The Wars within

by Swiss Shadow

What happens when modern tanks of the 21st century suddenly appear in the war-torn world of 86-Eighty-Six? A clash of eras, ideologies, and technology ignites, shaking the battlefield to its core. As explosions light the skies and alliances are tested, secrets buried deep in the fog of war threaten to change everything.

2. Chapter -2- Isekai

Stellar Year, 2148, May 12th

Republic of San Magnolia

Somewhere Inside District 86

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Gunner, SABOT, tank!" Keller yelled with all his might, the slightest edge of panic creeping into his voice as the chaos of the battlefield pressed down on them.

"UP!" the loader shouted, his voice sharp and clear, signaling the round was loaded and ready to fire.

"Identified!"

"FIRE!"

"On the way!" the gunner screamed, squeezing the trigger.

The Abrams rocked back with the recoil as the 130mm gun discharged. The uranium-tipped SABOT round tore through the air, striking the Löwe dead center. The enemy tank erupted in a brilliant explosion, its turret blown skyward, debris scattering across the battlefield.

"Next target! SABOT, tank—left, left, left!" Keller barked, his voice cutting through the roaring engines and deafening artillery fire.

"Identified!" the gunner yelled, swiveling the turret toward the new threat.

Suddenly, an enemy SABOT round slammed into the Abrams' hull with a metallic clang, deflecting off the armor harmlessly. Inside, the crew felt the vibration reverberate through the tank. Each hit was a grim reminder of how close they were to the edge.

"That was too close!" the loader shouted, his hands working frantically to prepare the next round.

"FIRE!" Keller ordered without missing a beat.

"On the way!" the gunner yelled back, sending another SABOT shell screaming toward the Löwe.

The gun recoiled with a thunderous roar, pushing back from the force of the shot and rocking the tank as if it were alive. The breech snapped open, ejecting the spent shell casing, which clattered into the container where a growing pile of empties lay.

The loader didn't pause for a second, already grabbing the next round. With practiced precision, he slammed it into the breech and locked it shut. "UP!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Outside, an Ameise scuttled closer, its dual machine guns peppering the Abrams with relentless fire. The rounds sparked harmlessly off the thick armor, but the steady rattling was a nerve-grinding reminder of how close the enemy was.

The Bradley II behind the Abrams took care of that one.

"Target, cease fire!" Keller barked, his eyes fixed on the shifting battlefield.

The reason for the order became clear almost immediately—the Legion units were retreating. The Ameisen and surviving Löwen began to pull back in an uncharacteristic display of retreat, their mechanical forms disappearing into the smoke and haze.

What the fuck was that?!" the gunner shouted, his voice cracking as adrenaline and confusion overwhelmed him. His hands hovered over the controls, trembling slightly despite his years of training.

Keller shot him a sharp look, though he didn't blame him for the outburst. "Stay focused!" Keller barked, but the edge in his own voice betrayed the unease he was fighting to suppress.

The gunner wasn't having it. "Focused? Where the fuck are we?!" he yelled, turning briefly to face Keller. "That wasn't any battlefield we know! And those machines—they weren't anything I've ever seen before!"

The loader spoke up, his voice quieter but no less strained. "He's not wrong, sir. I don't know where we are, but this… this ain't Europe."

Keller frowned, his hand tightening on the edge of the commander's periscope. The loader's words echoed in his mind as he took in the surreal landscape around them. The smoke and chaos from their sudden arrival had begun to clear, revealing a world that was anything but familiar.

Above them, the sky shifted unnaturally, dark purple clouds twisting like storm fronts—but something about them was off. Their movements were too precise, too synchronized, as if controlled by some unseen force.

"Those aren't clouds," Keller muttered, narrowing his eyes as he zoomed in with the commander's sight. His stomach churned as the truth revealed itself.

They weren't clouds at all. They were swarms of robotic flying machines, countless in number, moving as one massive entity. Their overwhelming presence blotted out the sun entirely, casting the battlefield in an eerie, dim light.

"What the hell…" Keller murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the Abrams' engine.

Before he could process the sight, his headset crackled to life, the burst of static almost startling in the heavy silence.

"Iron Horse-1! Paul, mate! Do you hear me?"

Keller froze, his heart skipping a beat. That voice—he recognized it immediately.

"Holy shit!" Keller exclaimed, leaning forward as if the action would somehow close the distance. "Wardog-2, this is Iron Horse-1! I got you Lima Charlie!"

The response came swiftly, layered with palpable relief. "Oh fuck me, mate! I thought we'd bloody lost ye!"

It was Lieutenant Noah Piers, the vehicle commander of the Challenger 4. The familiar British drawl cut through the tension like a lifeline.

Keller sighed heavily, his grip on the headset loosening. "Good to hear your voice, Noah. What's your status?"

"I'm fine, and my crew's fine as well," Noah replied, his tone steady but clipped. "But I think you want to worry about whatever's left of us. Bearing two-five-one from our reference we point."

Keller's frown deepened as he adjusted the commander's sight, swiveling it toward the indicated direction. The moment his crosshairs locked on, his breath caught in his throat. Emerging from the smoke and haze were more of those spider tanks, their eerie, insect-like legs clambering over rubble and debris with unnerving precision.

"Damn it," Keller muttered under his breath. These things weren't just machines—they moved like predators, hunting.

Without hesitation, Keller engaged the Hunter-Killer system. His finger hovered briefly over the controls before pressing the button, and the turret responded immediately, swiveling with mechanical precision to align the main gun with his sightline. Through the thermal view, he could make out the faint glow of heat radiating from the spider tanks' joints—an exploitable weakness, perhaps.

SABOT up!" the loader called out, his voice steady but strained, the tension bleeding through his usually calm professionalism.

The gunner leaned into his sight, adjusting the controls with precision as the crosshairs aligned with the lead spider-like tank. The mechanical monstrosity scuttled across the battlefield, its legs moving with an eerie fluidity.

"Gunner, SABOT, tank!" Keller barked, his eyes glued to the display in front of him. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to spring.

"Identified!" the gunner replied crisply, his tone sharp as a knife. His finger hovered over the trigger, the tension in the cabin reaching its peak.

"Hold fire! All stations, hold fire!" Keller shouted suddenly, his voice cutting through the cabin like a whip.

The gunner froze, glancing up at Keller for confirmation. "Sir?"

"I said hold fire!" Keller snapped, his eyes narrowing at the display. "Something's not right. Look at them—they're not engaging!"

The loader paused, his hands still gripping the next round, ready to reload at a moment's notice. "What the hell are they waiting for?"

Keller didn't answer immediately, his mind racing as he studied the alien machines. The spider-tanks had halted their advance, their weapons eerily silent. They seemed almost… observant, as if they were analyzing the situation, assessing their newfound adversaries.

For a very long moment, both parties simply stared at each other. The battlefield was suspended in an eerie silence, the air thick with tension as neither side dared to make the first move.

The Bradley, its turret swiveling slightly, had its 35mm autocannon locked and loaded with a belt of APFSDS rounds, ready to punch through armor if necessary. Its missile launcher sat idle but primed, a silent threat against any target that dared to challenge it.

The Challenger 4 stood firm, its massive turret locked squarely onto one of the spider-like tanks, an imposing testament to modern armored warfare. Inside the crew compartment, the gunner's hands were steady on the controls, his crosshairs fixed on the enemy as he tracked its slightest movement.

Beside him, the loader gripped a fresh HEAT round in one hand, the propellant casing ready in its compartment, poised for immediate action. His breathing was controlled, his focus unshakable, knowing that the moment the current round fired, his hands would need to move with practiced precision to keep the gun operational.

The main gun, already loaded with a HEAT round, sat primed, its destructive payload waiting to be unleashed. The crew could feel the tension humming through the tank, the low rumble of the engine blending with the faint crackle of the comms.

Outside, the spider-like mechs stood idly, their spindly legs planted firmly in the uneven terrain. Their 57mm cannons remained trained on the opposing tanks, but their hesitation was palpable.

Inside the Feldreß, the pilots sat in tense silence, their hands steady on the controls as their minds raced. None of the Processors spoke, their focus locked on the scene before them.

Shin kept his grip firm on the controls of his Juggernaut, his breathing steady despite the storm of uncertainty raging in his mind. His Handler was gone—a gunshot had silenced the voice that connected them to the battlefield beyond their immediate line of sight. The loss was a blow, not because of any emotional attachment, but because the Handler had been a vital tool in their fight against the Legion.

The man hadn't been kind. Few Handlers ever were. But he had provided real-time information, calling out enemy positions and offering a tactical edge in the chaos of combat. Now that edge was gone, and the absence left a void that Shin could feel pressing against him, heavy and cold.

The Juggernaut's sensors twitched, scanning the still-active unkown signatures. The massive, unfamiliar tanks sat silent, their presence dominating the battlefield. Each one of their imposing forms radiated an almost alien confidence, as if they knew they controlled the pace of whatever would happen next.

Suddenly, there was movement atop the tank. A hatch creaked open, and a helmeted figure emerged, his head and shoulders silhouetted against the dim light. Only then did Shin notice the array of heavy armament mounted on the tank. Beyond the turret's imposing main gun, additional equipment bristled across the vehicle: various sensors, sights, cameras, and two machine guns strategically positioned for maximum coverage.

The man reached for one of the machine guns positioned in front of his open hatch. With practiced precision, he racked the charging handle, the metallic clink echoing in the tense air. He aimed it directly at the Processors, but his finger hesitated on the trigger.

Then another weapon shifted into motion. Mounted on the back of the turret, a larger gun began to rotate into position. It dwarfed the two machine guns already bristling on top of the tank, its massive barrel exuding a menacing presence.

Shin's sharp eyes tracked its movement, his breath hitching as he muttered under his breath, "That thing will tear us apart."

With no options left and no way out—at least not alive—Shin made a decision that could only be described as both reckless and desperate. It was a last-ditch effort to get everyone out of this alive.

He reached for the emergency release, and with a sharp hiss, his cockpit lid began to open. The gun of his Juggernaut followed suit, tilting skyward as the lid lifted. The LCD screens flickered before going dark, leaving Shin momentarily disoriented as the harsh daylight poured into the cockpit. The warm glow of the setting sun bathed the battlefield, the horizon ablaze with hues of gold and crimson, as if to mark the gravity of his choice.

Inside the Challenger, Piers stared in disbelief at his LCD screen, the high-resolution zoom of the sight providing a crystal-clear view of the strange spider-like tank. His jaw tightened as the image sank in.

"Everyone, stand down!" he barked into the comms, his voice firm but tinged with shock. "That's a bloody child!"

Everything seemed to stop. A tense, eerie silence settled over the battlefield as the tankers and Bradley crew collectively held their breath. All eyes were locked on the unfolding scene, their weapons momentarily forgotten.

One by one, more of the spider-tanks began to open up, their hatches hissing as they revealed their occupants. The tension in the air was palpable, as if the world itself was holding its breath alongside them.

Paul, his hands still gripping the M250 tightly, leaned in closer, his eye peering through the M157 Vortex scope mounted on the machine gun's rail. The crosshairs locked onto the lead spider-tank, its silhouette outlined by the scope's advanced thermal imaging. Hostile forces glowed red, friendly forces green, with corresponding diamonds hovering above each target for instant identification. The spider-tank's unmistakable red outline filled the display, a sharp reminder of its perceived threat.

Paul exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound barely audible as he flicked his tongue against his teeth in quiet deliberation. Then, with measured precision, he adjusted his grip and angled the machine gun's barrel skyward, he ain't shooting a child today.

Paul ducked back down into the turret, his gaze meeting those of his gunner and loader. Both men were tense, ready to act on whatever orders came next.

"Greg, Theo, cover me. I'm heading out there," Paul said firmly. Without waiting for a response, he removed his helmet and grabbed one of the four M6 Carbines stored inside the tank—a contingency weapon for when the tank was knocked out, and they'd have to fight on foot.

Gregory and Theodore exchanged stunned glances, caught off guard by Paul's blunt determination. But the moment passed quickly, and they snapped into action.

Gregory, the gunner, brought the CROWS 30mm chaingun mounted at the back of the turret to life, swiveling it toward the formation of spider-tanks. Meanwhile, Theodore climbed out of his hatch, hefting the second M250 machine gun. With practiced ease, he racked the charging handle and aimed, scanning for any sign of trouble.

Paul jumped off the turret, landing solidly on the tank's hull before leaping down to the muddy, debris-laden ground below. His boots splashed into the muck with a squelch, his M6 Carbine resting casually in his hands as if it were an extension of himself.

Across from him, the lead spider-tank operator mirrored his actions. The young man emerged, gripping what appeared to be an FAL rifle. With practiced ease, he hopped out of the spider-tank and landed lightly on the ground.

Paul's eyes narrowed as he took in the operator's appearance. He was young—shockingly young. A scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, and his hands were clad in black, fingerless gloves, revealing calloused skin. Despite his youth, there was a sharpness in his movements that hinted at experience far beyond his years.

The two stood still once they reached each other, maintaining an arm's length of distance between them. The air between them was tense, thick with the weight of unspoken questions.

Paul hesitated, unsure of what to say, as his eyes scanned the young man standing before him. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, with raven-black hair that framed his pale face and piercing crimson-red eyes that seemed to burn with intensity.

What caught Paul's attention next was the young man's attire. He was dressed in some kind of arid camouflage Paul had never seen before—a strange, almost crude fusion of M81 Woodland and Multicam patterns, overlaid with the color scheme of Tiger Stripe. Shades of FDE dominated the mix.

The boy spoke first, his tone collected and firm. His voice, icy and emotionless, sent an involuntary shiver down Paul's spine. It was the kind of voice that could unnerve even the most hardened soldier—a voice no one could ever be prepared for.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" the boy asked, his crimson eyes boring into Paul with an intensity that felt almost otherworldly.

Paul stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, caught off guard by the sheer presence the boy exuded. It took him a few moments to gather his bearings. Finally, he managed to speak, his voice steady but edged with caution.

"I could ask you the same question," Paul replied, his grip tightening slightly on the M6 Carbine in his hands.

The boy's gaze shifted past Paul, lingering on the tanks behind him, his crimson eyes analyzing them with an unsettling calm. Then, just as smoothly, he turned his attention back to Paul, his expression unchanging.

"As far as I can tell," the boy said, his voice still cold and measured, "you're the one out of place here." His tone hardened slightly as he continued, "So I'm going to ask you again—who are you, and what do you want?"

The weight of the boy's words hung in the air, pressing down on Paul like an invisible force—an unrelenting pressure that seemed to emanate from the boy himself. It was a presence Paul would never have thought possible from someone so young.

Unable to resist the crushing intensity, Paul gave in, his shoulders stiffening as he straightened to respond. His voice came out firm but edged with a reluctant deference.

"Captain John Paul Keller. 15th NATO Quick Response Force," he said, his tone clipped and professional. He exhaled sharply, trying to reclaim some sense of control. "Now you."

The boy's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting ever so subtly. There was no hesitation in his response, his tone unyielding.

"I am Captain Shinei Nouzen," the boy said, his words carrying a quiet gravity. "Leader of the Spearhead Squadron." His crimson eyes remained locked on Paul, unblinking and intense. "You still haven't told me what your business here is."

Paul hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Shinei's calm yet commanding presence wasn't just intimidating—it was disarming in a way that made every word feel like it could tip the balance of their encounter.

"Well…" Paul said, spinning on his heel with a casual motion that felt entirely out of place in the tension-laden air. He stared at the massive tanks looming over the battlefield for a long moment before turning back to Shin with a shrug. "I actually have no idea."

Shin blinked, caught completely off guard by the bluntness of the statement. For a moment, he simply stared at Paul, his usual calm expression betraying a flicker of disbelief.

The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the faint hum of the tanks' engines. Shin's gaze didn't waver, his mind struggling to reconcile Paul's casual demeanor with the gravity of their situation.

Paul shifted slightly under Shin's scrutiny, but he didn't break eye contact. "What?" he asked, as if his lack of answers was the most natural thing in the world.

"You don't know what you're doing here?" Shin finally asked, his voice even, though disbelief lingered at the edges.

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Paul replied without missing a beat, nodding with an almost exaggerated sense of certainty.

Shin stared at him, his expression unreadable, though his silence spoke volumes. The sheer bluntness of the response left him momentarily at a loss for words.

Paul, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered by the weight of the situation. He shifted his stance slightly, glancing back at the towering tanks with a bemused expression. "Look, kid, I've seen a lot of weird shit in my time, but this?" He gestured vaguely at the battlefield, his hand sweeping across the wreckage, the spider-like Feldreß, and the orange sky that was glowing in a ominous purple glow just mere minutes ago "This takes the goddamn cake. Spider-tanks, fucking robo-flies blotting out the sun, child soldiers…"

He let the words hang for a moment, as if daring the absurdity of the situation to outdo itself. His gaze flicked back to Shin, who stood silently, his expression stoic but his mind clearly processing the bluntness of Paul's statement.

"Anyways," Paul said, crossing his arms and tilting his head at Shin. "You mind telling me what a bunch of teens are doing in killer spider-tank-looking thingies, fighting other, uglier spider-tank thingies?"

His tone was sharp, laced with a mix of confusion and disbelief. Paul gestured toward Shin's Juggernaut, then back toward the battlefield where the wreckage of Ameisen and Löwen lay scattered like broken toys.

"You don't exactly scream military draft age, kid," Paul added, his gaze narrowing slightly. "So what's the story here? Some kinda twisted science fair project gone wrong? Or is this just your average Tuesday around here?"

Shin regarded him in silence, his expression unreadable. Paul's bluntness wasn't unexpected, but it wasn't something Shin was accustomed to dealing with.

When Shin didn't immediately respond, Paul let out a huff, his frustration evident. He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. "I'm serious, kid. You're what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Why the hell are you out here in a deathtrap like that?"

Paul gestured toward Shin's Juggernaut with a sharp motion. "I mean, I can see from here that whatever you call armor slapped on that walking sarcophagus wouldn't withstand a burst from the .338 mounted on my tank. Hell, it probably wouldn't even stop a decent rifle round, let alone what's flying around out here."

He straightened up and jabbed a thumb back toward his Abrams. "Now that's armor. Real steel, real protection. And you're telling me someone thought it was a good idea to stick you—" he pointed back at Shin's Juggernaut—"in that overgrown tin can and call it a day?"

Paul shook his head in disbelief, his tone sharp. "What kind of operation is this? What kind of people send kids into a fight like this with nothing but paper-thin plating and a death wish?"

Shin remained silent, his expression blank, though his gaze seemed to harden slightly. Paul's words cut through the tension, hitting on a truth Shin didn't care to dwell on—because it was just that: the truth.

"Follow us to our base of operations," Shin replied, his tone cold and distant, the same measured detachment he used as a shield in every conversation.

Paul blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness of the response. He stared at Shin for a moment, expecting some kind of elaboration, but none came.

"That's it?" Paul asked, raising an eyebrow. "No explanation? No—'Hey, here's why the sky looks like Jeff Bezos has finally lost it'? Just 'follow us'?"

Shin didn't react, his expression as unreadable as ever. "You'll get your answers there," he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Paul let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "You're one hell of a conversationalist, kid."

Shin didn't respond, simply turning his Juggernaut and signaling to the others to follow. The spindly machine moved with mechanical precision, its eerie silhouette blending into the chaos of the battlefield.

Paul sighed and climbed back into his Abrams, muttering under his breath. "This better be good, or I swear…"

---

Earth Calendar, 2074

Ramstein Airbase, Gernany

General Silas Morshower

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Breaking News: Political Criticism Mounts Against NATO's Military Actions

Dateline: December 18, 2074

As NATO forces celebrate significant victories in Europe, including the liberation of Ramstein Air Base and advances against Russian forces, criticism from political leaders and activist groups has emerged, calling NATO's strategy into question.

Speaking from Brussels, Member of the European Parliament Julian Vasseur voiced sharp disapproval of NATO's ongoing military operations. "While we acknowledge the importance of defending our sovereignty, the aggressive and overly militarized tactics employed by NATO are causing unnecessary destruction and loss of life," Vasseur said. "There must be a focus on diplomacy and de-escalation, not just brute force."

Similarly, Senator Grace Hadley from the United States took to social media to express her concerns. "The resources being funneled into this war effort are staggering. Billions of taxpayer dollars are funding tanks, bombs, and missiles while our infrastructure crumbles and healthcare systems strain under pressure. This is not the path to lasting peace," she posted.

Activist groups have also raised their voices, accusing NATO of neglecting humanitarian considerations in the push to retake territories. The group Voices for Peace released a statement condemning the use of heavy artillery and airstrikes in urban areas, calling the tactics "indiscriminate" and "irresponsible."

"We are seeing civilians caught in the crossfire," said Maria Klein, spokesperson for Voices for Peace. "If NATO truly values freedom and democracy, it must conduct its operations with the utmost care and transparency. Destroying cities to 'save' them is not a victory—it's a tragedy."

In a fiery exchange captured during a live broadcast of Crossfire Focus, tensions between activist Maria Klein and retired General Edward Langley erupted into a heated confrontation.

"I will not sit here and glorify a military that has done nothing but wreak havoc and destroy lives!" Klein yelled, her voice rising above the host's attempts to maintain order. "They're not heroes—they're pawns in a corrupt system that uses them to justify endless war! If NATO actually cared about people, it wouldn't be bombing cities or sending kids to die in the mud!"

The camera cut to General Langley, his expression hard and unyielding as he leaned forward. His voice was calm but carried a weight that silenced the room.

"You aren't the one fighting there," Langley said, his tone measured but piercing. "The brave souls in those trenches are the reason you have the privilege to sit here and yell about how corrupt the system is. They're the reason you can run around screaming that the government is total BS and that the military is some faceless entity you can dishonor at will."

Klein opened her mouth to respond, but Langley continued, his voice rising slightly, his passion breaking through his usual composure.

"But without those soldiers—without their sacrifices—there wouldn't be a government to criticize. There wouldn't be freedom to hold protests or air your opinions. Without them fighting against what is, I might add, an illegal occupation, you wouldn't even be able to sit in this chair and call them pawns. You'd be in shackles, or worse."

The studio fell silent, the weight of Langley's words settling over the room. Klein's expression faltered for a moment before she regained her composure, though the fire in her eyes seemed dimmed.

The host quickly cut in to diffuse the tension. "A passionate discussion, no doubt, from two very different perspectives. We'll take a short break and return with more analysis on the ongoing conflict in Europe."

Despite the criticism, NATO officials maintain that their strategy is necessary to counter Russia's aggression and reclaim occupied territories. "We cannot allow indecision and hesitation to cost more lives," stated Brigadier General Louise Carter. "Every move we make is calculated to ensure both military and humanitarian success. War is ugly, but appeasement is worse."

The divide between military pragmatism and political idealism grows ever wider as NATO pushes closer to Berlin, leaving many to wonder how the delicate balance between force and diplomacy will shape the outcome of this conflict.

This is Charlotte Hayes, reporting for GCNN—where every voice is heard, and every story matters.

The dim light of the command room flickered as General Morshower leaned back in his chair, the glow of the muted news broadcast still playing on the wall. The latest headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen: "Criticism of NATO's Actions Grows Among Politicians and Activist Groups."

Morshower rubbed his temples, his face a mask of barely restrained irritation. "Unbelievable," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

Across the room, a young lieutenant stood stiffly, glancing nervously between the General and the muted screen.

"These people," Morshower began, gesturing vaguely at the broadcast, "sitting in their cushy offices, sipping coffee, and complaining about how we should fight a war they're too afraid to even get near. Politicians and activists telling us how to do our jobs from the safety of their goddamn ivory towers."

He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk as his voice grew sharper. "Let me tell you something, Lieutenant. Those 'activists'—the ones who call my soldiers pawns or murderers? They have the luxury to run their mouths because of those very soldiers. Because of the men and women out there, freezing in trenches, watching their friends bleed out, and still holding the line."

The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably but remained silent.

"And the politicians," Morshower continued, his tone darkening, "spouting off about diplomacy and humanitarian corridors like this is some goddamn debate club. Do they think the Russians care about ceasefires? About international law? They don't! They use every pause we give them to rearm and dig in deeper, and then these geniuses have the gall to say we're the problem."

He straightened, pacing slowly behind his desk. "These are the same people who'd surrender an entire continent just to avoid bad PR. Who'd let civilians die because they think a headline is worth more than a soldier's sacrifice."

Morshower stopped and turned to the lieutenant, his expression hard. "Do you know what happens if we listen to them? If we pull back, if we hesitate? Berlin falls. Europe falls. And then those same people will sit there wondering why they can't sleep safely in their beds anymore."

Morshower sighed heavily, his anger cooling into something colder, more measured. He ran a hand down his face and leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he fixed the young lieutenant with a hard stare.

"I hope for both of our nerves… that you have good news for me, Lieutenant," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. "Come on. Hit me."

The lieutenant straightened, swallowing hard as he stepped forward. "I'm sorry in advance, sir," he muttered, handing over a piece of paper containing the latest war reports.

Morshower took the document, scanning it quickly.

"Reports from the Berlin front state that we have effectively crossed the Elbe River and established a beachhead on the eastern shore," the lieutenant began, his tone formal but cautious. "Air defenses are online and protecting the pioneers while they're constructing a bridge to support the advance."

Morshower raised an eyebrow, setting the paper down. "That's good news, Lieutenant. So, why the hell did you apologize?" he asked, genuinely confused.

The lieutenant hesitated, then handed over another report. His hand trembled slightly as Morshower grabbed it and began reading.

"The squadron Magic Spear—the unit sent to retake Schwerin—has taken some losses, sir," the lieutenant said carefully.

Morshower paused, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked back and forth across the page.

The lieutenant continued, his voice quieter now. "One Bradley was taken out. The entire crew… didn't make it. And, sir—" he stopped, hesitant to deliver the next part.

"Spit it out, Lieutenant," Morshower snapped, his voice harder now.

"One Abrams, one Bradley, onePanther, and one Challenger also disappeared during the engagement. Their current status—both the crews and the vehicles—is unknown," the lieutenant reported, his voice steady but uneasy. "The remaining Victors successfully took Schwerin and are holding it, denying the Russians another attempt like Hannover."

Morshower sighed deeply, hanging his head low for a moment as the weight of the report settled on him. Then his head snapped up, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Wait…" he began, his voice sharper now. "Did you just say—disappeared? Mind clarifying that, Lieutenant?"

The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat as he avoided direct eye contact. "Yes, sir. The named vehicles were executing a flanking maneuver on the Russian positions when their radio and IFF transponder signatures suddenly—quote—despawned."

Morshower froze, his expression twisting into a mix of confusion and irritation. "Despawned?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Lieutenant? This isn't a damn video game."

The lieutenant winced slightly, nodding. "I understand how it sounds, sir. That's the exact term the communications officer used. One second, they were on comms, transmitting coordinates, and the next… nothing. No signals on the IFF, no pings on the, just gone. It's like they vanished into thin air."

Morshower leaned forward, his piercing eyes locking onto the lieutenant like a predator sizing up its prey. His voice, cold and cutting, sliced through the tension in the room.

"Tanks move. Tanks fight. Tanks take hits, or they get knocked out. What tanks don't do," he said, his tone dropping into a dangerous growl, "is vanish into thin fucking air."

The room seemed to hold its breath as the General continued, his glare unrelenting. "I don't deal in ghosts or conspiracies, Lieutenant. I deal in facts. So you're going to find out what the hell happened to those tanks and their crews. I don't care if you have to tear apart every satellite feed, drone scan, or radar log from that engagement—figure it out."

Morshower's voice rose slightly, the weight of command behind every word. "And I don't want it tomorrow, or later today—I want it yesterday. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!" the lieutenant replied, snapping a sharp salute, his voice steady despite the intensity of the moment.

"Good," Morshower said, leaning back slightly, though his eyes never left the young officer. "Because until I get answers, I'm not letting this go. Dismissed."

The lieutenant turned on his heel and left the room in haste, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor. General Morshower remained seated, the room silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights.

He glanced down at the paper still clutched in his hand, the stark black-and-white text and grainy images glaring back at him. Beside each listing were the names of the crew members—young soldiers, dedicated professionals, now unaccounted for.

Morshower's eyes lingered on the details, his brow furrowing. These weren't just machines—they were lives. Lives that had been entrusted to him, to the mission, to NATO's resolve to push back an enemy that didn't play by the rules. Yet here they were: missing. No wreckage, no transmissions, nothing to explain the sudden void where they had once been.

He set the paper down on the desk, but his gaze didn't leave it. His fingers tapped against the surface, a steady, deliberate rhythm that betrayed the storm brewing inside him.

Tanks didn't just disappear. Not in the middle of an active battlefield. Not without a trace.

Morshower leaned back in his chair, his mind racing through the possibilities. "A new Russian weapon? A catastrophic intelligence failure? Something worse?" Every scenario only raised more questions, none of them with answers he could stomach.

His eyes finally left the paper, drifting to the darkened television screen in the corner of the room. He could still hear the echoes of the earlier news broadcast in his mind: the politicians, the critics, the armchair strategists who had no idea what it meant to command men and women in the hellscape of modern warfare.

"Tanks don't vanish," he muttered, his voice low and firm. His gaze hardened as he leaned forward again, clasping his hands together. "And neither do my soldiers."

---

Stellar Year, 2148, May 13th

Republic of San Magnolia

Somewhere Inside District 1

---

Over in San Magnolia, things weren't looking much better. The pristine, orderly streets of the Republic had been violently disrupted by the sudden and inexplicable appearance of a massive 60-ton hunk of metal, bristling with cutting-edge technology and an arsenal that seemed plucked straight out of a warzone.

The tank had materialized out of thin air, crushing several cars and sending debris flying in all directions. In the ensuing chaos, a dozen civilians lost their lives, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The tank had then moved, its treads grinding into the asphalt as it unwittingly plowed through the road, leaving destruction in its wake.

To say the residents of San Magnolia were unprepared for this would be an understatement. The sudden arrival of the war machine was so bizarre, so far outside their realm of understanding, that it might as well have been a scene from a science fiction novel. For a society used to controlling every aspect of their world—including the propaganda-fed illusion of peace—the incident shattered any semblance of normalcy.

This wasn't on anyone's bingo card. Not the civilians who fled in terror, not the government officials scrambling to explain what had happened, and certainly not the military, who were now tasked with dealing with something they neither understood nor had planned for.

The pristine white Feldreß of the San Magnolian military scrambled to cordon off the area, their lighter, spider-like forms starkly contrasting the hulking, alien presence of the tank.

After all, the Juggernaut looked almost like a toy in comparison to the tank.

The San Magnolian Feldreß, with its spindly legs and sleek, insect-like design, was an advanced piece of machinery in its own right. But next to the hulking behemoth of a tank, it seemed almost fragile. The tank's sheer size and mass dwarfed the lighter, nimble Juggernaut. Its thick, angular armor radiated an aura of impenetrability, while its massive turret and barrel exuded raw power.

So what was their first move? Encircle the damn thing and cover it from all angles.

The tank, with its hulking presence and angular design, looked eerily similar to the Legion's Löwe. That resemblance gave the Processors inside the Juggernauts a shred of hope—or at least a plan. They assumed that if this tank was anything like the Löwe, it might share the same weaknesses: thinner armor on the top and rear. The Juggernaut's 57mm main gun, while underpowered against most of the Legion's heavier units, had proven effective against the vulnerable spots of the Löwe.

Moving with precision, the Juggernauts spread out, their operators falling into familiar formation patterns. The machines scuttled forward, their spindly legs carrying them into position as their weapons trained on the tank's flanks and rear.

"Encircle it. Cover every possible angle and fire the moment it shows any sign of hostility!" the commanding Operator ordered, his voice firm but edged with tension.

"And if that doesn't work?!" another voice crackled through the Radio, the fear barely masked beneath the question.

Silence. No one had an answer for that.

The truth was, there was no battle doctrine for something like this. The Juggernauts were designed to fight the Legion—not a monstrous hunk of steel from another time and place. If the tank's armor turned out to be as impenetrable as it looked, or worse, if its weapons could retaliate with the power they assumed it had, the Juggernauts had no fallback plan.

But there was no movement from the tank. It stood idly in the middle of the road, a silent, immovable colossus. Its imposing frame remained motionless, surrounded by a chaotic ring of military, police, and news agencies. The once-pristine street was now a warzone of debris and destruction, the tank still covered in bricks and dust from its violent collision with the wall.

Feldreß units held their positions, their spindly legs braced for combat as their guns remained trained on the mysterious machine.

Suddenly, the eerie stillness was broken. Two hatches on the turret of the tank creaked open with a metallic groan, sending a ripple of tension through the encircling forces. Guns shifted, crosshairs zeroed in, and orders to hold fire were barked across the comms.

Then, a pair of hands shot out from one of the open hatches. Palms forward, fingers spread wide—a universal signal of surrender or no ill intentions.

For a moment, everyone froze, their eyes fixed on the turret. The Radio crackled with disbelief.

"Hands? Did… did someone just stick their hands out of that thing?" one Operator muttered.

"No way. That's impossible. That thing's gotta be Legion tech!" another protested.

"Legion don't have human crews," the commanding Operator interjected, his voice tense but steady. "Stay focused. Weapons trained, but hold fire unless I say otherwise."

The tension in the air was palpable as the scene unfolded. The hands didn't move, remaining in place as if to emphasize the intent behind the gesture.

A police officer, gripping a handgun in one hand and a loudspeaker in the other, stepped forward cautiously. His voice trembled slightly but carried a firm edge as he barked orders.

"Step out of the tank! Unarmed! Hands where we can see them!"

The officer's words echoed across the tense scene, cutting through the low hum of the tank's engine. The crowd held its collective breath, watching for the tank crew's next move.

"Don't shoot! We mean no harm!" came the muffled reply from inside the tank.

The officer hesitated, his brows furrowing at the sound of their voices. They were speaking the same language—San Magnolian—but something was off. Their words were laced with a heavy, unfamiliar accent, one that hadn't been heard in years. It was formal, clipped, with a peculiar cadence that felt out of place.

One of the military personnel standing nearby stiffened, whispering into their comms. "That accent… it sounds like Giadian. Just like the old empire used before the Legion took over."

The observation sent ripples of unease through the encircling forces. The Giadian Empire had been gone for nearly a decade, wiped out by the Legion's uprising. Yet here was a tank crew, seemingly human, speaking in a way that was eerily similar to the long-lost Giadians.

The officer adjusted his stance, swallowing hard before raising the loudspeaker again. "We'll give you one last chance! Step out of the tank, hands visible, and comply with our orders, or we will open fire!"

There was a brief pause from inside the tank before the same voice called out, "Understood! We're coming out! Don't shoot!"

A figure climbed out of the tank slowly, their movements deliberate and cautious. A helmet protected their head, with a mask and a pair of goggles shielding their face, leaving only the faintest hints of expression visible through the reflective lenses. Thick gloves covered their hands, gripping the edges of the hatch as they carefully emerged.

Their uniform was strikingly unusual. The colors—shades of green, brown, and black—blended seamlessly with the tank's own camouflage, but the pattern was entirely different. Instead of the smeared or spray-painted design that covered the tank, the soldier's uniform was dotted, forming an intricate and strangely mesmerizing pattern that almost seemed alive against the surroundings.

Over the uniform, the figure wore a heavy bulletproof vest, its design bulky and utilitarian. Whether it was soft or hard armor was impossible to tell at a glance, but it had an air of rugged durability, as if it were made for surviving the worst.

As the first soldier stood atop the turret with their hands raised, two more hatches creaked open. One was on the other side of the turret and the other was positioned beneath the main gun on the hull. A second pair of gloved hands emerged, followed by two more figures who climbed out in a similarly careful and deliberate manner.

They wore the exact same uniforms as the first—helmets, masks, goggles, gloves, and the same dotted camouflage that seemed oddly out of place in this world. Their every movement was measured, precise, and spoke of discipline.

The encircling military and police forces tightened their grips on their weapons, unease rippling through their ranks. To them, these soldiers were an enigma. The uniforms, the gear, even their body language—it was all alien, as if plucked from another era or dimension.

After a thorough search of both the soldiers and their tank, all weapons, gear, and personal effects were confiscated. The items included their helmets, masks, goggles, heavy vests, gloves, and even the strange dotted camouflage uniforms they wore. Every piece of equipment was cataloged and transported with care, as though handling alien artifacts.

The soldiers themselves were taken into custody, escorted under heavy guard. They offered no resistance, complying silently as they were led away. Their calm demeanor only added to the unease among the troops who had detained them.

The confiscated gear and the tank itself were transported to the high-security military laboratory in District 1. The lab, a sterile and imposing facility, was reserved for analyzing captured Legion technology, but today it had a very different kind of mystery to unravel.

Scientists and engineers in white coats crowded around the confiscated equipment as it was meticulously laid out on examination tables under bright fluorescent lights. The helmet drew their attention first.

It was surprisingly simple in design—an olive-green hard dome with a rough, utilitarian finish. Inside, it was lined with a mesh padding system, clearly designed for comfort and shock absorption. Attached to the sides were what appeared to be an integrated headset, complete with a coiled cable and a retractable microphone arm.

One of the scientists picked up the helmet, turning it over in their hands with a mix of fascination and incredulity. "This… is leagues behind our technology," they muttered. "It's just a helmet. No neural interfaces, no real-time data feeds. Just protection and communication."

Another scientist, peering at the headset, added, "And even the communication system is primitive. This cable suggests a wired connection to their tank's comms system. Compared to the Para-RAID, this is practically ancient. The Para-RAID allows real-time neurological synchronization between users—this is nothing more than a glorified walkie-talkie strapped to a helmet."

Despite its simplicity, the helmet exuded a sense of rugged reliability. It was clear that its design prioritized durability and practicality over innovation—a stark contrast to the Republic's sleek and advanced technologies.

The team quickly moved on to the other items, each one offering its own mysteries. The goggles came next, their robust design hinting at practicality over sophistication. The lenses, thick and slightly tinted, appeared to offer no significant enhancement of vision.

One of the engineers held them up to the light, tilting them back and forth. "Just plain old eye protection," they remarked, their voice tinged with disbelief. "The lenses are made of some kind of acrylic material. Flexible, but durable enough to withstand shrapnel—probably. No wiring, no sensors, nothing advanced. They're just… goggles."

The scientist next to them took a closer look, running their gloved fingers along the edges of the frames. "It's almost disappointing," they murmured. "I was expecting at least some kind of rudimentary targeting system or integrated HUD. But this?" They handed the goggles back. "This is barely a step above industrial-grade safety equipment."

Another scientist picked up the mask, inspecting it with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. It was simple—just a plain brown balaclava, made from a lightweight, stretchable fabric. There were no visible reinforcements, no embedded technology, and no signs of advanced functionality.

"This is… confusing," the scientist said, turning it over in their hands. "They arrive in that tank—a machine packed with sensors, weaponry, and systems we can barely comprehend. And yet, this?" He held the balaclava up for the others to see. "This is just a plain old piece of cloth. It doesn't protect the user from anything significant."

Another scientist leaned in for a closer look, raising an eyebrow. "No filtration system, no reinforcement. It's not armored, not even heat-resistant. It's completely useless in chemical warfare. It's… just a balaclava."

The first scientist passed it to a colleague, who stretched the material between their fingers and inspected the seams. "It doesn't make sense," they muttered. "Why would someone operating that level of technology rely on something this basic? It doesn't add up."

"It's almost like their priorities are mismatched," another added, jotting down notes. "The tank is advanced, borderline revolutionary in some ways. But their personal equipment? It's decades—maybe even centuries—behind."

The scientist who had been examining the helmet earlier moved over to another table, his curiosity now fixed on the vest lying neatly atop it. He reached out, running his fingers over the fabric and tracing the dotted camouflage pattern. "Same pattern as the clothing," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Another scientist, drawn by his colleague's interest, stepped up beside him. He leaned over, inspecting the vest from above before reaching out and lifting it. The moment he did, his expression shifted to one of surprise. "It's… heavy," he remarked, his tone tinged with both curiosity and confusion.

The first scientist raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the comment. "Heavy? How heavy?"

The second scientist shifted the vest in his hands, feeling its unexpected weight. "It's denser than I expected. And the material—" He ran his hand over the surface, his fingers tracing the layers beneath. Then, with a slight frown, he bent the vest in the middle.

"It's… not hard," he remarked, the surprise evident in his voice. The vest had some rigidity to it, but it wasn't reinforced with plates like traditional body armor. "This is soft armor," he muttered, turning it over in his hands. "I doubt this would stop a rifle round. Hell, I doubt it'd stop my knife."

To prove his point, he picked up a small utility knife from the table. With a quick glance at his colleague, he rammed the blade into the vest with controlled force.

For a moment, there was silence as everyone in the room leaned in to see the result. The tip of the knife had pierced a few millimeters into the fabric—but then stopped, held firm by the material beneath.

The scientist blinked in surprise, pulling the knife back out. The fabric around the puncture point appeared undamaged, as though it had absorbed the force and redistributed it. "What the hell…" he muttered, running his thumb over the spot where the blade had struck. "It didn't go through."

His colleague stepped closer, inspecting the vest. "That's impossible," the first scientist said. "Soft armor shouldn't be able to do that, especially not without some kind of additional reinforcement."

They retrieved a sharper knife from the tools laid out on the table, determined to cut into the vest's top layer. The fabric, with its dotted camouflage pattern and webbing for pouches, resisted every attempt to slice through it. The scientist holding the knife gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening as he applied more pressure.

"Damn thing's tougher than it looks," he muttered, sweat beading on his forehead. Another scientist stepped in to steady the vest, their combined effort finally forcing the blade to bite into the material.

With the power of teamwork—and a fair bit of frustration—they managed to carve a small gash, just a few millimeters long. It was enough to expose the layers beneath, and everyone leaned in to inspect the mysterious inner workings of the vest.

One of the scientists took a pair of tweezers, carefully prying the layers apart. "Yellow and black… checker design," he murmured, his voice laced with confusion as he examined the material. "The fabric feels… smooth. Nylon-like, in some ways."

Another researcher hovered nearby, meticulously recording every word and observation into a handheld device. "Can you describe it further?" they asked, their tone professional but equally intrigued.

It's interwoven," one of the scientists noted, leaning in closer. "These fibers—they're tightly packed, almost fused together, creating this… dense layer of fabric. It's like an almost impenetrable wall, but flexible."

The first scientist nodded, running a gloved finger over the exposed checker pattern. "It's a contradiction in itself. Flexible enough to move with the body, but dense enough to stop significant force. You'd expect something like this to tear or fray under pressure, but it holds., it's engineered to endure."

He tapped the material lightly, the sound faint but firm. "This isn't metal, ceramic, or anything rigid like that. It's layers of fibers working together. The way it's woven ensures that force gets spread across the entire surface instead of focusing on one point. That's why it stopped the knife earlier—and probably why it could stop worse."

The second scientist tilted their head, intrigued. "Almost impenetrable, but not bulky. If you were designing armor for mobility and survivability, this would be your dream material."

My question is though," the scientist spoke up, holding the vest in his hands as he examined it closely. "If they're inside that tank, with its level of armor and armaments, why the hell would they need this additional armor?"

He turned to face the others, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "I get the helmet," he continued, gesturing to the nearby table where the olive-green dome rested. "I'm sure it's cramped in there, and when you're hitting rough terrain at certain speeds, it can get bumpy. Makes sense to protect your head from a knock against the interior."

The scientist placed the vest back down on the table, his fingers tapping the surface for emphasis. "But why this? Why go to the trouble of wearing something like this if they're already in a vehicle designed to survive direct hits from anti-tank rounds? Are they expecting to leave the tank mid-battle?"

Another scientist, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. "Maybe it's protocol," they suggested. "A precaution in case they're forced to abandon the vehicle. If the tank gets disabled or destroyed, they'd need some level of protection while on foot."

Another scientist, a young woman in her late teens with glasses and shoulder-length hair, adjusted her frames as she chimed in. "If they're going to these lengths to armor up the soldiers inside that tank," she began, gesturing to the vest, "then think about what that says about the tank itself."

She turned to the others, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke. "The armor on this thing is thick. Like, really thick. We don't know what it's made of yet, but from everything we've seen, it's durable as. We shot it with the 57mm gun of the Juggernauts. Using SABOT rounds, Heat rounds, High explosive Warheads. Nothing left even a scratch. Mabe some paint was chipped off here and there, but that was it."

She paused, her gaze shifting toward the towering silhouette of the tank visible through the lab's reinforced window. "So, if their armor is this advanced, why go out of their way to make sure the crew is so heavily protected too? It makes me think that whatever these guys are afraid of—whatever they've encountered out there—is even bigger and scarier than what we're looking at here."

The room went quiet as her words sank in.

"Or," she continued, her tone darkening, "it's not about what's out there. Maybe it's about what's in their own ranks. They could be preparing for a friendly-fire incident. Think about it—if you've got these monsters of tanks on a battlefield, and someone makes the wrong call…" She gestured at the vest again. "You're going to want every possible safeguard, even inside your own vehicle."

Another scientist frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Friendly fire? That's a grim thought. But… yeah, I see your point, Miss Penrose. No one in their right mind would willingly charge into battle if these things were in play. If one of these tanks opened fire on friendlies, it'd be catastrophic."

Miss Penrose nodded, her expression grim as she walked over to the safety glass, gesturing toward the tank looming behind it. Her voice was steady, but the weight of her words sent a chill through the room. "What's also unsettling is… we detected heightened levels of radiation emitting from the tank."

The murmuring scientists froze, their attention snapping to her.

"It's not enough to be lethal," she clarified quickly. "The levels are low—low enough not to have any immediate or significant impact on one's life expectancy. But knowing this…" She paused, her gaze fixating on the tank as though staring at a monster. "I think this thing's armor is made out of uranium."

The room fell into dead silence. You could hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, the scratch of a pen as someone stopped mid-note, even the imagined drop of a needle hitting the floor.

"Uranium?" one of the older scientists finally muttered, his tone disbelieving. "You're serious?"

Miss Penrose turned to face the group, her expression unwavering. "Yes. I'm serious. The radiation signature matches what we'd expect from depleted uranium—U-238, specifically."

"U-238?" someone else echoed, their voice rising with alarm. "Who in their right mind would use that for armor? That's… reckless! Dangerous!"

Henrietta shrugged, her tone calm but tinged with curiosity. "It's not as crazy as it sounds. U-238 is incredibly dense—denser than anything we have access to. It's also highly resistant to penetration. If you're looking to create armor that can shrug off kinetic rounds and HEAT shells, uranium is… effective."

"But the radiation!" another scientist protested. "Even if it's low-level, prolonged exposure could be harmful. Not to mention the environmental risks if this thing gets damaged or destroyed!"

She sighed, turning her attention back to the tank. "That's the thing. The Republic has never been able to reliably process U-235 into U-238. We don't have the infrastructure, the know-how, or even enough uranium deposits to consider such a thing. Yet here it is, sitting in front of us. A tank armored with something we can barely comprehend. It's as if uranium is… abundant to whoever made this."

The older scientist who'd spoken earlier shook his head slowly, his expression grim. "If they're using uranium for armor, what does that say about the resources they have access to? And the enemies they're fighting? What kind of battlefield requires this level of protection?"

The room remained tense, the implications hanging heavily over the gathered team. For all their advancements, the Republic couldn't dream of replicating what was standing behind the glass. This tank, this relic from another world, seemed to be a testament to a war far beyond anything they could fathom.

We also found this," Henrietta said as she walked over to the table, dropping a hefty book onto it with a thud. The sound echoed through the tense room, drawing everyone's attention. "Looks like a manual for that thing."

One of the scientists reached for it, his curiosity overcoming his hesitation. The cover was plain, stamped with bold black lettering that had faded slightly over time. As he opened it to the first page, his eyes widened in surprise.

"It's… written in our language," he murmured, his voice filled with disbelief.

"What?" another scientist asked, leaning in closer.

The first scientist cleared his throat and read aloud, "KF-51 Panther Ausf. C." His tone was laced with confusion and intrigue.

The room erupted into a low murmur as the other scientists tried to process this revelation.

"'Panther'?" one of them repeated, frowning. "Isn't that… a name for one of the old Giadian tanks? Or something similar?"

"It could be a coincidence," another suggested, though they didn't sound convinced.

Flipping to the next page, the scientist continued skimming through the manual, their eyes darting over the detailed specifications. Suddenly, they froze, their gaze fixed on the text before them. Their jaw slackened, and for a moment, it seemed as though their eyes might fall out of their sockets.

"Are you kidding me?" they muttered, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

"What? What is it?" another scientist asked, leaning in.

The first scientist read aloud, their voice tinged with disbelief.

"130mm smoothbore cannon with autoloader," they began. "7.62x51mm NATO coaxial machine gun."

There were a few gasps from the surrounding group, but the scientist wasn't finished.

"Roof-mounted, CROWS system with a MG-3 Block-3 machine gun for self-defense. A 30mm M320 multipurpose chaingun. Smoke launchers for tactical concealment. And—" they paused, looking up with wide eyes. "Hero-120 loitering-drone-munition dispenser. Designed for ISR or anti-armor warfare."

The room went completely silent, each scientist processing the sheer lethality of the tank's arsenal.

"Did you say drones?" one of them finally whispered.

The first scientist nodded, flipping the page to reveal an illustrated diagram of the tank's top view, complete with labeled weapon placements. "It's right here. These Hero-120 drones can be deployed directly from the tank. They're equipped for both surveillance and high-precision anti-armor strikes."

"There is no way this isn't a prototype," one of the scientists blurted out, their voice sharp with disbelief. "There is no way that something like this is already in serial production right now."

The others turned toward the speaker, who had their arms crossed, pacing back and forth in front of the table. They gestured toward the manual, frustration laced in their tone.

"The price for the components alone—just the weapon systems and the advanced tech we've seen so far—would cripple even our economy! The development costs, the materials, the logistics of building something this advanced on a large scale… it's impossible."

Another scientist, still flipping through the manual, nodded in agreement. "Even if you had unlimited resources, coordinating the production lines for just the Hero-120 drones alone would take years. And that's before factoring in the armor materials, the weapons, and the electronic systems."

"And yet," Miss Penrose interjected, her voice calm but pointed, "here it is. Sitting in our lab. Fully operational, not some half-finished testbed or stripped-down mock-up. This machine wasn't built to sit in a hangar—it was built to fight."

The pacing scientist stopped, their jaw tightening as frustration gave way to unease. "Which makes it even worse. If this isn't a prototype, if this is standard issue for whoever made it…" They trailed off, shaking their head in disbelief. "Then their economy—hell, their entire world—must be operating on a completely different scale. This kind of engineering is beyond anything we can imagine sustaining. We have to find out more."

From the corner of the room, Henrietta—her arms crossed, a sharp glint in her eyes—smirked. She was watching the discussion unfold with calculated patience. "The plan is already in the workings."

The scientists turned to her, their confusion apparent. "What plan?" one of them asked cautiously.

Henrietta pushed off the wall, taking a step forward as she adjusted her glasses. "I anticipated this line of thought. While you've been analyzing their equipment, I've been coordinating with intelligence. We've already begun preparations to interrogate the crew. Discreetly."

The room buzzed with murmurs, some scientists exchanging uneasy glances while others nodded in reluctant approval.

"And how exactly do you plan to get answers from them?" the pacing scientist asked skeptically.

Henrietta's smirk widened, her tone cool and confident. "Let's just say… their cooperation will be encouraged. Nicely, of course. At first." She paused, her gaze sliding toward the tank visible through the glass. "Whatever they know about that thing, and the world it came from, we will uncover it. It's only a matter of time."

Her words left a chill in the air, a stark reminder of the lengths the Republic was willing to go to understand this anomaly.

Meanwhile, inside one of the interrogation rooms, Unteroffizier Emma Neumann, the Gunner of the Panther sat at a cold steel table, her hands bound securely to its surface. She couldn't help but glance around the room, taking in the sterile, unwelcoming environment. It looked exactly like every interrogation room she'd ever seen in movies and TV shows: plain steel chairs, blank white walls, a faint chemical smell that seemed to cling to the air, and, of course, the massive one-way mirror embedded into the wall across from her.

Her reflection stared back at her, weary and defiant. Emma shifted uncomfortably in the cold metal chair, her wrists chafing against the restraints that held her to the table. They had taken everything from her—her uniform, her helmet, even the small bracelet her younger brother had made for her before she'd deployed.

Now she was clad in a plain tan overall that was everything but comfortable. It was itchy, ill-fitting, and carried an unpleasant, musty smell that suggested she wasn't its first wearer. She'd rolled up the sleeves in an attempt to make it more bearable, exposing the tattoo on her forearm: the German Bundesadler, deliberately stylized to look worn, its wings cracked and faded. But it despite all, it stood strong, symbolizing her nation. Below the eagle was a phrase inked in bold, with colors matching the German flag:

"Für die Ehre, das Volk und Vaterland."

Emma glanced at it for a moment, the familiar words grounding her in the face of the unknown. Then the door to the room creaked open, snapping her attention forward.

A young man stepped in, his appearance striking. His silver hair was neatly combed, matching the almost metallic sheen of his sharp silver eyes. His uniform, a deep navy blue adorned with precise detailing, was crisp and flawless, as though it had been ironed seconds before he entered.

Emma immediately felt a pang of annoyance. "Either this guy's intelligence," she thought, her expression blank but her mind critical, "or he's never seen a gun in his life. Probably couldn't handle one if he tried."

The man's piercing gaze settled on her with an unnerving intensity. He didn't blink as he stepped further into the room, his polished boots clicking softly against the floor. He walked with a deliberate pace, circling her like a predator assessing its prey.

Emma refused to flinch under his scrutiny, though his unyielding stare felt like it was boring straight through her. Her grip on the edge of the table tightened, her knuckles turning white, but she kept her composure. his guy thinks he's got the upper hand. Let him think that," she told herself.

The man finally reached the chair opposite her and pulled it out with a deliberate motion, the legs scraping harshly against the floor, the screeching sound grating on her nerves. He sat down slowly, his posture as rigid as a steel rod, and kept staring at her—unblinking, unyielding.

Emma immediately recognized the game he was playing. He was sizing her up, testing her composure, trying to find a crack in her defenses.

But she wouldn't budge. Not for him.

Her lips curled ever so slightly, but she suppressed the urge to smirk outright. "Not against a half-assed motherfucker like him," she thought, amused by his obvious attempt at intimidation.

Letting her gaze lock with his, she leaned back slightly, making herself as comfortable as possible despite the restraints. Her expression remained neutral, but her eyes spoke volumes. "If you think this is going to work on me, you've got to know a German Woman." She thought to herself.

The man, for his part, didn't react. His silver eyes stayed locked onto hers, cold and calculating. She could tell he wasn't an idiot—there was sharpness in his gaze, a quiet intelligence—but his attempt to play the stoic interrogator fell flat in her mind.

"He's green," she decided silently. "Book smart, maybe, but probably hasn't spent a single day out in the mud. He doesn't know what real fighting looks like."

The silence stretched on, each of them refusing to make the first move. For Emma, it was almost entertaining—watching him try to maintain the upper hand while she silently dismantled his façade.

He finally broke the silence, reaching into the small stack of files he had carried with him. Opening the first file, Emma noticed the page inside was blank—a deliberate move, no doubt, meant to unnerve her.

With meticulous precision, he pulled an ink pen from his breast pocket, removing the cap and holding it poised for writing. Then, from another pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a small audio recorder, placing it carefully on the table. Without looking at her, he pressed the record button, the faint click echoing in the quiet room.

"Republic Calendar 367, May 13th," he began, his voice crisp and sharp like a whip cracking through the air. "Technical Lieutenant Victor Lysander interrogating unknown suspect."

Emma's smirk deepened internally. "Fancy title for a guy who probably hasn't seen a single day on the battlefield," she thought, her outward expression betraying nothing.

Lysander straightened his posture further, his silver eyes meeting hers again, this time colder and more calculating. He clicked the pen once before speaking, his tone commanding but sterile.

"Let's start. What is your name, age, hair color, eye color, branch of service, and rank?"

Emma stared at him, her expression unchanging as his words settled in the air. She resisted the urge to scoff aloud. The directness of his question almost amused her—like a bureaucrat ticking boxes on a form. She tilted her head slightly, a hint of defiance glinting in her eyes.

"You want my life story?" Emma thought, the corners of her lips twitching with suppressed amusement. "This guy's almost too much fun to mess with."

Still, for her own entertainment, she decided to humor him—for now. As long as the questions stayed generic, she could play along.

She straightened slightly in her chair, leveling him with a calm, neutral gaze. "Unteroffizier Emma Neumann. 15th NATO Quick Response Force. Tanker. Position: Loader. Blonde, green eyes, 170 centimeters tall…" She paused, letting her voice linger on the last detail as her lips curled into the faintest smirk. "…and single."

Emma watched him carefully as her words landed. She didn't miss the flicker of surprise in his eyes or how his cheeks turned the faintest shade of red. If it was out of anger, embarrassment, or something else entirely, it didn't matter. What mattered was that she'd just gotten under his skin.

Oh, this is going to be fun, she thought, her smirk widening slightly.

Victor blinked, his crisp, calculated demeanor faltering for the briefest of moments before he composed himself again. He shifted slightly in his seat, his grip on the pen tightening just enough for Emma to notice.

She leaned back slightly, crossing her legs and settling into the chair with practiced ease. Her confidence grew with every passing second, and she knew now that she had the upper hand—not because of what she said, but because of how she'd said it.

"He can ask all the questions he wants," she thought smugly. "But at the end of the day, he can't do shit about how I answer."

Victor cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence as he glanced at the recorder and then back to her. "Noted," he said, his voice even but clipped, though the faint blush still lingered on his cheeks. He quickly wrote her answer down in the file, his pen moving deliberately over the blank page.

When he finished, his eyes flicked back to her smirking face, and for a moment, she thought she saw a hint of hesitation. His gaze then drifted downward, landing on her exposed forearm. The intricate tattoo of the Bundesadler stood out starkly against her skin, its worn and cracked design giving it an air of defiance. Beneath it, the bold letters spelling "Für die Ehre, das Volk und Vaterland" caught his attention.

Victor's brow furrowed slightly as he gestured vaguely toward her arm. "What about that thing on your forearm?" he asked, his tone betraying a mix of curiosity and unease.

Emma glanced down at her tattoo and then back at him, her smirk widening. "This?" she asked, her voice light with feigned surprise. She tilted her arm slightly to give him a better view. "It's a tattoo, Lieutenant. You've never seen one before?"

Victor didn't respond immediately, his expression neutral but his gaze fixed on the ink. "I've seen tattoos," he replied coolly, though his voice carried an edge. "But not one like that. What does it mean?"

Emma leaned forward slightly, her smirk turning into a sly grin. "The eagle represents my nation. Deutschland, in all its glory," she began, her voice steady and proud.

Victor raised an eyebrow and interjected, "And why does it look so worn down? Don't you like your nation?"

Emma scoffed, leaning back slightly as her eyes lingered on the black eagle etched into her skin. "The fact that it looks worn down is deliberate," she said sharply. "It represents my nation's resilience. The fact that the people of Germany won't bow down, even in the face of tyranny."

Her tone hardened, the playful edge disappearing as her jaw tightened. "We will keep fighting. To our last breath, if necessary."

For a moment, the room felt heavier, the air charged with the weight of her words. Victor observed her closely, noticing the way her fists clenched and her gaze darkened.

Unbidden, images flashed through Emma's mind—scenes of destruction, fire, and death. The Russian invasion. The chaos, the fear, the unrelenting brutality of it all. The streets of Berlin littered with wreckage, her comrades fighting tooth and nail to hold the line. She could almost hear the thunder of artillery again, the desperate cries for help.

"And what about the writing?" Victor asked, his pen hovering over the page. "I can't translate that. What does it mean?"

Emma's gaze shifted to him, her expression cool and unyielding. "Für die Ehre, das Volk und Vaterland," she said, the words rolling off her tongue with a sharp, deliberate edge. "For honor, the people, and the fatherland."

Her tone was dry, almost dismissive, as if she expected the sentiment to go over his head. Victor wrote it down carefully, the foreign words unfamiliar to him.

"And what does that mean to you?" he pressed, his silver eyes flicking up to meet hers.

Emma smirked faintly, the barest hint of defiance flashing in her green eyes. "Exactly what it says," she replied, leaning back in her chair. "It means fighting for what matters. Your people. Your home. Your identity. Something I'm guessing you wouldn't understand."

Victor's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure, his pen moving steadily across the page. "Why would you jump to that conclusion?" he asked, his tone carrying an edge that only amused Emma further.

She leaned forward slightly, her smirk widening. "Because you, fauler Dreckssack, look like you don't fight at all. Not for your country, not for your family. Only for yourself—if even that."

Her tone was laced with mockery, and the deliberate use of German was no accident. She knew he wouldn't understand, and the thought of him being left in the dark only deepened her satisfaction.

Victor's pen stilled, his silver eyes narrowing as he caught the shift in her tone and expression. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice calm but with a sharp undertone.

Emma shrugged, feigning innocence as she leaned back in her chair. "Just answering your question, Lieutenant," she said lightly, her smirk never fading.

Victor's gaze lingered on her, studying her as though trying to decipher her words from her demeanor. She met his stare head-on, unflinching, her smirk now bordering on a grin.

"Anyways," Victor said after a brief pause, his tone sharp as he pushed the previous exchange aside. "Let's talk about your tank."

Emma's smirk didn't falter. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as if settling in for a casual chat. "Ah, my Panther. What's there to talk about? She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Victor ignored her attempt at flippancy, flipping open another section of his file. "KF-51 Panther Ausf. C. That's what your manual calls it, correct?"

Emma raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Oh, so you've been reading up? Good for you."

His pen hovered over the page, his eyes narrowing. "What is it capable of? How does it operate? Who designed it?"

Emma tilted her head, pretending to think for a moment, her smirk still firmly in place. "As for who designed it? No idea," she said nonchalantly, her tone almost teasing. "Some guy over at Rheinmetall, probably. Never met him. How it operates?" She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice mockingly. "That's classified and way above my pay grade."

Victor's pen paused, his silver eyes narrowing at her casual tone, but she wasn't done.

"And the rest?" Emma leaned back, shrugging as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Well, that's just the usual, isn't it? Tracks go forward, cannon goes boom."

The faintest twitch appeared at the corner of Victor's mouth, but whether it was annoyance or amusement was hard to tell. "Tracks go forward, cannon goes boom," he repeated dryly, his tone dripping with skepticism.

"Exactly," Emma replied, her smirk widening. "Simple, isn't it? You'd think someone with your rank would have figured that out by now."

Victor set his pen down deliberately, clasping his hands in front of him as he stared at her, his expression unreadable. "You're not taking this seriously," he said flatly.

"Oh, I'm taking it seriously," Emma countered, her voice calm but with an edge. "I just know you're not getting anything useful out of me, and frankly, I'm enjoying watching you realize that."

Victor's jaw tightened, the silence between them stretching so thick it felt like the room had grown colder. His silver eyes locked onto Emma's, unyielding and sharp, but she didn't flinch. If anything, her smirk widened.

Then, with a playful glint in her eyes, she tilted her head and spoke, her tone dripping with mockery. "So why don't we skip the part where you act tough and get to the part where you throw me on this table and make me a baby?"

She added a wink, her smirk turning into a full grin as she watched for his reaction.

Victor froze, his composed demeanor faltering for the first time. A faint red crept up his neck, reaching his cheeks as his pen clattered onto the table. His eyes narrowed, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his unease.

Emma leaned back, clearly enjoying herself. "What's the matter, Lieutenant?" she teased, her voice almost a purr. "Cat got your tongue?"

Victor cleared his throat sharply, visibly forcing himself to regain his composure. He leaned forward, his silver eyes narrowing as he locked onto hers, his expression stern but his voice noticeably tighter.

"Let's just move on to the next question," he said through gritted teeth, each word clipped and deliberate.

Emma tilted her head, her smirk growing wider as she saw the cracks in his previously unshakable demeanor. "Oh, Lieutenant," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "don't be shy. You seemed so confident a moment ago."

Victor's jaw tightened further, the tension in the room palpable. Ignoring her remark, he flipped a page in his file with more force than necessary, the rustle of paper louder than it needed to be.

Emma settled back in her chair, clearly enjoying herself. "This is going better than I thought," she mused, her grin never fading.

Victor's voice steadied as he turned the page in his file, his expression once again calm but edged with curiosity. "As we searched through your belongings," he began, his tone clinical, "we discovered that you and your crew wear rather hefty armor, even while inside the tank. Care to explain why that is?"

Emma raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning as she leaned forward slightly. "You went through my stuff?" she asked, feigning offense. "You know, that's kind of rude."

Victor's gaze didn't waver. "Answer the question, Unteroffizier," he said firmly.

She shrugged, leaning back again. "It's simple, really. You're in a tank, sure, but that doesn't make you invincible. Plenty of things can still go wrong—internal spalling from a hit, shrapnel from a lucky shot, or, God forbid, having to abandon the vehicle in the middle of a firefight."

Her tone grew slightly more serious, though the faint amusement lingered in her eyes. "That armor is a second layer of protection. In this line of work, you learn pretty quickly that you can never have too much of that."

Victor jotted down her response but didn't look up, his pen moving deliberately across the page. "And yet," he said, his voice remaining cool and even, "your armor isn't particularly advanced. Your helmet can take a hit or two, sure. But your vest? That's a whole other level. Why soft armor when you've got bullets flying past you at breakneck speeds? Why not protect the entire body? Why not use real plates instead of this… fabric?"

Emma leaned back slightly, tilting her head as if his question was so obvious it didn't deserve an answer. "Well…" she began, her tone deadpan, "it can get pretty cramped in there. Running around in Space Marine armor is rather counterproductive. You need room to move, and a plate carrier gets in the way."

Victor stopped writing, his pen freezing mid-word. His eyes slowly lifted to meet hers, his expression unreadable but his thoughts clearly racing. "Space Marine armor?" he repeated, his tone a mix of skepticism and growing concern.

Emma's smirk widened, catching the slight hesitation in his voice. "Yeah, you know," she said casually, gesturing vaguely with her bound hands. "Big, bulky armor. Built like a walking tank. Looks cool, but it's a nightmare in tight spaces. Trust me, in a tank like mine, you don't want anything that limits your movement. You need flexibility, not just protection."

Victor stared at her for a long moment, his silver eyes narrowing slightly. Her words had left an unsettling impression, and he couldn't shake the implications. "Space Marine…" he muttered under his breath, clearly not understanding the reference but already concerned by the idea.

Emma leaned forward slightly, her smirk turning playful. "What's the matter, Lieutenant? Something on your mind?"

"You have people fighting in space?" Victor asked, his voice dropping to almost a hushed tone, the faintest hint of alarm breaking through his usually composed demeanor.

Emma leaned back, letting the silence stretch for just a moment, savoring the look on his face. Then, with a mischievous smirk, she tilted her head and replied, "Oh, sorry, sweetie… that's classified."

She added a wink for good measure, watching as Victor's jaw visibly tightened. His pen paused mid-word, and he straightened in his chair, his silver eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"You're messing with me," he stated flatly, though there was just enough doubt in his tone to amuse her further.

Emma shrugged, her smirk widening. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Guess you'll just have to wonder, won't you?"

Victor exhaled slowly, visibly working to regain his composure. "Let's stick to the facts, Unteroffizier," he said sharply, though Emma could see the crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor. He flipped a page in his file, his pen poised to take notes.

"Your rifle," he began, his voice steady. "The H G-45. It doesn't shoot the standard 7.62mm or 5.56mm rifle rounds portrayed in your books and manuals. It's chambered in 6.8mm. Why that caliber in particular?"

Emma raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning. "Ah, so you've been poking around my gear too," she remarked, her tone teasing. "You know, you could just ask before snooping through a lady's belongings."

Victor didn't rise to the bait, his silver eyes fixed on her. "Answer the question."

Emma shrugged, leaning back in her chair as if the answer were obvious. "5.56mm is faster and lighter," she began, her tone matter-of-fact. "Goes through armor like butter. But it lacks stopping power once it's through."

She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes as she continued. "Then you've got 7.62. Heavier, slower. Doesn't penetrate armor as well, but when it hits? It hits like a mule that just got its balls wrapped in duct-tape."

Victor blinked, momentarily thrown off by her colorful analogy.

Emma smirked, satisfied with his reaction. "We needed a middle ground," she explained. "Something that could handle both tasks without compromise. That's where 6.8mm comes in. Decent penetration, solid stopping power, and light enough to carry a good amount of ammo. Versatile, you know?"

Victor regained his composure, jotting down notes as she spoke. "And who decided on that compromise? Your engineers?"

Emma rolled her eyes and leaned back, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Do I look like a pencil pusher to you?" she shot back, her tone sharp. "I don't fucking know. I just use them."

Victor paused, his pen hovering over the page as he processed her blunt response.

She crossed her arms, her smirk returning. "I'm a soldier, Lieutenant, not an engineer. My job is to load shells, fire rounds, and keep my crew alive. If you want the specs or design philosophy, go ask the eggheads at Rheinmetall."

The scopes you have mounted on your rifles," Victor began, his tone laced with skepticism. "They're clearly custom-made. How did a lowly tanker like you get your hands on something like this? I mean, just look at it."

He reached into a pocket and pulled out her rifle's scope, placing it on the table with a faint clink.

Emma's eyes widened as she recognized it, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "Oh, come on!" Her voice echoed in the room, startling Victor enough that he flinched slightly.

She leaned forward, her restrained hands gripping the table's edge as her frustration spilled out. "Did you really have to take it off? Now I've got to zero that bitch back in!"

Victor blinked, momentarily taken aback by her outburst. "It's a scope, Unteroffizier," he said flatly, regaining his composure. "Surely that's not—"

"Oh, it's not just a scope," Emma cut him off, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's my scope. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get one of these zeroed perfectly? And now I've got to start all over because you wanted to play show-and-tell?"

Victor glanced down at the scope, then back at her. "You seem awfully attached to it."

"No shit, Sherlock," Emma retorted, sitting back with a huff. "My life hangs on it. Crystal-clear optics, thermal imaging, rangefinder… this thing makes shooting feel like cheating. And now, thanks to your dumbass, I'm going to have to babysit my rifle just to get it back to where it was."

Victor ignored her jab, turning the scope over in his hands, examining it closely. "It's advanced," he admitted, his tone neutral, almost impressed. "I've never seen anything quite like it. Custom work?"

Emma's frustration bubbled over, and she shot him a sharp glare. "What do you keep blabbering about custom work for? No, it's not! It's standard issue for all the NATO states!"

Victor's pen paused mid-note, and his silver eyes flicked up to meet hers. "Standard issue?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Every soldier in your military gets something this advanced?"

Emma snorted, leaning back in her chair. "Every rifleman does. It's not just advanced—it's reliable. Works under any condition, doesn't fog up, doesn't scratch easily, and, oh yeah, it helps us stay alive. So yeah, it's standard. Are we done now?"

Victor's pen paused briefly before he looked back at her, his silver eyes narrowing slightly. "No," he said coolly, his tone steady but unyielding. "I've got a couple more questions."

Emma rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. "Of course you do," she said sarcastically, her voice dripping with exasperation.

Victor ignored her tone, flipping to the next page in his file. His voice was steady, but there was a note of disbelief as he began. "Your tank—the KF-51 Panther Ausf. C. I can't seem to wrap my head around it. You have access to technology like uranium armor, uranium-tipped APFSDS rounds, advanced optics, and top-of-the-line sensors… but you're still using tanks on treads with hulking armor that weighs well over what most of our bridges can lift. Why is that?"

Emma raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Is that your problem with it?" she asked, her tone dripping with mock surprise. "I didn't realize you were worried about our tanks breaking your cute little bridges."

Victor's expression remained unchanged, his silver eyes locked onto hers. "Answer the question, Unteroffizier."

Emma sighed dramatically, leaning back in her chair as if she was indulging him. "Alright, fine. You want to know why? Because treads work. They're reliable. They don't get jammed up like those fancy walking mechs I've seen your guys crawling around in. You know what happens when one of those spider legs gets blown off?" She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Your precious Feldreß tips over like a drunk motherfucker at Oktoberfest."

Victor's pen hovered over the page, but he didn't interrupt. His expression tightened slightly at the jab, but he let her continue.

"And then there's maintenance," Emma added, waving her bound hands as if it were obvious. "The United States tried something similar decades ago, but the downsides outweighed the pros, so they scrapped it. Too much effort, too many moving parts, too many ways for it to fail."

Victor's silver eyes flicked up briefly, confusion flashing across his face. Words like United States, NATO, and Germany were spinning around in his head. He'd written them down earlier and encircled them with question marks, trying to make sense of her references.

Emma noticed his hesitation and smirked before driving her point home. "And if you've got a problem with the weight of our tanks? Make them dodge bullets—like you guys apparently did. Sure, great idea." Her tone turned mocking. "But I've seen the armor thickness on your spider-tank thingies—if you can even call them tanks. I don't care how fast or nimble they are, Lieutenant. If there's a Bradley or a Puma on the field, trust me: you're not dodging a hailstorm of 30mm SABOT rounds. Because as nimble as you may be, one stray round always finds its target."

Victor paused in his note-taking, her words hanging in the air like a threat. The predatory glint in her eyes wasn't lost on him, and for a moment, he was reminded just how dangerous she could be.

Emma didn't let the silence linger for long. She leaned back again, her smirk widening. "And for the usage? Tanks never travel alone. Behind every convoy is a supply line, infantry, ICVs, IFVs, surveillance, air support, artillery support. You'll never catch our boys with their pants down."

Her voice grew colder, her gaze locking onto Victor's. "Because they'll see you long before you even comprehend where that artillery shell came from."

Victor jotted down her words carefully, his pen moving with deliberate precision, though his grip tightened slightly. Her confidence was unnerving, but she had yet to say anything that sounded like a bluff.

"Interesting perspective," he said finally, his voice steady but quieter than before. "You seem… proud of your system."

Emma chuckled darkly. "Pride doesn't keep you alive, Lieutenant. Good tactics, good tech, and good teamwork do. You might want to write that down, too."

Victor glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before returning to his notes.

"Okay… I think this sums it up for now," Victor said, his tone sharp and clipped as he flipped through his notes one last time, ensuring every detail was accounted for. His pen hovered momentarily before he underlined a few words for emphasis and closed the file with a decisive snap.

Emma raised an eyebrow, her smirk unwavering. "Done already? I was starting to think you'd set up camp in here."

Victor ignored her jab, gathering his things with practiced precision. "You've been… helpful," he said, though his tone made it sound more like an obligation than a compliment.

Emma leaned forward slightly, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Well, Lieutenant, I do aim to please."

Victor didn't rise to the bait, standing up and smoothing his uniform with a sharp motion. His silver eyes lingered on her for a moment, cold and calculating. "Don't get too comfortable, Unteroffizier. This isn't over."

Emma leaned back, crossing her arms as she grinned. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

Meanwhile, inside a room not far from Emma's, sat the vehicle commander of the Panther, Feldwebel Adrian Koch, and his driver, Obergefreiter Otto Klein. The two men shared a bond forged through countless battles, having served together on nearly every battlefield in the European theater. Their camaraderie ran deep; they could read each other like an open book, often anticipating each other's thoughts without a word being spoken.

Adrian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as his sharp, piercing eyes scanned the sterile room around them. It wasn't his first time being interrogated—far from it—but the circumstances were unlike anything he'd experienced before. Beside him, Otto sat slouched, his arms resting on the steel table. He drummed his fingers rhythmically, a small act of defiance against the oppressive silence.

"Ich kann's immer noch nicht glauben, dass die uns in denselben Raum geschmissen haben," Otto muttered, shaking his head. (Still can't believe they threw us into the same interrogation room.)

Adrian leaned back slightly in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Entweder sind die Kollegen hier absolute Intelligenzallergiker, oder die planen etwas." (Either these guys are absolute dumbasses or they're planning something.)

Otto snorted softly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ich wette auf Ersteres," he replied with a chuckle. (My money's on the prior.)

Adrian's smirk grew as he gave a small nod. "Würde mich auch nicht wundern," he said dryly, his tone laced with humor. "Was wollen die denn machen? Uns anschreien, bis wir freiwillig unsere Geheimnisse ausplaudern?" (Wouldn't surprise me. What are they going to do? Yell at us until we willingly spill our secrets?)

Otto laughed quietly, leaning forward on the table. "Viel Spaß dabei. Du weißt, wie stur wir Deutschen sind." (Good luck with that. You know how stubborn we Germans are.)

"Wohl wahr," Adrian agreed, the humor fading slightly as he glanced at the one-way mirror. His expression turned serious for a moment, the weight of their situation settling in. "Aber mal ehrlich, Otto. Wenn die uns in denselben Raum stecken, dann haben die entweder nichts auf dem Kasten oder es läuft ein Plan im Hintergrund, den wir noch nicht durchschaut haben." (But honestly, Otto. If they're putting us in the same room, then they either don't know what they're doing, or there's a plan in the background we haven't figured out yet.)

Otto's chuckle faded as he followed Adrian's gaze to the mirror. "Vielleicht. Aber egal, was die planen, wir bleiben ruhig. Keine Schwäche zeigen." (Maybe. But whatever they're planning, we stay calm. Show no weakness.)

Adrian nodded firmly, his smirk returning faintly. "Ganz genau." (Exactly.)

Their banter was abruptly cut short as the door slammed open, the sound echoing sharply in the small room. Both men instinctively turned their heads toward the source of the noise.

Stepping through the doorway was a young woman, her silver hair tied neatly back, matching the piercing silver of her eyes that seemed to catch and reflect the sterile fluorescent light. She adjusted the glasses perched on her nose with a deliberate motion, her expression unreadable but radiating authority.

Behind her, two Military Police officers flanked the doorway, their faces stern and their FAL rifles held firmly at the ready. The way they moved made it clear they weren't there for show.

"Good day." She said with a crisp tone. "My name is Major Cecilia Amaranth and I'll be doing the interrogation on you two. Names, Rank, Branch or Service, Hair and Eye Color, role in your Military and Age."

Adrian leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing casually over his chest. "Na, was haben wir denn hier?" he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with dry amusement. (Well, what do we have here?)

Otto's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Die Chefin, anscheinend," he murmured back, his voice low enough for only Adrian to hear. (The boss, apparently.)

The woman's silver eyes narrowed as she spoke, her tone sharp enough to cut through the air. "You speak in my language whilst you're inside this room. Do I make myself clear?!"

Adrian and Otto exchanged a quick glance, their expressions briefly mirroring surprise before slipping back into their usual calm.

"Crystal," Adrian replied smoothly in perfect San Magnolian, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm. "Wouldn't want to offend your delicate ears."

Otto stifled a chuckle, but the woman's icy glare flicked to him immediately. "Do you find something amusing, Soldier?" she asked coldly, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone.

Otto straightened in his chair, his smirk fading slightly. "Not at all, ma'am," he said quickly, his English laced with a faint accent. "Just appreciating your… enthusiasm."

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment before she turned back to Adrian. "Good. Then we'll have no misunderstandings during this interrogation."

Adrian leaned back slightly in his chair, his tone sharp but calm as he began. "The name's Feldwebel Adrian Koch—Staff Sergeant in your language, ma'am. I'm the vehicle commander of my tank. I serve in the Bundeswehr, under the 15th NATO Quick Response Force."

He paused briefly, his hazel eyes meeting hers with a steady gaze before continuing. "I'm 34 years old, I have dirty blonde hair, and hazel eyes. Does that sum it up?"

The woman's expression didn't waver, her silver eyes locked onto his as she jotted down notes in her notepad. "You seem well-rehearsed, Feldwebel," she remarked coolly, not bothering to look up. "Are you always this cooperative?"

Adrian smirked faintly, leaning forward just enough to rest his forearms on the table. "Depends on who's asking. But you've got a way of demanding attention that's hard to ignore," he replied, his voice laced with faint sarcasm.

Before the woman could respond to Adrian's remark, Otto leaned forward, his voice calm but firm as he interjected.

"My name is Obergefreiter Otto Klein. I'm the driver of my commander's tank," he began, his tone respectful but to the point. "I serve under the same branch and NATO unit as him—the Bundeswehr, 15th NATO Quick Response Force."

He paused briefly, meeting her gaze with a steady look before continuing. "I'm 27 years old, and I have dark brown hair and brown eyes. Does that sum it up, ma'am?"

Adrian glanced at Otto, smirking faintly at his friend's directness, but kept quiet, letting the moment play out.

The woman's silver eyes flicked between the two men, her expression unreadable as she jotted down notes. "At least one of you knows how to answer a question without unnecessary commentary," she said pointedly, her tone icy as she glanced briefly at Adrian.

Otto leaned back slightly, folding his arms but keeping his expression neutral. "Figured I'd save us both some time," he replied simply.

The room fell quiet for a moment, the tension palpable as the woman finished writing and looked up again.

The woman's silver eyes sharpened as she fixed her gaze on Adrian and Otto. "You mentioned nations called Germany and NATO. Elaborate. How many nations do you know off the top of your mind?"

Adrian raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a faint smirk. "You're asking me to recite a list of nations? You've got to be kidding me."

The woman didn't blink, her silver eyes locked onto Adrian. "Do I look like I'm joking, Feldwebel?"

Adrian sighed, his smirk fading as he leaned forward slightly. "Well… assuming we aren't from the same world, you're most likely about to have a stroke when I'm finished," he said casually, his tone almost bored.

Her eyebrows twitched, but she said nothing, prompting him to continue.

"Ready?" Adrian asked, not even waiting for her to acknowledge before launching into his list. "Germany, France, Italy, Spain, the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, Poland, Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Finland, Russia, Belarus, Switzerland, Austria, Ukraine—"

"Wait, WAIT!" she suddenly barked, her voice sharp as she raised a hand to stop him.

Adrian paused, raising an eyebrow as if he were mildly amused by her reaction. The woman's expression had shifted slightly, her usually cold demeanor now betraying a hint of alarm. It was as if the rapid-fire response had hit her like a full broadside from a World War II battleship.

The gears in her head were clearly turning, her pen hovering uncertainly over the page as if she didn't know what to write next. "That… That's more nations than I've ever even heard of," she muttered, more to herself than to them.

Adrian leaned back in his chair, his smirk creeping back onto his face. "Oh, I'm not done," he teased. "Shall I continue?"

"No!" she snapped, regaining some of her composure as she straightened her posture. "How many nations are there that you know off?" She asked, trying another approach.

"At the top of my head…" Adrian began, leaning back in his chair as he looked up thoughtfully, the cogs in his mind turning. "Give or take 200… or maybe 195. I don't know, I don't keep a tally of things like that."

The woman's pen froze mid-note, her silver eyes widening in shock. For a moment, it looked as though they might pop out of her head. "Surely, you must be joking!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Adrian smirked, meeting her gaze with a faint shrug. "Nope. That's the ballpark figure. Give or take a few."

She stared at him, her mind clearly struggling to process the sheer magnitude of the number. "Two hundred nations?" she repeated, her voice quieter but no less incredulous. "That's… impossible."

Otto chuckled softly from his chair, shaking his head. "Not impossible. Just your reality is a bit smaller, it seems."

The woman shot him a sharp look, but her attention quickly snapped back to Adrian. "And they all coexist? Without war?"

Adrian and Otto exchanged glances, holding each other's gaze for a solid moment. Then, as if on cue, both men burst out laughing.

It wasn't a chuckle or a polite laugh—it was full-blown, gut-wrenching laughter. They leaned back in their chairs, shoulders shaking as they howled uncontrollably. Adrian even had to wipe a tear from his eye at one point, while Otto slapped the table for emphasis.

Their laughter echoed through the room, rendering the Major speechless. Cecilia's mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Even the MPs, standing stiffly at attention, exchanged uncomfortable glances, clearly unsure how to react to the scene unfolding before them.

For five straight minutes, Adrian and Otto laughed like they hadn't laughed in years, their voices overlapping and occasionally breaking as they tried to catch their breath.

When they finally began to calm down, Otto wiped his eyes and muttered, "Oh, that was a good one. Coexist… without war. Priceless."

Adrian, still catching his breath, nodded. "Yeah, that's comedy gold right there."

Cecilia's glare could've frozen fire. She stood silently, her silver eyes burning holes into them as they regained their composure.

Adrian, still grinning, leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, Major. It's just… you don't hear jokes like that every day."

Otto snorted, biting back another laugh. "No kidding."

Cecilia's jaw tightened, her hand gripping her notepad so hard it threatened to crumple. "Are you finished?" she asked icily.

Adrian raised his hands in mock surrender. "Yeah, yeah. We're good. Sorry about that, Major. Couldn't help ourselves."

Her glare didn't soften. She simply stared at them, letting the silence stretch out as they shifted slightly under her scrutiny.

Adrian leaned forward, still grinning but managing to suppress another laugh. "Alright… so no. No, they don't coexist happily and peacefully," he said, his tone tinged with mock seriousness. "They're all very racist and hate each other's guts."

Otto chuckled, chiming in with a grin. "Yeah, it's more like a dysfunctional family reunion where everyone shows up just to one-up each other or settle some old grudges. Except instead of awkward silences, you get wars."

Adrian smirked, glancing at Cecilia's increasingly irritated expression. "If you want, Major, we can give you some Earth Lore. You know, the greatest hits. Wars, betrayals, alliances that lasted about as long as a good beer, all the fun stuff."

Cecilia's jaw tightened, her silver eyes narrowing into sharp slits. "You find this amusing?" she asked, her tone low and icy.

Adrian shrugged, completely unbothered by her glare. "Well, yeah. You asked about coexistence. We're just being honest."

Otto leaned back, crossing his arms casually. "I mean, sure, we've got alliances like NATO to keep things from getting too messy, but let's not kid ourselves. Humanity doesn't really do 'peaceful coexistence.' We do 'tolerate each other until someone pokes the bear.'"

Adrian nodded, his grin returning. "Exactly. And when the poking starts, that's when it gets interesting."

Cecilia remained silent, her expression unreadable as she scribbled furiously in her notepad. The scratching of her pen was the only sound in the room for a moment.

Otto leaned toward Adrian, muttering just loud enough for her to hear. "Think she's ready for a crash course on World War Two yet?"

Otto smirked, leaning forward as if he'd just come up with the world's greatest idea. "Fuck it," he said, his tone dripping with mischief. "Let's hit her."

Adrian raised an eyebrow, clearly catching on. "You sure about that? Might blow her mind."

Otto shrugged, his grin widening. "If she wants Earth Lore, let's give her Earth Lore."

Cecilia's glare didn't waver, but her pen hovered hesitantly above the page as she eyed them with suspicion. "Hit me with what?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

Otto leaned back, gesturing broadly with his hands. "Alright, Major. Buckle up, because we're about to take you on a crash course through Earth's finest moments. Let's start with a little thing called World War Two. Ever heard of it?"

Adrian chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, she's definitely not ready for that. Let's set the stage first. Early 20th century. A world recovering from the first big one—World War One."

"Yeah," Otto chimed in, "which, by the way, was supposed to be the war to end all wars. Spoiler alert: it wasn't."

Adrian nodded solemnly. "Fast forward a couple of decades, and boom—another global mess. This time, the stakes were even higher. Genocide, nuclear bombs, tanks storming across Europe—it was the full package."

Cecilia's eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, her pen stopped moving. "Nuclear bombs?" she repeated, her tone betraying a hint of unease.

Oh yeah," Otto said, his grin unwavering, as if discussing something far less catastrophic. "Big ones. Dropped on two cities in Japan. Flattened them. Ended the war, though."

Adrian's expression darkened slightly, his voice dropping a tone as he added, "The death toll from that war? Well over 65 million. Civilians, soldiers… everyone. It was chaos on a scale you can't even imagine."

Cecilia's pen froze mid-air, her silver eyes widening as she absorbed the number. "Sixty-five… million?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Otto nodded, the humor fading slightly from his tone. "Yeah. And that's just one war. The big one, sure, but not the only one. Humanity's history isn't exactly sunshine and rainbows, Major."

Adrian leaned forward, his hazel eyes locking onto hers. "And here's the kicker: we didn't learn from it. Not really. Oh, we talk about peace and alliances, but there's always someone out there looking for a fight. Someone who thinks they can do it better."

Adrian sighed, his tone turning grim. "Thus, World War 3—the mess we're entangled in currently. Death toll's already well into the millions."

Otto nodded, his voice quieter but no less biting. "And the nukes haven't even dropped yet."

Cecilia's silver eyes darted between them, her expression shifting from shock to something closer to horror. "You're… you're saying that even now, with everything you've described, nuclear weapons are still on the table?"

Adrian shrugged, his expression hard. "Of course they are. When you're desperate enough, everything's on the table. It's not about wanting to use them—it's about making sure the other side knows you will if you have to. That's the game."

Otto leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "That's the dirty little secret of humanity, Major. We don't just fight to win—we fight to make sure the other side knows they've lost, no matter the cost."

Cecilia's pen trembled in her hand, her composure cracking further. "But… millions already? Before any nuclear weapons?"

Adrian's gaze didn't waver. "Conventional war is messy. Bombs, tanks, artillery… it adds up fast. Cities get leveled. Civilians caught in the crossfire. And if someone decides to push the button?" He paused, his voice turning colder. "Well, you can do the math."

The room fell silent, the weight of their words pressing down like a storm cloud. Even Otto, usually quick with a smirk or quip, seemed subdued as the grim reality of their world hung in the air.

Cecilia finally spoke, her voice trembling slightly. "And yet, you keep fighting. Why?"

Adrian's lips tightened into a thin line, his voice steady and resolute as he answered. "Because if we don't, who else will? If the brave souls putting their lives on the line day in and day out for their nations suddenly stopped, those nations would cease to exist. We soldiers have a saying: 'We die in the dark so you may live in the light.'"

A moment of silence hung in the air before Otto smirked and nudged Adrian with his elbow. "SCP… echt jetzt?!" he asked with a grin, unable to contain his amusement. (SCP… Really?!)

Adrian turned to him, his stoic façade cracking as a grin spread across his face. "Es klingt geil. Jetzt lass mich in Ruhe," he shot back, leaning slightly in his chair. (It sounds fire. Now leave me alone.)

Otto chuckled, shaking his head. "You're hopeless."

Cecilia's eyes darted between the two, the softness that had briefly emerged in her expression suddenly buried beneath confusion and irritation. "What… what are you two talking about?" she demanded, her voice sharp as her silver eyes narrowed.

Adrian glanced at her, his grin lingering as he leaned back in his chair. "Oh, nothing important, Major. Just a little inside joke."

Otto smirked, crossing his arms and leaning slightly toward Adrian. "Yeah, just some classified Earth Lore," he quipped, clearly enjoying the Major's growing frustration.

Cecilia's jaw tightened, and her grip on her pen grew visibly tense. "This is not the time for jokes, Feldwebel. If you're hiding something—"

Adrian cut her off with a calm but firm tone. "Relax, Major. We're not hiding anything. Just trying to make the best of a bad situation."

Otto's smirk widened as he added, "You know, soldiers' humor. Helps keep us sane when the world's gone to hell."

Cecilia's glare could have melted steel, but she chose not to press further, her lips tightening into a thin line. "Enough," she snapped, her tone icy. "Let's get back to the matter at hand."

Adrian exchanged a brief glance with Otto, his smirk fading slightly but his eyes still carrying a glimmer of amusement. "Of course, Major. Whatever you say," he replied smoothly, leaning forward again as the tension in the room slowly reset.

Cecilia took a deep breath, visibly regaining her composure. Her silver eyes darted down to her notepad before snapping back to Adrian and Otto. "Let's focus on your… organization. You've mentioned NATO before. What exactly is its purpose?"

Ah yes, NATO," Adrian said with a light sigh, leaning back in his chair. "The North Atlantic Treaty Organization, long for NATO, is a defensive pact consisting of 31 member states. They work together to uphold the peace in Europe after World War II." He paused for a moment, then suddenly said, "And it worked!"

His voice pitched up unexpectedly, startling Cecilia, who blinked at the enthusiasm.

"Until," Otto chimed in, his tone carrying a touch of dry humor that immediately deflated her momentary intrigue, "about 40 years later when Yugoslavia broke apart, and Serbia declared war on all its neighbors, one by one."

Adrian nodded, picking up where Otto left off. "They suffered devastating losses in Croatia, made some gains in Bosnia, but lost horribly in Kosovo when NATO decided enough was enough and joined the fight."

Otto leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "And then, fourteen years after that, Russia decides to play its hand. In 2014, they invade their neighbor Ukraine, annexing Crimea and some border cities. Their advance stalls when Ukrainian forces hold them back, and the two sides dig in. New unofficial-official borders are drawn, and things settle into a cold stalemate."

Adrian's expression darkened slightly as he continued. "Until 2022. That's when Russia invades again, this time from the north, trying to take Ukraine's capital. But the defenders… they're strong. Civilians, police, militias—all of them come together to fight tyranny. It was brutal, chaotic, and desperate."

Otto's voice softened slightly, a note of admiration creeping in. "But it was also beautiful in its own way. A nation standing together, refusing to give in, even when the odds were against them."

"You should have seen it," Adrian said, leaning forward slightly, his tone taking on an almost storytelling cadence. "Soldiers raiding trenches, fighting tooth and nail for every meter of ground. Russian and Ukrainian T-72s and T-80s facing off against each other, trading blow after blow, like two heavyweight boxers who just won't go down."

Otto grinned, jumping in. "And then you had Anti-Tank Guided Javelin Missiles flying left and right, taking out tanks like it was some kind of dystopian fireworks show. Air defenses lighting up the skies like Christmas, trying to keep those drones at bay."

Adrian nodded, his gaze sharpening. "Drones everywhere. Recon drones, attack drones, even improvised ones dropping grenades. It was like the sky itself was a battlefield. The scale of it… you'd have to see it to believe it."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow, her pen pausing mid-sentence. "And you've… seen this? Firsthand?"

Adrian smirked. "Better. I've got videos on my phone if you want to see them."

Otto chuckled, shaking his head. "Careful, Adrian. You'll fry her circuits. She's already struggling to process '200 nations.' Showing her modern warfare might send her over the edge."

Cecilia glared at him, her silver eyes narrowing. "Your humor is not appreciated, Obergefreiter."

Adrian shrugged, his smirk widening. "Suit yourself, Major. But if you ever want a crash course in the art of modern warfare, my phone's got all the evidence you'll ever need."

Cecilia didn't respond immediately. Instead, she turned her gaze toward the one-way mirror, her silver eyes narrowing with an intensity that sent an unspoken message. Whatever silent demand she issued was enough to stir the people watching behind the glass.

Moments later, the door hissed open, and a man in a crisp military uniform stepped in, carrying three plastic evidence bags. Inside each bag were the phones of the three tankers, their screens dark but still bearing the faint scratches and marks of heavy use.

Adrian raised an eyebrow, his smirk replaced by mild surprise. "Well, that's efficient. Didn't think you'd actually take me up on the offer."

The man placed the bags on the table, his expression neutral, before stepping back and standing at attention near the door. Cecilia leaned forward, her fingers brushing over the nearest bag. She picked it up, examining the phone inside as though it were some alien artifact.

"This is your… phone?" she asked, her voice skeptical.

Adrian nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah. Basic piece of tech, but it does the job. Calls, texts, videos, memes. You know, the essentials."

Otto chuckled softly, crossing his arms. "You might want to be careful with that, Major. One wrong swipe, and you'll be buried in cat videos."

Cecilia shot him a glare before carefully opening the bag and sliding the phone onto the table. She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Unlock it. Show me this… evidence you claim to have."

Adrian exchanged a glance with Otto, his smirk returning faintly. "Sure thing, Major." He leaned forward, reaching for the phone. "But just so you know, I've got some embarrassing playlists on there, so don't judge me."

Otto laughed, shaking his head. "You're gonna break her brain with your Spotify before the war footage even starts."

Cecilia ignored their banter, her silver eyes locked on Adrian as he swiped open his phone. The device unlocked with Face ID, and he navigated to an app labeled Telegram. Entering a chat titled "Ukraine War Updates," Adrian tapped the screen a few times before glancing up at Cecilia.

The chat itself hadn't been active in some time, but the videos Adrian had downloaded remained. He scrolled through them, his expression turning grim. "Have you ever seen soldiers fight? Like, face each other directly in combat?" he asked, his voice calm.

Cecilia didn't reply, her stoic expression betraying no emotion.

Adrian smirked faintly. "I'll take that as a no. Look at this." He tapped on a video, the thumbnail showing the perspective of a soldier armed with what appeared to be a heavily modified AK-74. The rifle was equipped with a scope, light-laser combo, and grip. Ahead of the soldier was a trench.

The video played, and Cecilia leaned in slightly, unable to hide her intrigue. Even the MPs stationed by the door couldn't resist watching over her shoulder.

In the footage, the soldier moved cautiously into the trench, pausing at a corner. His comrades stacked up behind him, their breathing audible over the wind and distant gunfire. The second man pulled a grenade, lobbing it around the bend.

A cacophony of horrified screams erupted from the unseen enemies just before the grenade detonated. The soldiers stormed the corner, their movements swift and precise. A wounded enemy soldier, crawling and moaning in agony, came into view. Without hesitation, he was shot dead.

Cecilia's eyes widened as she watched, her face pale. The efficiency with which these men killed one another was horrifying.

The soldiers advanced further, stopping at another intersection in the trench. They stacked up again before rounding the next corner. The camera holder and the man behind him took positions on opposite walls, their rifles aimed down the narrow pathway.

Two enemy soldiers suddenly appeared in the frame, only to be gunned down in an instant. One of them, still alive, convulsed on the ground, screaming in pain. Another burst from the rifle silenced him with a shot to the head.

Cecilia swallowed hard, her stomach churning as she fought the urge to look away. The cold efficiency of the violence was unlike anything she'd seen. Behind her, one of the MPs stumbled back, rushing to the corner of the room to vomit. The other stood frozen, his face pale, his wide eyes glued to the screen.

The video continued, cutting to a new frame where the soldier holding the camera shouted something in his native language. Suddenly, an enemy soldier appeared in the frame, his rifle at the ready.

The camera swung sharply as the Ukrainian soldier raised his rifle faster. A burst of gunfire erupted, the rounds tearing through the enemy's helmet and face. He collapsed instantly, his body crumpling to the ground like a sack of bricks.

The video ended, leaving an oppressive silence in the room. Cecilia's hands trembled slightly as she tried to process what she'd just witnessed.

She looked up, her silver eyes a storm of conflicting emotions. On one hand, they brimmed with anguish, threatening to overflow with tears. On the other, they seemed hollow, as if her soul was retreating to shield itself from what she had just witnessed. She couldn't decide if she should break down sobbing or walk out of the room entirely.

But somehow, she gathered herself, her trembling hands gripping the edge of the table as she fixed her gaze on Adrian. "T… This is w… what you see on a daily basis in these wars?" she asked, her voice cracking painfully. A stray tear welled in the corner of her eye, threatening to fall.

Adrian held her gaze, his expression calm but serious. "Us?" He shook his head. "No… no. We don't see this."

Cecilia's lip quivered, the tear spilling down her cheek as she blinked in confusion. "But… then how do you know—"

"It ain't us," Otto interjected with a grin, leaning forward slightly. "That's the infantry. The boots on the ground. What we see…" He nudged Adrian with his elbow.

Adrian flinched, glaring at Otto for a split second before catching on to his grin. A smirk crept across Adrian's face as he reached for his phone again, scrolling through the videos. "Alright, Major, let me show you one of my favorites."

He turned the phone back toward Cecilia and pressed play. Both MPs immediately flinched and took a step back, as if the device were a live grenade. They stood rigid, staring straight ahead, unwilling to look.

The video opened inside the cramped turret of a Russian T-72. A soldier grinned directly into the camera, the dim interior lit by the faint glow of screens. The music in the background was loud, bass-boosted, and almost comically out of place for the scene.

The autoloader in the tank's turret whirred into action, shoving a shell into the breech. The soldier with the camera panned to the grinning gunner, who turned and peered into his sight.

The video abruptly cut to an external view from a camera mounted outside the tank, seconds before the gun fired. A plume of smoke erupted from the barrel, and through the haze, Cecilia could make out the faint outline of a trench.

The shell struck, and the trench wall exploded as a high-explosive round detonated. Dirt, debris, and what appeared to be a severed human foot flew into the air.

Cecilia's eyes widened, her stomach churning violently as the clip continued. The footage rewound in slow motion, zooming in on the flying foot and circling it for emphasis, complete with overlaid text.

Her face paled further, but the video wasn't done. The scene shifted to a new battlefield, this time from the perspective of a Ukrainian soldier. His patch bore the familiar two-colored flag of Ukraine, and he stood with a Javelin launcher resting on his shoulder.

The music quieted as the soldier looked into the camera, a grin forming beneath his balaclava, barely visible through his eyes and body language. "This is Javelin… against Russian tank!" he declared proudly, his heavy accent lacing every word.

He turned away, peeking over a trench wall before firing the launcher. The missile shot from the tube, its engine igniting midair. It ascended in a steep arc before plummeting down onto the top of a Russian T-80 tank turret.

The explosion ripped through the tank, tearing the turret clean off. It flew through the air, tumbling and spinning violently before crashing to the ground some distance away.

Cecilia's hand instinctively went to her mouth as she tried to keep herself composed, her stomach threatening to betray her again. One MP turned away entirely, his knuckles white as he gripped his rifle, while the other stared at the phone like it was a portal to hell.

Adrian leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable but the faint trace of amusement evident in his tone. "The Russians are the reigning champions in the turret-throwing competition," he quipped with a smug grin.

Otto chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned forward slightly. "Yeah, no one else even comes close. One hit from a Javelin, and it's like their turrets are auditioning for the next Olympic shot put event."

Adrian snorted at that, his grin widening. "Seriously, though. It's a real hellstorm inside those tanks when one of those Javelins hits you."

Otto nodded, his tone light but with an edge of dark humor. "Yeah, ain't fun. You're sitting in a metal box with ammo, fuel, and all your hopes and dreams. Then boom—instant sauna, but with shrapnel and flames."

Cecilia's pale face twitched slightly, but she remained silent, her silver eyes darting between the two men as they bantered.

Enough!" Cecilia suddenly shouted, her eyes shut tightly and arms outstretched as if physically halting the conversation. Her voice trembled but carried an unmistakable authority.

"Enough…" she sighed, her voice quieter this time, almost pleading. She lowered her arms and took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she tried to regain her composure. "Let's just… keep going with the questioning."

Adrian and Otto exchanged glances but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

Cecilia pressed on, her voice still unsteady. "That Javelin you mentioned earlier," she began, gripping the table tightly. "Is that a true anti-tank missile?"

The two tankers looked at each other, dumbfounded. Adrian tilted his head slightly. "Uh… yes? What else would it be?" he muttered, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.

Otto, ever the opportunist, smirked. "Wait… you guys don't have ATGMs?" he asked, his grin laced with disbelief and mischief.

Cecilia shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her gaze darting between the two men. "San Magnolia had begun researching them, but the cost of even one was too high for them to be used effectively against our enemies," she admitted reluctantly.

Adrian leaned forward, his interest piqued. "What anti-tank capabilities do you use then? Other than those sorry excuses for tanks you call… Feldreß, right?"

"Yes," Cecilia replied stiffly, as if trying to keep her dignity intact. "Feldreß, or Juggernaut. We rely on landmines, heavy mortar systems, and anti-tank rifles."

The moment the words left her mouth, Adrian and Otto froze, their expressions a mix of disbelief and bewilderment.

"Anti-tank rifles?" Adrian repeated slowly, as if testing whether he had heard correctly.

Otto's jaw dropped slightly, and he stared at Cecilia like she'd just claimed the Earth was flat. "You're kidding, right? Please tell me you're joking," he said, his tone almost desperate.

Cecilia bristled, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to back down. "It's what we have. They're effective against our enemies," she replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

Adrian blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Effective? Against what? Cardboard tanks? Do you have any idea how useless an anti-tank rifle would be against something like… I don't know, us?"

Otto leaned back, running a hand through his hair and muttering under his breath in German. "Das ist Wahnsinn… reiner Wahnsinn." (This is madness… pure madness.)

Adrian leaned closer, his hazel eyes narrowing. "No offense, Major, but if your enemies let you get away with that kind of outdated tech, I'm starting to think they're not the real threat here."

Cecilia's face flushed, whether from anger, embarrassment, or both, it was hard to tell. "Our technology is sufficient for our battles," she snapped defensively, but even she seemed to waver under their incredulous stares.

You're trying to tell me," Adrian began, his tone dripping with exasperation as he leaned forward, hands splayed on the table. "You're out here, running around in your fancy-pants spider Juggernaut tank thingies that probably wouldn't even withstand a round from my USP-45, filled with tech that's decades ahead of us… but you don't have a real counter against tanks except for fucking anti-tank rifles?!"

Cecilia's jaw tightened, her hands gripping the edge of the table, but before she could respond, Adrian kept going.

"What caliber are they even chambered in? 14mm? 20mm? 30mm? Something big enough to maybe annoy a tank?" he pressed, his voice rising slightly as he gestured wildly.

Otto leaned back, arms crossed, smirking as he watched Adrian's rant. "Probably something like a slingshot with extra steps," he added, earning a sharp glare from Cecilia.

"They're chambered in 20mm," Cecilia replied tersely, her voice cutting through Adrian's rant like a whip. "And for your information, they are effective against the Legion!"

Adrian blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Effective? Against what, the air vents? Are their tanks made of tinfoil? Because I'm struggling to see how 20mm is stopping anything with real Armor, let alone anything that actually resembles a real tank."

Cecilia bristled, her cheeks flushing as she fought to maintain her composure. "The Legion is not your tanks," she shot back, her tone icy. "Our weapons are designed to counter them. Not whatever over-engineered monstrosities you drive."

Adrian snorted, shaking his head. "Lady, my 'over-engineered monstrosity' would eat your Juggernauts for breakfast. And then it'd ask for seconds."

Otto chuckled, leaning forward slightly, his grin widening. "To be fair, a Bradley would probably do the same. Hell, even a relic like the BMP might give them a run for their money."

Adrian immediately jumped in, his tone dripping with mockery. "And your anti-tank rifles? They might be a threat to a Sherman… if even that."

The two men burst into laughter, their voices echoing in the sterile interrogation room. Adrian slapped the table, wiping at an imaginary tear as Otto doubled over in his chair, struggling to catch his breath.

Cecilia's face turned crimson, her silver eyes narrowing into daggers as she glared at the two tankers. "Are you finished?" she snapped, her voice as cold as ice.

Adrian sat back, still grinning. "Not quite," he said between chuckles, nudging Otto. "Seriously, though. Anti-tank rifles in this day and age. That's rich."

Otto wiped his own face, his laughter finally subsiding. "I'm sorry, Major," he said, though his smirk betrayed no real remorse. "It's just… wow. I didn't think we'd meet someone who made us feel like we're driving futuristic tech."

Cecilia's sharp gaze immediately zeroed in on their words, her pen moving swiftly across the notepad. "What do you mean by that?" she asked sharply, her tone demanding further explanation.

Otto leaned back, crossing his arms casually. "Easy. There's never a time when the tank isn't broken somehow or somewhere."

Adrian snorted, nodding in agreement. "Yup. She's a real drama queen. Transmission? Oops, fucking broken. Gun? Oh no! The bore's off. Machine guns? Well, better bring some bread and peanut butter, 'cause you're gonna have a fuck ton of jam."

Both MPs, despite their attempts to maintain a professional demeanor, couldn't help but release faint chuckles at the quip. One of them quickly coughed into his hand, trying to mask his amusement, while the other turned his head slightly, a smirk breaking through his otherwise stoic expression.

Cecilia glanced at them briefly, her silver eyes narrowing. "Control yourselves," she said sharply, though her own lips twitched as if fighting a reaction.

Otto chuckled, adding, "And don't even get me started on electronics. One little hiccup in the wiring, and suddenly the sensors are playing disco lights for no reason. You'd think a machine this advanced wouldn't need half a workshop to keep it running."

Cecilia blinked, momentarily thrown off by the bluntness of their responses. "You mean to tell me… these so-called advanced machines you boast about are unreliable?"

Adrian shrugged, leaning forward with a smirk. "Oh, they're reliable. When they work. But tanks are like toddlers. Big, heavy toddlers with guns. High maintenance, throw tantrums, and if you don't give them constant attention, they'll ruin your whole day."

Otto grinned, leaning forward slightly. "And when they do work? Oh, Major, that's when you see why we put up with their bullshit. Because when the tank is on point, nothing out there can touch us—" He paused, his grin turning mischievous. "—but we can and will touch everything else."

The MPs couldn't hold it in this time, their quiet chuckles breaking into full-blown laughter. One tried to stifle it with his hand, but it only made him sound like he was choking, while the other bent over slightly, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Cecilia's silver eyes darted toward them, her expression tightening into a scowl. "Control yourselves!" she snapped, her tone sharp and commanding.

But the slight twitch at the corner of her own lips betrayed her. She inhaled deeply, clearly trying to compose herself, but the tension in the room was already broken.

Cecilia tapped her pen against the notepad, her expression a mixture of intrigue and disbelief. "So you're saying that even with all their flaws, you still trust these machines in battle?"

Adrian's smirk faded slightly, his tone taking on a more serious edge. "Absolutely. She might be a pain in the ass, but she's our pain in the ass." He paused for a moment, his eyes briefly distant as if recalling a memory.

"My old tank commander once said, 'Gentlemen, this might be your first and only real love in your life. Treat her well, and she'll protect you with her life.'"

Cecilia's expression softened slightly, the sharpness in her silver eyes giving way to something more reflective. For a moment, she said nothing, simply watching Adrian as if trying to understand the bond he described.

Otto broke the silence, his tone lighter but still carrying a hint of reverence. "Yeah, it's not just a machine. It's home. It's family. Maybe it ain't a dream family, but when shit hits the fan, it's the family you want."

Adrian nodded, his expression softening. "Exactly. She doesn't complain, doesn't panic, doesn't run. She's always there. Sure, she'll give you headaches, but when it matters? She's the one thing you can count on."

Otto chuckled faintly. "And honestly, what more can you ask for? A roof over your head, some firepower to back you up, and a metal shell tough enough to keep you breathing. Sounds like the perfect family to me."

Cecilia studied them both, her pen hovering over her notebook as she processed their words. "I've never heard soldiers talk about their equipment like this before," she admitted softly, her voice more thoughtful than interrogative.

Otto and Adrian exchanged a look, a grin creeping onto Otto's face. "Ich mag die Kleine," he remarked casually, the amusement clear in his tone. (I like her.)

Adrian rolled his eyes, a chuckle escaping him. "Ach, halt doch dein Maul," he shot back, shaking his head. "Die sieht aus, als wäre sie immer noch minderjährig." (Oh, shut it! She looks like she's still underaged.)

Otto stifled a laugh, his grin widening. "Das ist doch egal. Sie hat Feuer, das mag ich." (Doesn't matter. She's got fire, I like that.)

Adrian gave him a sideways glance, smirking faintly. "Du bist ein hoffnungsloser Fall." (You're a hopeless case.)

"Nadann lass sie doch fragen!" Otto shot back, mock offense dripping from his tone. (Why don't we just ask her then?!)

Adrian chuckled harder, reaching over to smack Otto on the shoulder. "Naschön! Frag sie!" (Alright then! Ask her!)

Otto coughed awkwardly into his fist, straightening up as he turned toward Major Cecilia, who was staring at them with a blank expression. Her silver eyes darted between the two men, clearly trying to make sense of their rapid banter but failing miserably.

Otto cleared his throat again, this time more dramatically. "Major, if you allow me a question?"

The sound of his voice shook Cecilia from her stupor. Blinking rapidly, she straightened her posture and nodded, though her face betrayed her lingering confusion. "Yes… go ahead," she said cautiously.

Adrian leaned back in his chair, his smirk growing wider as he watched Otto prepare to speak.

Then, with complete seriousness, Otto asked, "How old are you?"

The room fell into an almost deafening silence. The MPs stiffened where they stood, their expressions a mix of shock and barely contained amusement. Even Adrian, who had been relaxed moments ago, sat up straighter, momentarily taken off guard by Otto's bluntness.

Cecilia's face froze, her silver eyes widening in disbelief. A faint blush began to creep up her cheeks, quickly spreading to her ears as the weight of the question hit her.

Adrian, unable to contain himself, erupted into laughter. It started as a snort but quickly grew into a full-blown belly laugh that echoed through the room. He slapped his thigh, leaning forward as tears of laughter formed in his eyes.

"Du bist unmöglich, Otto!" Adrian choked out between fits of laughter. (You're impossible, Otto!)

Otto shrugged innocently, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "What? It's a valid question," he said, though his mischievous grin betrayed any sincerity.

Cecilia's blush deepened, and she straightened her back, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of composure. "That is not a question you ask in this situation," she hissed, her tone sharp but cracking slightly under the weight of her embarrassment.

Adrian's laughter only grew louder, and one of the MPs had to cover his mouth with his hand to stifle his own chuckle. The other glanced at Cecilia, his face tense as if trying to decide whether to intervene or let the chaos unfold.

Otto leaned forward, his grin unwavering. "So, Major… are you going to answer?"

Cecilia's glare could have melted steel, but the faint tremble in her lip betrayed her struggle to keep her frustration in check. "Absolutely not," she snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

Cecilia watched as Otto's grin faltered, his face falling into something resembling disappointment. For a brief moment, she felt a crack in her resolve. Against her better judgment, something inside her gave way, and she decided to humor him.

Turning her face away, she muttered almost inaudibly, "Twenty-one."

The room went still again, the tension shifting as Otto's grin reappeared, wider than ever. He turned to Adrian, his voice brimming with triumph.

"Na? Volljährig! Ha!" (Well? Legal! Ha!)

Adrian, who had been trying to catch his breath, burst into laughter all over again, nearly falling out of his chair. "Vollidiot!" he wheezed, slapping his knee. (Idiot!)

Cecilia's face turned an even deeper shade of red, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "I swear, if you two don't compose yourselves right now—" she began, her voice trembling with frustration.

Otto raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. "Alright, alright, Major. I'll behave," he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

Adrian, still chuckling, leaned back in his chair, wiping a tear from his eye. "You've got to admit, Major, he's got a point. Now that we know, maybe he can focus again."

Cecilia crossed her arms, her silver eyes narrowing dangerously. "Back to the interrogation," she said icily, her tone brooking no argument.

Otto smirked but remained silent, while Adrian stifled the last of his laughter, nodding. "Whatever you say, Ma'am."

"Back to the maintenance thing," Cecilia began, her voice still sharp but more composed now. "Who's in charge of that? Do you have a designated engineering team for that, or…?"

Adrian smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Depends. On paper, yeah, we've got engineering crews. Whole teams of guys with wrenches and spare parts who are supposed to keep our tanks running like clockwork."

Otto snorted, crossing his arms. "In reality? Half the time, it's us doing the patchwork repairs. You can't always wait for the engineers to show up when you're in the middle of a battlefield."

Adrian nodded. "You blow a track, your comms fry, or your gun jams, you've got two options: fix it yourself or sit there and die. And dying there ain't an option."

Cecilia scribbled something in her notebook, her expression unreadable. "So you're saying your crews are trained to perform their own repairs?"

Otto shrugged. "Basic stuff, yeah. Swapping a track, patching up holes, rebooting the system when it decides to throw a tantrum. But the big stuff—engine replacements, turret repairs—that's all on the engineers. If we've got the time and they've got the tools, they can get us back in the fight."

Adrian chuckled. "And if we don't have the time, well… we improvise. You'd be amazed what Human ingenuity, duct tape, zip ties, and sheer stubbornness can accomplish."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow at that, her pen hovering over the page. "That doesn't sound particularly… sustainable."

"Like I said," Adrian began, leaning back with a tired smirk. "Shit's breaking down constantly. And, of course, shit always tends to break down when you're getting shot at. I wonder why…"

"Truly, only divine intervention is a possible answer to that," Otto quipped, his tone dripping with mock reverence as he raised his hands as if in prayer.

Adrian chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, because nothing says 'higher power at work' like a snapped track or a fried comms system right when you're about to get blown to hell."

Cecilia scribbled in her notebook, her brow furrowing. "And how do you handle those situations? When something critical fails under fire?"

Adrian shrugged, his expression grim but laced with a faint smirk. "You grit your teeth, throw out a few colorful curses, and hope like hell that whatever's broken is reachable from your position. If not…" He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

"…your ass stays inside that tank until either the fight's over, or you're dead. Because getting out there?" He leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Cecilia. "Yeah, that's a sure way to catch yourself a nice dose of lead poisoning."

Cecilia stared at them, dumbfounded, her pen frozen midair. "But you just said… dying there isn't an option?"

Adrian's smirk widened, a faint glint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, Major, don't get me wrong. Dying's never the first option. But if it comes down to it?" He leaned forward, his tone turning deadly serious. "We might not be able to move because of a blown tread, or maybe a spicy dart tore a football-sized hole in our engine block. But trust me—"

Otto picked up seamlessly, grinning. "—we can and will most definitely shoot your ass with everything we've got left."

Adrian nodded, his voice resolute. "If we're going down, we're going down fighting. That's the rule. The beast still got teeth, even when it's stuck. And those teeth bite hard."

Cecilia blinked, her silver eyes wide as she processed the sheer determination radiating from the two men. "You mean you'd keep fighting even if escape is impossible?"

Adrian chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair, the hint of a grin tugging at his lips. "Oh, absolutely. Nothing beats a good ol' heroic last stand story to tell your kids…" He paused, a wry smile crossing his face. "…if I'd find a wife first, of course."

Otto barked out a laugh, slapping his knee. "A wife? You? Brother, you'd probably have better luck marrying the tank at this rate."

Adrian snorted, rolling his eyes. "She's loyal, I'll give her that. But the conversation's a bit one-sided."

"You are trailing off again," Cecilia muttered, placing her face into her palms with an exasperated sigh. "Tell me about your motivation in this war. Do you believe in what you're fighting for?"

Adrian leaned forward, resting his arms on the table as he fixed her with a serious gaze. "You tell me, Major," he said, his voice low but steady. "What kind of motivation do you think you'd need when you've got a genocidal asshole sending his military over your borders, leveling cities with artillery and air strikes, killing your people, your comrades… and just being an all-around asshole?"

Otto crossed his arms, nodding. "It's not rocket science. You fight because if you don't, everything and everyone you care about gets wiped off the map. End of story."

Cecilia sat back slightly, her silver eyes narrowing as she took in their words. "So it's about survival?"

Adrian scoffed, shaking his head. "It's about more than that. It's about making sure the bastard trying to take your home knows it's going to cost him everything. It's about making sure the people you care about—your family, your friends—never have to see the shit you've seen."

Otto smirked faintly. "And yeah, survival's part of it. But survival without purpose? That's just existing. We're not here to just exist, Major. We're here to make sure the assholes trying to play God lose everything in the process."

Cecilia remained silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her notebook as she slowly wrote down their words. Despite her usual sharp demeanor, there was a hint of something softer in her expression—a flicker of understanding.

"Was that it?" Adrian suddenly asked, leaning back in his chair and breaking the silence with a smirk. "This shit's getting way too sentimental now."

Cecilia's silver eyes snapped back up, her professional mask firmly in place again. "You're the ones who decided to get philosophical," she shot back, her tone sharp but tinged with faint amusement.

Adrian raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you're the one asking the deep, soul-searching questions, Major. We're just giving you the answers you wanted."

Otto grinned, gesturing toward Cecilia. "Yeah, next time, ask something like what our favorite beer is. Then we'll really lighten the mood."

For the first time since entering the room, Cecilia smiled—a genuine smile that softened her usually sharp features. She shook her head, a quiet chuckle escaping her lips.

"Get these two dorks out of my interrogation room and back into their cells," she said, waving a hand toward Adrian and Otto. "And make sure not to harm them."

The MPs, still trying to maintain their professionalism despite the lingering amusement in the air, stiffened at her sudden glare.

"Clear?" Cecilia snapped, her tone like a whip.

"Yes, ma'am!" both MPs replied in unison, straightening as they moved to escort the tankers.

Adrian stood, stretching dramatically. "You hear that, Otto? 'Dorks.' I think the Major likes us."

Otto grinned as he rose to his feet. "See, Adrian? I told you we're charming."

Cecilia pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath as the two men were led toward the door. Before they left, Adrian turned back with a playful salute.

"Thanks for the chat, Major. We'll try not to miss you too much."

Cecilia rolled her eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. "Get out before I change my mind."

With that, the door hissed shut, leaving Cecilia alone in the room, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of the encounter.

---

Current Characters and Vehicles:

Iron Horse-1 (M1A5 Abrams):

Captain John Paul Keller—Iron Horse-1 VC

Lance Corporal Gregory Sampson—Iron Horse-1 Gunner

Specialist Felix Erickson—Iron Horse-1 Driver

Private First Class Theodore Meyer—Iron Horse-1 Loader

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Wardog-2 (Challenger 4):

Lieutenant Noah Piers—Wardog-2 VC

Warrant Officer Jack Leeman—Wardog-2 Gunner

Corporal Arthur Williams—Wardog-2 Driver

Lance Corporal Jasper Robinson—Wardog-2 Loader

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Kaiser-1 (KF-51 Panther):

Feldwebel Adrian Koch—Kaiser-1 VC

Unteroffizier Emma Neuman—Kaiser-1 Gunner

Obergefreiter Otto Klein—Kaiser-1 Driver

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Warpig-3 (M7 Bradley II):

Gunnery Sergeant Elijah Jones—Warpig-3 VC

Sergeant Mateo Miller—Warpig-3 Gunner

Corporal David Anderson—Warpig-3 Driver

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Eighty-Six Spearhead Squadron (M1A4 Juggernaut):

Captain Shinei Nouzen "Undertaker" "Reaper" 1st Platoon & Squadon Leader

First Lieutenant Raiden Shuga "Wehrwolf" 2nd Platoon Leader & XO to Spearhead

Second Lieutenant Anju Emma "Snow Witch"

Second Lieutenant Kurena Kukumila "Gunslinger" 6th Platoon Leader

Second Lieutenant Theoto Rikka "Laughing Fox" 3rd Platoon Leader

Second Lieutenant Daiya Irma "Black Dog" 5th Platoon Leader

Second Lieutenant Kaie Tanyia "Kirschblüte" 4th Platoon Leader

Ensign Kujo Nico "Sirius"

Ensign Haruto Keats "Falke"

Ensign Io Dodanthe "Argos"

Ensign Ochi Anton "Gladiator"

Ensign Shuri Gilith "Dendroaspis"

Ensign Kariya Rohga "La Bete"

Ensign Hariz Senya "Cato'Nine"

Ensign Mina Shiroka "Artemis"

Ensign Matthew Nanaki "Walpurgis"

Ensign Kuroto Hinie "Manticore"

Ensign Lecca Lin "Burnt Tayl"

Ensign Tohzan Sasha "Gunmetslstorm"

Ensign Mikuri Cairo "Leukosia"

Ensign Myna Yatomika "March Hare"

Ensign Chise Authen "Griffin"

Ensign Touma Sauvy "Helianthus"

Ensign Louie Kino "Fafnir"

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San Magnolia:

Major Cecilia Amaranth

Technical Lieutenant Victor Lysander

Technical Lieutenant Henrietta von Penrose

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Alive: 41

K.I.A.: N/A