read from the rule-book, Gun. You've got to play a game or two before you can really appreciate how a game is meant to be played."

"Are you going to stop being cryptic and just tell me what's going on?"

Meh. Spoilsport. "There's a couple Juggernauts in there, Gun. If I don't know what my pawns can reasonably do, there's no way I can utilise them or my other pieces to their maximum advantage."

"You – you're serious? Juggernauts? You're planning on piloting one of those things?"

In a way, it was good that there were three newbies in my squadron. I knew the technical specifications of the craft, but whether my Processors could actually use them all would be another matter entirely. It was why I had intended for Third Squadron to begin with a drills and exercises to allow me to calibrate my expectations to their actual skills, but alas, my hopes were dashed.

"Yep. You can join too, if you want. More company's always welcome."

"I'm not a Handler –"

"Oh, please. No one's even going to notice. Don't you smuggle contraband and supplies out of the Republic all the time, anyway?"

"That's different!"

"Think of this as just smuggling yourself. You've already committed treason; what's breaking and entering to you?"

"Spence, I swear," he grumbled. "One of these days, you're going to get both of us killed."

"Hasn't happened in the five years since you started saying that."

"Tch."

Regardless, he drove on, past the abandoned guard-post, and into the training grounds proper. There was so much dust and grime around that I doubted anyone had been here in the last five years.

We exited his vehicle, heading toward the depot, Gunther shooting nervous looks in all directions as we walked. In there, we found our prize.

"…huh." I made an impressed sound. "Seems different from how they look on the news."

I knew the technical specifications. A length of 5.4 metres – 10.7 if including the 57mm smoothbore cannon that served as its main armament – and a height of 2.1 metres. Wire anchors and heavy machine guns as secondary ordnances, that could alternatively be swapped to high-frequency blades. A weight of ten tons.

Looking at them in person, though, they were formidable, far larger than any human could be.

And they were still vastly inferior to many of the Legion units. All they had was thin aluminium armour that could fold even to sustained fire from an Ameise. A direct shot from a Löwe would destroy both Juggernaut and Processor. The cannon, while able to take down the lightly-armoured Ameise and Grauwolf, couldn't penetrate the thick front armour of a Löwe, requiring either concentrated fire, flanking movements, or shots at critical points of weakness.

"Well, no sense waiting things out," I muttered. "You take that one; I'll go on this one. We'll start running laps."

Without further ado, I climbed aboard. It was cramped inside the cockpit – there was barely any space to stretch my legs, and without activating the optical systems, it was pitch black inside. I did as the schematics I had seen indicated, powered the craft on, and activated the displays.

The single 'eye' at the very front of the craft served as its sole optical sensor. The visual feed was transmitted to the holographic displays against the opaque front surface, giving the illusion that the thin aluminium chassis was but a glass windshield. Arms resting on the surfaces on either side of me, the movement and firing controls were within easy reach, a haphazard mix of sticks and buttons.

Slowly, I bid it to move forward. Coordinated movements of all four limbs were controlled by subroutines built into the Juggernaut, and so I did not need to manually control them one by one. That made plenty of sense, since these were developed based on technology of Legion wreckage – as artificial intelligence, calling upon subroutines would greatly simplify their programming.

I turned my craft. There was some mild resistance, but the inbuilt shock dampeners resisted the transmission of forces to the pilot. Extreme changes in momentum, however, could still subject the pilot to forces that were incompatible with the human body.

In front of me, I could see that Gunther was also getting used to the controls, experimentally moving forward and backward within the hangar. I tried not to feel jealous – though he hadn't memorised the schematics like I had, merely remembering vague bits from what I told him about the Juggernaut's design, his experiences piloting transports of all types had given him a certain instinct. He'd apparently flown with his dad before, back before the Legion had existed – and had thoroughly enjoyed that sensation.

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like for an Eighty-Six. I didn't have a good read on any of my Processors, but I could make a rough estimation based on their profiles. Was what I was feeling now what E-2, E-3, and E-4 had felt after being taught the ropes of piloting the Juggernaut? Was there this sense of awe and respect, and yet unsettlement that even with all this power granted to them, the Legion were still more formidable yet? Was there this ache – this thrill – to experiment and understand, to push the limits of the rules, and see what the Juggernaut's features were, and how they could be exploited?

… had they even yet been taught to move their own crafts?

I hoped so. I knew that there were some Processors whose first time inside a Juggernaut had been the day of their first skirmish. They did not tend to survive. For their sakes and mine, they had better have learned how to at least move their crafts.

I headed out of the hangar. Moments later, Gunther joined me, and he sped on right past, toward the other end.

While I was still getting to grips with various forms of turning – gradual steering in an arc, and abrupt halts that utterly killed speed – he was already making his Juggernaut jump, twist in mid-air, and continue onward without any loss in speed.

I smiled at the sight. Back when we were fellow kids in the Animal Farm, he had always declared that his dream was to be a pilot like his father; to soar in the skies and join the stars. There was no hope of that with the Legion around – but the mobility of the Juggernaut clearly appealed to him. They were certainly far more manoeuvrable than the everyday car or train in the Eighty-Five Sectors.

Targets were set up on the other end of the field. Taking special care to not have Gunther's Juggernaut anywhere even remotely close to my target, I fired.

And missed horribly. The target hadn't even been caught anywhere close to the blast wave.

The next three shots missed as well. To my relief, the fifth one finally hit.

Meanwhile, Gunther was already moving and firing. He wasn't a hundred percent accurate – but it was leagues ahead of my performance.

In no time, two hours passed by without either of us realising. I was cataloguing my impressions of the effectiveness of each weapon the Juggernaut had available, what a newbie, a reasonably experienced Processor, and a Name Bearer could respectively pull off in terms of movements, and visualising how multiple crafts could synergise with each other.

Once in the hangar, I climbed out of my Juggernaut, but did not leave immediately. Standing by its side, I tried to envision how the game worked.

I closed my eyes, immersing myself in my mind's eye. I imagined myself floating; floating away from the ground, soaring past the skies, through the clouds, beyond even the expanse of space – straight to a world that only I could call my own.

Another piece of advice from dear old dad.

Darkness.

And in that darkness, sprouted an imaginary battlefield. Pawns in the form of new recruits; B-3, a daredevil knight. Starfall, A-2, and A-3, my bishops and rooks. No queens – from today's interaction, I was confident that none of them had that level of expertise to truly deserve that representation. They were static at first – twenty crafts lined up awkwardly as unmoving statues.

Then they began to move. B-3 was in and out of the fray; Starfall rained down explosive munitions from afar. Flanking movements. Formations. Traps. Baits. Gambits. Counter-gambits. They were all hazy figures – I didn't know much about my Squadron or my enemies, and their approximations were likewise vague. Shadows darted in multiple directions, crafts were both simultaneously destroyed and wreaking havoc in enemy lines. Too many possibilities.

I opened my eyes. No sense continuing with it. I had a brief glimpse of the game, and that was enough for now.

I didn't know why I did this, or when it had started, but for as long as I could remember, this was how I played all my games. It used to weird my long-lost childhood friends out when I talked about looking at the chessboard from the perspective of player, opponent, and observer; or when I chattered on about emulating what the other team were thinking, feeling, and experiencing in King of the Hill. Somehow, in that space, I could be free from myself – and that was the only way I could truly think rationally and objectively.

Rules alone didn't make a game – the players did. Battles were decided before the first shot was even fired. Before all else, the basic fundamentals before one could even truly begin to play were an understanding of how the game worked, an objective awareness of one's own ability, and an assessment of every aspect of the enemy's profile.

Only then could the game be played – strategy and predictions; meta-gaming and optimisation; deception and risky play… they all stemmed from these fundamentals.

At the moment, I wasn't even yet a player. My pieces refused to obey my commands; my understanding of the rules was incomplete. As with all games, however, I utterly refused to yield.

Yes, I was singularly one of the most stubborn and petty people I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Even that, I would consider into my own profile, and account for potential flaws and biases.

There were two things I sorely needed to do – one, tone down my expectations for the fresh Processors, and two, practice with moving the craft, and aiming and firing the Juggernaut's weapons. It wasn't because I expected to see combat – I just refused to lose in such a humiliating matter.

"Ready to go?"

Though Gunther had been nervous before about the potential risk of being caught in a place he had no right to access, that had since been dissolved away, replaced by a familiar excitement. He was a different breed of player – the one who played by instinct, who immersed himself into the game, and relied more on intuition than objective numbers and statistics.

In another life, he would probably have been a Name Bearer, depressing though that fate would be. Here and now, however, he was but a humble transport officer.

I nodded. "We'll be back every evening."

He didn't protest – clearly, the thrill had gotten to him – but raised a concern. "What if you need to do your Handler duties?"

"Legion doesn't attack after sundown that often, unless a critical battle is imminent. If they run out of energy in their packs without being able to draw from solar power, they become sitting ducks. And even if it does happen, this place is close enough to the Handler operations centre that we'll make it before I get an immediate forfeit."

He gave me a disapproving look. "You need to stop treating this all as a game, Spence. People's lives depend on this. You can't reduce their lives to just a collection of numbers."

I got into his transport, speaking as he began to drive us both to our respective homes. "This is a game to me, Gun. All that I care about is finding the winning strategy. Once it stops being entertaining or stimulating, I'm out."

"You don't really mean that," he said. Then, quietly, he continued. "You'll send your Processors to their deaths if it's the best strategy you have?"

"If there're no other options? If it is the best available play offered to me? If it means preventing an even more horrible loss, that I would have no control over? If it is the only optimal play, beyond which there is zero possibility of recovery? If I have to cut off one part to save the whole?" I asked rhetorically. "Gladly."

He was silent for a moment. "Sometimes, I really hate you, Spence." He sighed. "But that's also why I can't become a Handler. I can't see things like you do."

"That's good, Gun. I've been informed by my Squadron that it's a sign of your continued humanity. Congratulations."

"That's not funny." He gave me a cold glare. "You're not unfeeling like the Legion. You're a good guy, Spence. I know you care about the Eighty-Six. I know you'll protect your Squadron."

I shrugged, letting the argument die off. Having experienced this circular pattern of rhetoric before, I knew that it would be pointless to continue. For some reason, Gunther saw a supposed goodness in me that was never there in the first place.

Goodness in the Republic died nine years ago. Gunther's type, people who refused to see the irreversible rot that had already set in, were becoming fewer and fewer in number. I was simply good at games – and I played to win.

The ride back was spent in relative silence. All throughout, I was thinking, trying to formulate a plan going forward. Juggernaut operation was both simpler and more complex than I'd imagined – I would need to factor that in when giving directives out in the field.

Hopefully, they had done the drills just as I'd asked. If it turned out that the newbies were unable to pilot their crafts to at least the level I was now at, there would be little hope of them surviving once a real battle came around.