I don't Own anything except my OCs!
Earth Calendar, 2074
Somewhere in Eastern Europe
Captain John Paul Keller
Three years ago, the world went to hell.
"At 13:35 Pacific Standard Time, the Russian Federation has officially declared war on all NATO member states."
That's when it started. The moment we realized everything we thought we knew about the Russian military was a lie.
"Russian paratroopers have stormed the Reichstag in Berlin! They came out of nowhere!"
Berlin fell in hours. They didn't march in—they dropped out of the goddamn sky. NATO command was scrambling, but it was already too late.
"I'm looking at Russian armor rolling down the Champs-Élysées! Where the hell did they come from?!"
Paris was next. Russian tanks—new ones we'd never seen before—rolled down the streets like they owned the place. And they did.
We'd crushed them in Ukraine back in the '20s, drove them back to their borders, and thought we'd broken their spine. We hadn't. All we did was piss them off.
"President Kravchenko has refused to comment on the recent bombings in Poland, which claimed the lives of over two hundred civilians."
After their defeat, Russia went dark. Shut their borders, closed their airports, turned the whole country into a fortress. We thought they'd given up. Hell, we even called it "victory."
But all they'd done was hit the reset button.
"All units stationed along the Polish-German border, fall back immediately! We're abandoning Poland! I repeat: Poland is lost!"
They came back harder than anyone expected. Their factories churned out tanks, jets, and weapons faster than we could count. And these weren't relics of the old Soviet Union—these were beasts. The new T-34s weren't just an upgrade; they were unstoppable.
We were caught with our pants down. Again.
"Russian forces have seized Poland, capturing NATO officials stationed there. Defensive lines are forming in Munich, but Thüringen is overrun. Hamburg is in ruins after relentless artillery and airstrikes—casualties are in the thousands."
Poland fell faster than we could blink. Our forces in Ukraine? Swallowed whole before we could pull them back. The Baltics didn't stand a chance—Kaliningrad hit from the south, and their main forces crushed the east. They steamrolled everything.
Now we're here, trying to stop a flood with sandbags, watching cities burn and friends die.
This isn't a war. It's a reckoning.
By the time NATO realized what was happening, it was too late.
The Russians had carved through Europe like a blade through flesh. Eastern Europe collapsed in days; entire nations folded before they could even organize a defense. The Balkans? No chance. Their patchwork militaries were swept aside like dust under the Russian war machine.
Italy fared no better. The Russians cut it off with a naval and air blockade while their ground forces smashed through the Alps. It wasn't a battle—it was a slaughter. They encircled Italy entirely, and with no way in or out, the Italians had no choice but to surrender.
Berlin was taken simultaneously. A symbol of resistance in two world wars, it fell without even a whimper. Northern Germany was gone before NATO could blink.
Down south, though, we fought back. Munich became a fortress, a last stand. NATO poured everything into turning the city into an unbreakable bastion. It was messy, desperate, but it held. For now.
France wasn't as lucky. Their forces were caught flat-footed by the speed of the Russian advance. Paris—France's pride, its beating heart—fell in less than a day, crushed under the treads of Russian armor.
And Switzerland? As always, they stayed out of it. While the rest of us bled, they buried themselves in the Alps, retreating into the bunkers they'd spent decades digging into their mountains. They weren't wrong to be afraid. We all thought nuclear war was coming.
The nukes never came, though. Somehow, the world avoided that final, apocalyptic step. But that didn't mean Europe escaped unscathed.
Russia didn't just take territory—they tore Europe apart at its foundations.
Somehow, against all odds, we managed to fight back.
It started from the United Kingdom, NATO's last unbroken bastion in Europe. The Russians had overextended, and we were desperate enough to exploit it. What followed wasn't just a counteroffensive—it was a goddamn masterpiece of modern warfare.
Operation "Burning Vengeance." That's what they called it. It was something out of a video game, the kind of insane plan you'd laugh off if it weren't your only shot. And we pulled it off.
First came the C-5 Galaxies, roaring low over the outskirts of Paris like flying whales. These weren't just troop transports—they were delivering hell on tracks. Each of those beasts carried two of the latest M1A5 Abrams tanks or Germany's KF-51 Panther Main Battle Tanks.
The hatches opened mid-air, and the tanks rolled out, their massive parachutes deploying flawlessly. It was insane, watching them drop. Tanks falling from the sky, landing behind enemy lines with a precision that should've been impossible.
While the tanks hit the ground, the skies above were a storm of activity. C-17s, C-130s, and A400Ms swarmed like angry hornets, their cargo doors spilling airborne troops into the night. US Airborne units, German Fallschirmjäger—men trained to fight anywhere, anytime.
They didn't just parachute in; they descended with purpose, weapons hot and ready. By the time their boots hit the ground, the chaos had already begun.
And then there were the Royal Marines. They came from the sea, slipping through the Russian blockade under the cover of darkness. Amphibious landers churned through the surf, delivering waves of Marines who hit the beaches like a hammer.
It was beautiful. It was madness. And for the first time in years, it was victory.
The Russians didn't see it coming. How could they? Tanks dropping from the sky, infantry raining down from above, commandos storming the beaches—it was like nothing they'd ever faced before. We turned their arrogance against them, hitting them where they thought they were untouchable.
Paris was ours by sunrise.
We moved south, striking fast and hard. Le Mans, Orléans, Bourges—all fell in quick succession as we carved out a buffer zone south of Paris. The Russians tried to hold their ground, but we hit them too fast for them to regroup.
Meanwhile, the Royal Marines launched a coordinated assault from the sea, landing at Calais, Le Havre, and Cherbourg. They tore into the Russians from the north and northwest, hitting their flanks with precision. It was a masterclass in combined arms warfare—amphibious assaults backed by the brute force of Challenger 4 tanks and Warrior IFVs.
In just half a day, the Brits pushed all the way to Lille, smashing through Russian defenses like a wrecking ball. By the time the sun set, NATO held a solid buffer zone in the north, locking Paris in the unrelenting grip of allied forces.
Paris was no longer a symbol of defeat. It was the heart of NATO's resurgence, and we weren't letting it go.
We kept our momentum, driving further south with unrelenting force. By the end of the week, all of France was under NATO control. Only then did we stop to catch our breath, digging in and fortifying our hard-won gains.
But the Russians weren't about to let us rest.
Their counterattack came swiftly, tearing through our defenses and carving deep into French territory. They advanced as far as Dijon, spreading chaos and destruction with every step. For a moment, it looked like we might lose everything we'd fought so hard to reclaim. But we held.
We regrouped, dug our heels in, and pushed back. Street by street, field by field, we forced them out of France. By the time the smoke cleared, we had not only retaken the lost ground but driven them back across the Rhine itself.
Germany was in our sights, but the skies over Europe had turned into a battlefield of their own.
American F-22C Super Raptors, F-15EX Strike Eagles, and F/A-53 Starhawks flew alongside British and German EF-2000 Eurofighters, locking horns with Russia's fleet of Su-75 Checkmates and their newest predator, the Su-97 Nightshade.
The air battle wasn't about finesse—it was pure attrition. Technology versus numbers. We had the edge in pilots and aircraft, but the Russians had the advantage in sheer volume. For every F-22C tearing through the skies, there were three Su-75s waiting to take its place. Ammunition ran dry faster than we could resupply, and even the most advanced jets couldn't fight forever.
By night, the terror came from above. American B-21 Raider stealth bombers launched regular sorties under the cover of darkness, striking Russian positions with surgical precision. Their air defenses were formidable, though, and anything less than stealth stood no chance. Helicopters and non-stealth fighters were swatted from the sky like flies.
Still, our stealth aircraft gave them headaches they couldn't shake. The F-22Cs and B-21s forced the Russians to spread their air defenses thin, while we hit them where they least expected. It was a game of balance—every strength countered, every advantage nullified.
In the air, on the ground, neither side could gain the upper hand. The war of attrition dragged on, bleeding both sides dry.
With a coordinated and decisive strike, we crossed the Rhine. German forces, bolstered by the U.S. Navy's Seabees, made the historic crossing—the sixth time in history—but this wasn't a retreat. This was a return. A reconquest. They were coming home, fighting not just for land, but for their heritage.
In the north, the British spearheaded their assault through Belgium with relentless precision. Brussels fell in a single day, its defenses no match for the combined might of NATO forces. The very next day, Amsterdam followed, as NATO forces surged forward, liberating the city from its occupiers.
To the south, the German Fallschirmjäger advanced with grit and determination. Their push began in southern France, driving through northern Switzerland, and into Freiburg and Stuttgart. Both cities fell within a week, but the fighting was fierce and unforgiving.
The Russians had prepared for this. They left traps in their wake, each one more vicious than the last. Snipers lurked in the ruins, picking off soldiers with chilling accuracy. Minefields turned roads into death traps, while entrenched MG nests transformed every street and alley into a killing ground.
The cost was staggering. In just a week of fighting, the death toll—including soldiers and civilians—rose to over ten thousand.
Victory came at a steep price, but the resolve of the Allied forces remained unshaken. Every inch of ground retaken was another step toward reclaiming what had been lost.
In the flat, open plains of central Germany, history repeated itself in fire and steel. Epic, historic tank battles raged across the terrain, echoing the clashes of past world wars.
Russia's massive fleet of T-34 tanks—modernized and mass-produced for this war—rolled forward like a tidal wave. Opposing them, NATO unleashed its finest, spearheaded by Germany's KF-51 Panthers.
The KF-51 wasn't just a tank—it was a marvel of engineering. Outfitted with cutting-edge technology, advanced active defenses, and devastating firepower, it outclassed the Russian T-34s in every way. Its 13m smoothbore gun could punch through even the heaviest Russian armor, while its defensive systems intercepted incoming projectiles with precision.
But as always, Russia had the numbers.
For every Panther on the field, the Russians threw three, sometimes four T-34s into the fray. The battles were a brutal dance of strategy and attrition, where superior technology clashed with overwhelming numbers. Fields became graveyards of twisted metal, smoking wrecks marking the price of each inch gained or lost.
The Panthers spearheaded NATO's eastward assault, carving through Russian lines with precision and determination. But even with their technological superiority, the battles were anything but easy. Victory came one shattered Russian tank at a time, paid for with sweat, blood, and fire.
The streets and fields of central Germany told the story of war's brutal cost. American M1A5 Abrams and German KF-51 Panther wrecks littered the landscape, their hulking frames blackened and torn apart. Yet for every allied wreck, an equal—or even greater—number of Russian T-34s lay twisted and burning on the other side.
The allied push continued with relentless determination, driving down to Ulm. There, the advancing forces linked up with the defenders of Munich, cutting the Russian occupation forces in two. The maneuver was decisive. Russian troops in the south, now isolated and without reinforcements, broke into chaos. Many retreated southward, fleeing over the Alps and into Italy, where they attempted to regroup.
The southern front stabilized, a tenuous ceasefire taking hold as neither side dared to make the next move.
But the northern front was a different story.
German and American forces, now bolstered by the French Armored Corps, launched a coordinated offensive toward Frankfurt am Main. The city became a battleground, its streets echoing with the roar of tanks and the rattle of small arms fire. After three weeks of grueling combat, the allies emerged victorious. Thousands of NATO and Russian soldiers had fallen, the cost of every step measured in blood.
Meanwhile, the British forces advanced from the west, cutting a path through Essen, Dortmund, and Ems. Backed by French special forces and troops from Belgium and the Netherlands, they drove hard into Russian-held territory. But their momentum was halted at Hannover, where the Russians dug in and resisted fiercely.
While the British regrouped, the southern forces advanced northward, taking Leipzig and then Magdeburg. This bold push undermined the Russian defenses, forcing them to stretch thin. With their flank exposed, the British-led forces broke through Hannover, capturing the city.
Now linked together, the two fronts became an unstoppable tide. Allied forces surged eastward, their sights set on Berlin.
The heart of Germany, and a symbol of Russian occupation, was now NATO's ultimate prize.
The Russian generals weren't fools. They knew NATO's supply lines were their Achilles' heel, and from Hamburg, they launched a bold counteroffensive. Their forces drove south with brutal precision, carving a deep gash into NATO territory and severing vital reinforcements. The allied advance stalled, their momentum bleeding away as the Russians encircled Hannover, cutting it off completely.
Inside the city, a small NATO combat brigade found themselves trapped. The defenders—a mix of hardened American 82nd Airborne units and elite French GIGN operatives—dug in, knowing full well the Russians wanted Hannover back.
And the Russians would go to any length to take it.
What followed was a battle that would be remembered as Russia's own Stalingrad.
The siege began with artillery. Day and night, the Russian guns pounded the city. Buildings crumbled into rubble, and the streets became unrecognizable. Smoke and fire filled the air, choking the defenders as wave after wave of explosions shook the ground beneath them.
The 82nd Airborne held the outer defenses, turning every street corner and barricade into a fortress. Armed with Javelins, Carl Gustaf recoilless rifles, and whatever ammunition they could scrounge, they turned Russian armor into smoldering wrecks. The French GIGN operatives, normally counterterrorism experts, adapted to urban warfare with deadly efficiency. They moved like ghosts through the ruins, setting ambushes and eliminating Russian officers with precision shots.
But the Russians came in waves.
Their T-34 tanks rolled into the city, guns blazing, supported by infantry equipped for brutal urban combat. Flamethrower teams torched entire buildings, forcing defenders to retreat or burn. Russian snipers perched in the ruins, picking off anyone who dared move in the open.
The defenders fought back with unmatched ferocity. Airborne troops set up kill zones, using the narrow streets to funnel Russian forces into ambushes. Every block was contested, every building a battlefield. A single stairwell could cost dozens of lives. The GIGN fought like demons in the shadows, striking from unseen positions and vanishing before the Russians could react.
As the days dragged on, supplies ran low. Food and water became as precious as ammunition. The defenders scavenged what they could, repurposing enemy weapons and rationing every last bullet.
The Russians, too, paid a heavy price. For every street they took, they left behind a trail of their dead. The city consumed their soldiers, grinding their advance to a halt.
By the second week, NATO launched desperate air drops to resupply the trapped brigade. C-130s flew low under constant threat of Russian anti-aircraft fire, dropping crates of food, medical supplies, and ammunition. Some made it. Many didn't.
Still, the defenders held.
By the third week, NATO forces outside the encirclement launched a massive counteroffensive. German armored divisions smashed into the Russian flanks, supported by American and British mechanized infantry. The skies above were a swirling chaos of fighter jets and bombers as NATO gained temporary air superiority.
Inside Hannover, the defenders seized the opportunity. With renewed supplies and the promise of rescue, they launched their own counterattacks. The streets they had fought so hard to hold became killing fields for the retreating Russians.
When the siege finally broke, Hannover was a shadow of its former self. The city lay in ruins, a hollow husk of what it once was. Streets that had bustled with life were now unrecognizable, littered with the charred remains of tanks and the broken bodies of those who had fought to the bitter end.
Over fifty thousand soldiers and civilians had perished in the relentless battle. Their blood painted the shattered cobblestones, pooling into crimson rivers that flowed through the wreckage—a grim testament to the heroism and sacrifice of those who had defended the city.
Every corner of Hannover bore the scars of their struggle. A toppled monument stood as a silent witness to their deeds, while the smoldering remains of barricades told the story of last stands that had bought precious hours.
The soldiers who had fought there became legends. Stories of their courage spread like wildfire—how the 82nd Airborne held the line with dwindling ammunition, how the GIGN operatives vanished into the shadows to strike terror into the enemy, and how every inch of ground was paid for with fire and blood.
But the price of their heroism was steep. Survivors staggered through the ruins, their faces etched with the weight of what they had endured. For every tale of valor, there was a tale of loss. For every inch gained, there was a life sacrificed.
Hannover stood, but at a cost so great that even victory felt hollow.
Yet, in the midst of the ruin, a spark of hope remained. The defenders had not just held a city; they had defied a juggernaut, proving to the world that resistance was not futile. Their stand in Hannover would be remembered not just as a battle, but as a turning point—a rallying cry for those still fighting.
As the crimson rivers dried and the smoke began to clear, one thing became certain: Hannover had been saved, but the war for Europe was far from over.
NATO's counteroffensive surged forward with unrelenting force. Tanks, led by the cutting-edge M1A5 Abrams and KF-51 Panthers, spearheaded the advance. In the skies, aircraft like the A-12 Thunderbolt III unleashed devastation on entrenched Russian units. The battles were brutal, each inch of ground won at a staggering cost of lives.
But after months of grinding combat, NATO finally pushed the Russian forces out, reclaiming territory all the way to Flensburg. It was hard-won freedom, paid for in blood and fire.
As the Allied forces rolled into the cities, a different kind of noise filled the air—not the thunder of gunfire, but the sound of hope rekindled. Civilians lined the streets, their faces streaked with tears, their voices raised in cheers. Women wept openly, clutching their children as they watched the massive NATO tanks rumble past, their liberators emerging from the haze of war.
Soldiers leaned out of their vehicles, waving back, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and quiet pride. Some dismounted to embrace the people they had fought so hard to save. A young boy ran up to a German Fallschirmjäger, offering a single flower plucked from the rubble. The soldier knelt down, accepting it with a tired but genuine smile before ruffling the boy's hair.
An elderly woman approached an American tanker, her frail hands trembling as she reached out to touch the side of his vehicle. Her voice broke as she whispered, "Danke… thank you." The soldier, barely older than her grandson, climbed down, removing his helmet to meet her gaze. For a moment, neither said a word, but their shared silence spoke volumes.
For some, it was a moment of reunion. Families torn apart by the chaos found each other in the crowd, collapsing into embraces that seemed to make the horrors of war fade, if only for a moment. For others, it was bittersweet—an empty street or a missing face reminding them of those who would never return.
Amid the cheers and joy, the soldiers carried their own grief. They saw the ruins of once-thriving towns, the hollowed faces of survivors, and the scars left by months of occupation. They felt the weight of every life lost along the way—the comrades who weren't here to see this moment, who had given everything to make it possible.
My name is Captain John Paul Keller, and I am the commanding officer of this crucial operation," he began, his tone crisp and unwavering, cutting through the murmurs of the assembled troops like a blade. Despite his steady voice, his face betrayed the weight of exhaustion and the toll of countless battles—lines etched deep by fatigue and pain, yet his eyes burned with unyielding resolve.
"Listen up, fellas," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the hardened soldiers before him. "Ivan's dug in deep, holding everything past Schwerin and down to the Elbe River. They think they've turned it into an impenetrable fortress."
He paused, letting the tension settle before driving the point home.
"Our mission is simple but far from easy. We're going to punch straight into Schwerin and liberate it. No half-measures, no second chances." His voice grew sharper, commanding attention. "Once that city is ours, we push south. We link up with the main assault force and continue the offensive straight into Berlin."
The room was silent, every man hanging on his words. They knew what this meant. Schwerin wasn't just another objective—it was a stepping stone to breaking the Russian grip on Germany.
He looked over the room, his gaze sweeping across the assembled troops, but it lingered on the German tankers. Their faces, weathered by weeks of relentless fighting, were etched with pride. These were men and women who had seen their homeland torn apart, who had watched cities crumble and lives shattered. Yet, they stood tall, unbroken, their uniforms crisp and their resolve unshaken.
The pride in their eyes wasn't just for themselves—it was for their country. For every street retaken, for every field reclaimed from the enemy. Their tanks weren't just machines; they were symbols of defiance, of a nation clawing its way back from the brink.
Keller felt a flicker of admiration as he met their gazes. They knew the stakes, and they knew the cost. Yet, not one of them wavered.
He turned back to the map behind him, blue Arrows and red lines where scribbles all over the place, marking Russian positions and NATO advancments.
"The German Armored Corps will lead the main assault," Keller continued, his voice steady, though the weight of his words hung heavy in the air. "We here are a tactical unit meant to cut off enemy strongholds to the north, ensuring we don't have another Hannover incident."
The room grew tense. The mere mention of Hannover sent a ripple through the tankers and crew members. They shifted uncomfortably, their faces darkening as the memories resurfaced—streets reduced to rubble, comrades lost in the relentless siege, the claustrophobic hell of urban warfare.
For many of them, Hannover wasn't just a battle—it was a scar. It was the sound of shells tearing through buildings, the sight of friends buried under collapsing walls, the lingering smell of smoke and death.
Keller paused, letting the room settle. He knew he was walking a fine line, but they needed to hear this.
"We can't let that happen again," he said, his tone softening but still firm. "Every step we take, every stronghold we neutralize, means fewer lives lost and a smoother path for the main force. This mission isn't just critical—it's personal."
He let his gaze drift over the room, catching the eyes of the tankers, the crew members, the men and women who had bled for every inch of ground. "I know what you've been through. I was there too. But we've learned. We've adapted. And this time, we're taking the fight to them."
The uncomfortable shifting stopped. Slowly, the tension in the room began to ease, replaced by a grim determination. The mention of Hannover wasn't just a reminder of past suffering—it was a rallying cry for the task ahead.
"Let's make damn sure this time, it's Ivan who's left with the scars."
This mission was unlike any other—an armored assault executed solely by tanks and infantry fighting vehicles. No air support. No infantry to follow behind. Just steel, treads, and the crews inside them.
The column was an impressive yet daunting sight. Four U.S. M1A5 Abrams led the charge, their advanced sensors and impenetrable armor paving the way. Behind them rumbled thirteen M7 Bradley IIs, providing versatile firepower and troop transport capability, even if their compartments were now empty.
Flanking the formation were seven KF-51 Panthers, Germany's finest, bristling with cutting-edge technology and designed to dominate the battlefield. The sheer presence of the Panthers inspired confidence—they were the spearheads, the vanguard of NATO's armored might.
Further back, twenty SPz Pumas maneuvered with agility, their advanced targeting systems scanning for threats as their crews prepared for anything.
Bringing up the rear were six British Challenger 4 tanks and six Warrior IFVs. The Challengers, with their reputation for unmatched resilience, rolled forward like moving fortresses, while the Warriors provided vital support with their lighter yet deadly firepower.
Engines roared as the column advanced, the ground trembling beneath the weight of NATO's steel. Ahead, the open fields and rolling hills of northern Germany stretched out like a canvas waiting to be painted in fire and smoke.
And then the first shell hit.
Contact! Contact! Left side at the tree line! Range, 1,800 meters! Loader, SABOT!" Keller's voice rang out over the comms, sharp and commanding. Inside the cramped interior of his M1A5 Abrams, his crew snapped into action, their movements practiced and precise.
The loader grabbed the SABOT round, slamming it into the breech with a metallic clunk. "Up!" he yelled, signaling that the tank was ready to fire.
"Driver, traverse right! Present them our front! Gunner, SABOT tank!" Keller's voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos of battle.
"Identified!" the gunner replied, his tone steady as he locked onto the target—a Russian T-34 barreling toward them.
"FIRE!"
The M1A5 Abrams rocked back as its 130mm gun thundered, sending a uranium-tipped SABOT round streaking across the battlefield. The dart struck the T-34's frontal armor at an angle designed to deflect incoming projectiles. Normally, it might have worked.
But not this time.
The SABOT round was traveling too fast, its kinetic energy unstoppable. The dart hit the sloped glacis plate of the hull and ricocheted upward. In a stroke of cruel fortune for the Russian crew, it struck the turret ring—the vulnerable seam where the turret joined the hull. The depleted uranium penetrator punched through the armor with ease, slamming into the ammunition stowed in the rear of the turret.
The explosion was instantaneous. Blow-out panels on the turret did their job, venting the blast outward and sparing the crew from certain death. But the tank itself was finished—its turret blown askew, flames licking hungrily at the exposed interior.
"Target destroyed!" the gunner confirmed, already shifting his sights to the next threat.
"Good kill! Loader, SABOT! Gunner, tank front!" Keller snapped, his eyes never leaving the chaos unfolding around them.
The crippled T-34 sat burning in the middle of the battlefield, a testament to the sheer power of NATO's tanks. Its crew scrambled out, coughing and covered in soot, abandoning their ruined machine as the Abrams pressed forward, undeterred.
Keller's voice came over the comms again, clear and firm: "Keep pushing! Stay tight and watch your flanks! They'll break if we keep this up!"
And with that, his tank surged forward, leading the charge as the battlefield erupted into an even deadlier storm of fire and steel.
On Keller's left, an M7 Bradley II stood still, its missile pod extended, locking onto a Russian T-34. The gunner inside was seconds away from pulling the trigger to unleash a TOW missile.
But fate didn't give him the chance.
A T-34's HEAT round screamed across the battlefield, slamming into the Bradley's side. The ERA bricks—designed to counter such threats—did little to stop the high-velocity round fired from the Russian tank's powerful gun. The explosion ripped through the vehicle, sending shards of armor and smoke billowing into the air.
"Warpig-2 is out!" Keller barked into the radio, the urgency in his voice cutting through the chaos. "Warpig-3, we need support over here, now!"
Even as he issued the order, his tank rocked back again. Another SABOT round screamed from the Abrams' barrel, streaking across the battlefield. The round struck true, tearing into another T-34. The Russian tank burst into flames, its turret flipping violently as the ammunition inside detonated.
Keller's eyes darted back to the smoking wreck of the Bradley. Its crew was scrambling out, their silhouettes blurred by the haze of fire and debris. The chaos didn't faze him—there wasn't time to mourn or pause.
"Driver, shift left! Gunner, another SABOT! We're not done yet!" Keller barked, already scanning for the next threat as the battlefield devolved further into carnage.
"Warpig-3 here. Iron Horse-1, we're pulling up on your left flank!"
The radio crackled with the voice of Warpig-3's commander, steady and resolute despite the chaos erupting around them. Keller glanced to his left, spotting the Abrams tank surging forward, its turret already swiveling to engage the advancing Russian armor.
"Copy that, Warpig-3. Keep them off us!" Keller replied, his voice sharp and commanding as his gunner called out another target.
"Driver, hold position! Gunner, SABOT, tank front!" Keller ordered.
"Identified!" came the gunner's response, his voice unwavering.
"Fire!"
The 130mm cannon roared again, sending a SABOT round screaming toward a T-34 attempting to reposition. The projectile tore through its frontal armor, detonating its internal ammunition. The Russian tank erupted in a violent explosion, its turret flipping into the air before slamming back to the ground with a deafening crash.
"Good kill! Loader, HEAT! Gunner, shift right—target those infantry carriers!" Keller shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos as he scanned for new threats through his periscope.
"Identified!" the gunner screamed back, locking onto the lumbering silhouette of a Russian infantry carrier advancing through the smoke-filled battlefield.
"FIRE!" Keller bellowed.
The 130mm cannon roared again, the tank rocking back slightly from the force of the shot. The HEAT round streaked across the battlefield, leaving a glowing trail in its wake before slamming into the side of the enemy infantry carrier. The explosion was immediate and devastating, the carrier erupting in a fiery burst as flames engulfed its interior.
Through the smoke and fire, bodies were flung clear of the wreckage, while surviving infantry scrambled for cover, abandoning their burning vehicle.
"Direct hit!" the gunner called out, his voice ringing with satisfaction.
"Loader, HEAT! Gunner, keep them suppressed!" Keller barked, his eyes darting to the right flank where more enemy infantry carriers emerged, flanked by Russian troops carrying RPGs.
"On it!" the loader shouted, already sliding another HEAT round into the breech.
"Gunner, next target—two o'clock, moving fast!" Keller snapped, pointing out the threat.
"Identified!" the gunner yelled again, adrenaline surging as he adjusted his sights.
"FIRE!"
The second HEAT round hit home, obliterating another Russian infantry carrier in a fiery explosion. Secondary detonations tore through the advancing infantry, forcing the survivors to retreat into the smoking ruins.
"Nice shooting! Keep it up!" Keller shouted, his voice unwavering as the battlefield roared with explosions and gunfire.
"Loader, SABOT! Gunner, tank, at the treeline!" Keller shouted, his voice sharp and decisive as his eyes locked onto the enemy threat emerging from the smoke-filled woods.
"Identified!" the gunner called out, his tone taut with focus as he zeroed in on the hulking silhouette of a T-34 advancing cautiously through the cover of the trees.
"Fire!"
The Abrams' 130mm cannon thundered, the tank rocking slightly as the SABOT round streaked toward its target. The depleted uranium dart punched through the treeline, slicing through branches and foliage before slamming into the T-34's side.
The impact was catastrophic. The Russian tank's armor crumpled under the kinetic force, and a deafening explosion erupted from its hull. Flames roared through the shattered wreckage as secondary explosions tore apart what remained.
"Target destroyed!" the gunner confirmed, already adjusting his sights for the next threat.
"Loader, SABOT! Gunner,tank, two o'clock, just outside the tree line!" Keller barked, his voice unwavering as the battle around them raged on.
The loader shoved another round into the breech with practiced precision. "Up!"
"Identified!" the gunner shouted, lining up the next shot.
"Fire!"
The Abrams thundered again, its barrel spitting fire as another SABOT round launched toward the battlefield. The relentless rhythm of war continued, each shot a step closer to breaking the enemy's grip on the battlefield.
As the battle raged on, Keller made a snap decision. The Russian line was strong, their defenses layered and reinforced, but he saw an opening—a weakness that could be exploited. Grabbing his radio, he barked orders with unwavering authority.
"Warpig-3, form up! Wardog-2 and Kaiser-1, you're with me. We're executing a flanking maneuver. The rest of the column, keep pressing forward!"
The radio crackled with acknowledgment, and soon Keller's Abrams was joined by the towering British Challenger 4 and the sleek German KF-51 Panther. Together, the trio of tanks peeled off from the main formation, their engines roaring as they veered to the right, kicking up clouds of dirt and debris.
"Driver, punch it!" Keller ordered, gripping the edge of his hatch as his tank surged forward. The battlefield unfolded before them—a chaotic mix of fire and steel. Explosions lit the horizon, and the roar of cannon fire drowned out all other sounds.
The Challenger's commander, his voice calm but clipped with a British accent, came through the comms. "Iron Horse-1, Wardog-2 here. We're keeping pace. What's the bloody plan?"
Keller scanned the terrain ahead, his eyes narrowing. "We hit them from the flank, take out their AT positions, and roll them up before they know what's happening. Kaiser-1, keep your optics sharp. Anything that moves is a target."
"Understood," the German commander replied, his tone measured and professional.
As they moved into position, the terrain began to change. The flat fields gave way to rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The tanks maneuvered with precision, their crews working seamlessly despite the chaos.
"Contact! Enemy armor, ten o'clock!" Keller's gunner shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Loader, SABOT! Gunner, tank, ten o'clock!" Keller barked.
"Identified!"
"Fire!"
The Abrams roared, its 130mm cannon unleashing a SABOT round that streaked across the battlefield and slammed into the side of a T-34. The Russian tank exploded in a burst of fire and smoke, its turret flipping skyward as its ammunition detonated.
"Good hit! Wardog-2, take the lead. Kaiser-1, cover our right!" Keller ordered, his voice sharp and decisive.
The Challenger surged forward, its massive gun swiveling to engage another Russian tank. Its engine roared as it gained momentum, its armor gleaming through the smoke and chaos. But then, suddenly, the air around the tank seemed to shimmer and ripple unnaturally, as if the battlefield itself were twisting and warping.
"Bloody fuck is that?!" Wardog's vehicle commander shouted, his voice cracking through the radio. His crew's eyes widened in disbelief as the space around their tank distorted, bending in impossible ways.
And then, in the blink of an eye, the T-34 suddenly vanished.
One moment it was there—barreling forward, its cannon swiveling menacingly toward Wardog-2—and the next, it was gone. No explosion, no flash, no debris. Just… nothing.
"What in the bloody hell?!" Wardog-2's gunner shouted, his voice cutting through the stunned silence over the comms.
"Did… did you see that?!" the Panther's commander called out from Kaiser-1, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.
Keller gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edges of the hatch. "Iron Horse-1 to all units, confirm visual. What just happened to that tank?"
Static filled the comms for a moment before multiple voices chimed in, all speaking over each other, none offering answers.
"Vanished."
"Nothing left, sir!"
"Where'd it go?"
Keller's gunner turned to look at him, his face pale. "Sir, what the hell is going on out there?"
Before Keller could reply, the space around his Abrams and the surrounding tanks began to warp and twist. The air shimmered like a mirage, bending reality in ways that defied comprehension.
"Oh shit… Not good!" Keller shouted, gripping the edges of his hatch as the impossible unfolded around them. His heart raced as he scanned the area, trying to make sense of the phenomenon, but there was no logic to it—no explanation that fit the chaos engulfing them.
The Challenger's gunner's voice crackled over the radio, panic breaking through his composure. "Wardog-1 is seeing the same thing! What the hell is this?!"
"Warhound-1 to Iron Horse-1! Something's—" The German commander's voice cut out abruptly as static flooded the comms.
The hum that had been faint moments ago now grew deafening, a low, resonating sound that vibrated through the tanks, their crews, and the very air itself.
And then it happened.
A blinding white light engulfed the tanks, swallowing everything in its path. Keller shielded his eyes instinctively, but there was no escaping it. The sound vanished, replaced by an eerie, all-encompassing silence.
The four armored vehicles disappeared, swallowed into nothingness as the battlefield they had fought so hard to hold dissolved into oblivion.
The crew felt weightless, an eerie, disorienting sensation as if they had been torn free from the very fabric of reality. Keller clenched his fists, his body pressed into his seat by a strange force that wasn't gravity.
Outside the tanks, there was nothing. Just an endless expanse of white—featureless, formless, and infinite. It wasn't smoke or fog; it was as if they were suspended in a void.
"Report!" Keller barked, trying to steady his voice.
"Sir, everything's gone haywire!" his gunner shouted, frantically tapping at the targeting console. "The systems are… they're acting up! Thermal's useless, and we're not getting any readings!"
Driver?!" Keller called over the radio, his voice tense.
There was no response. Only static hissed in his headset, an unnatural, grating sound that made his skin crawl.
"Felix, do you hear me?" he tried again, his voice more forceful.
Still nothing. The static persisted, crackling faintly, but offering no sign of life.
"Sir," the gunner said, his voice cutting through the eerie silence inside the tank. "The radio's dead. I ain't reaching anyone outside the tank."
Keller frowned, gripping the edge of his seat tightly. He scanned the control panels, but nothing looked damaged—everything appeared operational. Yet the silence on the comms felt oppressive, as if they'd been cut off from the world entirely.
The tank suddenly lurched forward, throwing Keller against the edge of the periscope with a loud thud.
"Dammit!" Keller hissed, clutching his head as the sharp pain radiated from where he'd hit the periscope. The world around him spun, but there was no time to collect himself.
Before he could react further, the white light returned, brighter and more intense than before, engulfing the cabin in a blinding radiance.
"Not again!" the gunner shouted, shielding his eyes.
Keller squinted, trying to see through the overwhelming brightness, but it was useless. His hands gripped the edges of his seat as the tank jolted violently.
The engine roared louder, almost deafening now, and the tank surged forward with an unnatural speed that defied logic.
"We're moving again…" Loader Theodor muttered, his voice trembling as he gripped the cabin wall tightly, doing his best to brace himself. The tank's violent lurches made it impossible to keep steady, and the unsettling sensation of being pulled through the void rattled him to his core.
"Oh shit… Oh shit, OH SHIT!" the gunner yelled, his voice rising in panic as the tank's sensors flickered wildly, throwing out meaningless readings. The periscope showed nothing but blinding white, and the cabin felt as though it were being twisted in all directions at once.
Then came the crash.
Stellar Year, 2148, May 12th
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere Inside District 1
The teacher stood at the front of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, addressing a classroom of attentive students. His voice was steady, carrying the weight of history as he began his lecture.
"The Republic of San Magnolia," he said, his tone reverent, "a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Yet, as resilient as humanity can be, our history is marked by moments of great strife. Nine years ago, the Giad Empire declared war on all its neighbors with the deployment of the Legion—a self-sustaining, autonomous drone army."
He turned to the board behind him, where a map of the Giad Empire and its neighboring nations was displayed. "The Legion," he continued, gesturing to an image of the fearsome machines, "was no ordinary army. It was an AI-driven force, capable of thinking, adapting, and fighting without the need for human operators. In essence, it was war stripped of human oversight, reduced to pure, unfeeling efficiency."
The teacher paused, letting the weight of his words settle before he continued. "The Giad Empire didn't create the Legion from nothing. They borrowed and adapted technology from their neighbors. The AI system at the core of the Legion was invented by the United Kingdom of Roa Gracia—a nation that sought to advance artificial intelligence for peaceful purposes. The mechanical bodies of the Legion, however, were stolen from the Alliance of Wald, another of Giad's neighbors."
He turned to face the class, his expression somber. "And yet, for all its borrowed technology, the true mind behind the Legion was one of the Giad Empire's own: Major Zelene Birkenbaum. A soldier and a researcher, she was both brilliant and ambitious, a woman whose motivations could be described—at least on the surface—as noble."
The students shifted slightly in their seats, sensing the complexity of what was to come.
"Major Birkenbaum's drive to create the Legion came from a deeply personal tragedy," the teacher explained. "Her brother, a fellow soldier, was killed in a friendly fire incident. It shattered her, and she became determined to eliminate the human element from warfare, believing it to be the source of such senseless loss. Her dream was to create an army that wouldn't falter, wouldn't make mistakes, and wouldn't suffer from human error."
He sighed, shaking his head. "But as history has shown us, the road to hell is often paved with good intentions. The Legion, once unleashed, became a force far beyond her control—or anyone's control. And it marked the beginning of a war that would consume nations and reshape the world."
The classroom was silent, the weight of the story hanging heavily in the air. The teacher took a step forward, his gaze moving across the rows of students, each one captivated by the tale.
"Zelene," he continued, his voice dropping to a somber tone, "did not live to see the full consequences of her creation. She passed away from disease shortly before the first series of Ameise drones were produced."
He paused, his expression darkening. "But her legacy didn't end there. Before her death, Zelene took one final, extraordinary step. She assimilated herself into the Legion, merging her consciousness with the very machines she created. In doing so, she became the first Shepherd, the central mind that commanded the Legion's forces."
The teacher turned toward the board, where an image of the Legion's symbol now appeared, stark and ominous. Beneath it was written a single name: Mistress.
"That was her codename," he said, his voice sharp and deliberate. "Mistress. The first and most powerful Shepherd, overseeing the Legion with unwavering precision and ruthlessness. Her mind lived on, a ghost in the machine, steering the Legion's every move."
He turned back to the class, his eyes grave. "In her pursuit to end the human cost of war, she became something beyond human herself—something neither bound by mortality nor compassion."
The silence in the classroom deepened, the weight of his words pressing down on the students.
"Remember her story," the teacher said, his tone firm. "Not as a cautionary tale of one person's ambition, but as a lesson in unintended consequences. What we create to protect can just as easily destroy if we lose sight of our humanity."
A young student snapped his hand into the air, his curiosity evident. The teacher, intrigued by the interruption, gestured for him to speak.
"If the Legion is this strong," the student began, his voice tinged with both fear and wonder, "how did we survive for this long?"
The teacher nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the weight of the question. "A fair point," he said, gesturing for the student to sit back down. The room grew quiet again as the teacher prepared to explain.
"Back in Republic Year 359," he began, "our Republic Military Industries, or RMI, developed the M1A4 Juggernaut. It was designed as a direct response to the overwhelming hordes of Legion drones. The Juggernaut is the only Feldreß—combat unit—we field, and yet, it has proven more than enough to hold the enemy back."
The teacher paused, turning to the board, where an image of a sleek, spider-like machine appeared—small compared to the Legion, but bristling with weapons and equipped with advanced technology.
"These machines," he continued, "are superior in every way to the various Legion units. Fast, agile, and armed with cutting-edge weaponry, the Juggernaut has allowed us to match, and even outpace, the Legion on the battlefield."
He pointed to the next image on the board: a massive wall stretching into the horizon. "And with the help of the Gran Mur—the Great Wall—we have fortified our borders and ensured the safety of our people."
The teacher's expression softened, his tone becoming one of reassurance. "This war, as devastating as it is, will not last forever. According to our intelligence, the Legion will stop functioning in two years. Their AI systems have a built-in operational lifespan, and once that expires, they will simply cease to function. No more attacks, no more drones, no more war. Peace will return to San Magnolia."
He smiled faintly, though there was a hint of something guarded in his eyes. "So rest assured, young man. We have survived this long because of our ingenuity, our resilience, and our determination. And we will prevail."
The students exchanged glances, some reassured, others still uneasy. The teacher turned back to the board, preparing to continue his lecture, leaving the faint hum of tension lingering in the air.
Before anyone could process the teacher's reassurances, a deafening crash shattered the stillness of the classroom. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the windows rattled violently. Car alarms blared outside, mingling with panicked screams.
The Military Police officer stationed at the back of the classroom jumped to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. Without a word, he bolted to the window, his hand instinctively resting on the sidearm at his hip.
The students and teacher, their hearts pounding, followed him, crowding around the window. As they peered outside, their breaths caught in their throats.
A massive pillar of black smoke climbed into the sky, blotting out the midday sun. Cars lay crumpled in the middle of the street like discarded toys, their frames flattened. Fire hydrants had been ripped from the ground, sending geysers of water spraying into the air, their bases twisted and mangled as if struck by a giant.
On the asphalt, two parallel skid marks stretched across the road, leading toward the epicenter of the chaos. They weren't ordinary skid marks—these were massive, gouging cracks that had torn into the asphalt itself. The width of the marks was unnerving, far too large for any vehicle the students or the MP officer had ever seen.
His gaze fell on the nearby wall of a building, and his breath hitched. Embedded in the shattered bricks was a metallic structure, gleaming faintly under the sunlight. The wall around it had crumbled, bricks scattered across the ground and piled on top of whatever had caused this devastation.
The MP officer reached for his radio with shaking hands and called in for backup, his voice steady despite the chaos. "This is Sergeant Koltz. We need immediate reinforcements at the central district. Unknown object embedded in the wall. Possible threat. Over."
Before he even finished his transmission, the faint wail of sirens cut through the air. First responders arrived moments later, their vehicles skidding to a stop in the street. Firefighters began extinguishing the flames licking at the nearby cars, while paramedics hurried to tend to civilians who had been caught in the shockwave.
Then came the military.
Troop transports rolled in, unloading squads of soldiers clad in pristine combat uniforms. Their Feldreß—sleek, spider-like mechs—loomed over the scene, each one bristling with weapons and scanning the area with glowing optical sensors. Soldiers fanned out, their FAL rifles raised, every barrel pointed at the mysterious object embedded in the wall.
"Eyes on the target," one of the soldiers barked, his voice amplified through a helmet speaker. "Keep your distance. We don't know what we're dealing with here."
For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of flames and the hiss of fire hoses. Then, without warning, the object began to move.
The metal groaned and scraped as it shifted backward, bricks tumbling off its surface and clattering to the ground. The MP's breath caught as he finally noticed the details—treads. Thick, unmistakable tank treads on each side of the object.
"What the hell…?" he muttered, stepping back instinctively.
The soldiers froze, their weapons trained on the now-moving object. The Feldreß repositioned, their cannons swiveling toward the emerging threat.
The thing pulled itself free from the wall with a final, ear-splitting crash, rubble cascading around it. As it emerged into full view, its size became apparent, dwarfing everything around it.
And then it hit everyone at once.
This wasn't some new Legion unit, nor was it a remnant of the Republic's technology. It was a relic of a past era, unmistakable in its design.
The massive turret and hulking hull were unmistakable, the very definition of armored power. The sheer size of it loomed over the crowd, and the long, intimidating barrel of its cannon left no doubt about its purpose.
Its camouflage told another story. The smear pattern was unlike anything used in the Republic's pristine white Feldreß. Olive green, dark green, brown, and black—colors designed for concealment in forested environments—covered the tank's weathered exterior. The paint was chipped and faded, yet it spoke of a time and purpose far removed from the clean, sterile aesthetics of modern Republic warfare.
The tank treads groaned as they shifted, finally settling onto the cracked asphalt with a weight that seemed to shake the ground itself. Deep impressions were left in its wake, evidence of just how massive and solid the vehicle was.
It was a tank.
A relic of an era that predated the Republic's white-walled cities and mechanized Feldreß. Its mere presence was alien, yet its design felt hauntingly familiar, like a ghost from a war long forgotten.
Meanwhile, inside the non-existent and unacknowledged District 86 of the San Magnolian Republic, chaos reigned. Eintagsfliegen darkened the sky. The battlefield was a hellscape of smoke, fire, and relentless Legion forces. The Juggernaut Feldreß, small and spider-like, darted through the carnage, their legs clanking against the broken earth as they fired their 58mm main guns and their 12.7mm machine guns at swarming Ameise Legion units.
The Juggernaut units and their human Processors gave the Legion a run for their money, but the reality was grim. The propaganda spread by the Republic about the Juggernaut Feldreß being superior to the Legion's forces was total bullshit. Anyone who had ever fought on this battlefield knew the truth: the Juggernauts were barely holding their own.
Contrary to what the average Republic civilian believed, the Juggernauts weren't autonomous. Far from it. Each one was piloted by a Processor—a human being forced into the cockpit by the Republic's cold, inhumane policies. These young men and women fought tooth and nail against an enemy that never tired, never feared, and never stopped coming.
The Legion outnumbered them, outgunned them, and often outmaneuvered them. The Juggernauts, for all their agility, were poorly armored and prone to malfunction. Processors frequently found themselves in the middle of a fight, desperately trying to keep their machines operational with makeshift repairs while under fire.
Handler-1 to Undertaker," the voice crackled over the comms, cold and detached. "Multiple enemy interceptor groups confirmed at points 30 and 50. Battalion-sized units of Löwen and Grauwölfe. All Juggernauts, advance immediately and take them out."
Inside the Juggernaut cockpits, the Processors tensed. The calm, matter-of-fact tone of Handler-1 only added to the weight of the impossible order.
The Handler's voice continued, dripping with venom. "Gotta say, though… with that many of them, I don't think any of you will make it out alive." A pause, then a sneer. "So go. Hurry. Move, you dirty pigs! Fight until your bodies break, Eighty-Six scum!"
The words hit like a slap, but none of the Processors reacted aloud. They couldn't afford to.
Inside his Juggernaut, Shinei Nouzen, codenamed Undertaker, stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. His fingers tightened on the controls, but his voice, when he replied, was calm and even.
"Undertaker, copy. Moving out."
Around him, the other Processors began to respond, their voices steady despite the chaos consuming the battlefield. Juggernauts were being taken out left and right, their explosions rocking the earth and sending debris raining down like deadly hail. But Shinei didn't flinch. He kept his focus razor-sharp, weaving through the storm of fire and steel with an almost supernatural calm.
A sabot round screamed through the air, fired by a Löwe, the Legion's fearsome tank unit. The metal dart zipped past Shin's Juggernaut, missing by mere meters and embedding itself into the dirt behind him with a deafening thud. He barely spared it a glance, already calculating his next move.
"Nice try," he muttered under his breath, maneuvering his Juggernaut into position.
To his left, a familiar voice crackled over the comms. "Need a hand, Undertaker?"
Raiden Shuga—Wehrwolf—appeared on his flank, his Juggernaut charging in with its cannon already trained on the enemy. From inside the cockpit, Raiden's grin was unmistakable, even over the comms. "Bet you didn't see this one coming, you bastard!"
He fired, the 57mm shell streaking toward a nearby Ameise preparing to fire at Shin. The projectile struck true, detonating the Legion drone in a brilliant explosion that scattered its mechanical remains across the battlefield. The opening Raiden created gave Shin the time and space he needed to make his move.
Shin fired the wire anchors from his Juggernaut, the sharp metal spikes embedding themselves securely into the upper floors of a crumbling building above the Löwe. With a swift movement, he activated the retractors, pulling himself upward and kicking off the structure with his Juggernaut's hind legs.
The maneuver sent him spinning in mid-air, his Juggernaut twisting gracefully despite its ungainly appearance. The world seemed to blur around him as he stabilized his aim, the Löwe's exposed top coming into perfect view.
"Now," Shin muttered to himself, his finger tightening on the trigger.
The 57mm cannon roared, the recoil shaking his Juggernaut as the shell streaked downward. The projectile struck the Löwe's top armor with pinpoint accuracy, piercing through its weakest point and detonating inside its core systems.
The Löwe erupted in a violent explosion, its massive frame crumpling inward as smoke and fire poured from its shattered husk. Shrapnel scattered across the battlefield, the once-formidable Legion unit reduced to nothing more than burning wreckage.
Shin's Juggernaut landed with a hard thud, its legs absorbing the impact as he released the wire anchors and reoriented himself.
As the Legion pressed their relentless advance, the chaos on the battlefield reached a fever pitch. But amidst the mechanical horrors, a new, even more sinister threat emerged—a threat not only for the Processors but also for their Handler, who remained connected to the Spearhead Squadron via Para-Raid.
The Spearhead Squadron had a name for these terrifying enemies: Black Sheep.
Unlike the regular Legion units, the Black Sheep were something far more insidious. These drones didn't just adapt; they evolved, using the most macabre technology imaginable. When the Legion encountered fallen soldiers, they didn't just leave the bodies behind—they harvested them.
Using advanced bioengineering, the Legion extracted the brains of the deceased and used them as templates to create AI programs. These weren't simple machine minds. The Black Sheep mimicked the neural pathways and memories of the humans they were built from, turning the echoes of the dead into ruthless, calculating commanders.
For the Eighty-Six, this made the Black Sheep far more than just another enemy. These drones were smarter, more unpredictable, and infinitely more dangerous. But for the Handler, still tethered to the battlefield through the Para-RAID, they posed a unique and chilling threat.
The Para-Raid connection allowed the Handler to hear the voices of the Processors, feel their emotions, and experience fleeting flashes of their thoughts. It was a vital link, but it also made them vulnerable. When the Black Sheep entered the field, the vulnerability turned into something far more sinister.
For Shin, the voices of the fallen were nothing new. They were a haunting constant, whispering through the connection whenever the Black Sheep approached. It was his burden to carry, a price he paid to honor the memories of his comrades. But the Handler? They weren't ready for this.
The first signs were faint. Fragmented words like "help" and "don't leave me" echoed faintly through the Para-Raid. The Handler stiffened, their composure cracking.
"What is this?!" the Handler barked, their voice sharp with panic.
The whispers grew louder, their fragmented pleas transforming into panicked cries. "Go away… Leave me alone! NO, NO, NO! Go away!"
The Handler clutched their headset, their breathing ragged. "Stop it! What's happening?!"
Inside the Juggernauts, the Eighty-Six remained silent. They had no words of comfort to offer—this was something they endured every time the Black Sheep came. For Shin, the cries were a grim reminder of the comrades he'd lost, their voices used as weapons against him. He had long accepted it as part of his duty.
Shin glanced down briefly, his eyes flicking to the green toolbox beneath his seat. Inside were the nameplates he had carved, pieces of Juggernaut armor etched with the names of the fallen. Each one was a silent promise: they would not be forgotten.
The Handler, however, wasn't prepared for the weight of those voices. The Para-Raid amplified the screams, turning them into an unbearable cacophony. "Leave me alone! No! NO!"
"Leave me alone! NO!!"
"STOP IT!" the Handler screamed, their voice cracking under the strain.
A deafening gunshot echoed through the comms.
The Para-Raid went silent.
Inside their Juggernauts, the Eighty-Six didn't speak. They had seen this before—Handlers who broke under the weight of responsibility, unable to face the horrors they demanded the Processors endure daily.
But the battlefield didn't pause for grief or reflection. The Legion pressed on, their relentless assault driving the Eighty-Six further back. Explosions erupted across the desolate terrain as swarms of Ameise advanced, flanked by Löwen and Grauwölfe.
"Undertaker, there are too many!" Haruto Keats—Codename Falke—called over the Para-Raid, his voice tinged with both frustration and fear. His Juggernaut danced nimbly around enemy fire, but it was clear the Legion's numbers were overwhelming.
"We have to fall back and regroup," Kaie Teniya—Codename Kirschblüte—added, her tone firm but calm. She had always been a voice of reason among the Spearhead Squadron, and even now, in the face of insurmountable odds, her composure didn't waver.
Shin's voice came through the comms, steady and unyielding as always. "Hold your positions. Regrouping—" he began, but his words were cut off by three deafening crashes that shook the ground around them.
The battlefield fell eerily silent. Even the Legion ceased firing, their mechanical precision halting as all guns turned toward the source of the disturbance.
Smoke billowed into the air, obscuring the view, but as it cleared, three massive metallic beasts emerged from the haze, standing ominously just outside the Spearhead Squadron's formation. Their sheer size and imposing forms sent a ripple of unease through both the Processors and the Legion.
No one moved. No one fired.
The metallic beasts resembled the Legion's Löwen at first glance, with their imposing guns, machine gun mounts, and thick frontal armor. But the similarities ended there. Unlike the octopedal walking systems of the Löwen, these giants rolled forward on something thought to be long extinct on the battlefield: caterpillar treads.
Their treads churned slightly, crushing the dirt beneath them as the smoke continued to waft off their armored hulls. The design was alien to the Eighty-Six but radiated a ruggedness and durability that the Legion's machines lacked.
Two of the tanks bore similar camouflage patterns—a dark green base smeared with streaks of brown and black, blending seamlessly to create an illusion of forest concealment. The patterns were faded, worn by time and battle, but still effective.
The third tank, however, was different. Its main color was a brighter shade of green, with wavy black lines painted horizontally across its hull. The pattern gave it a striking yet functional appearance, as though it had been designed specifically to vanish into the shadows of dense woodlands.
Shin squinted through his Juggernaut's optics, his breath steady but his mind racing. "What… the hell are those?" he muttered, though he knew no one had an answer.
The Para-Raid crackled to life. "Undertaker," Kaie—Kirschblüte—spoke, her voice hushed. "Do you see this?"
"I see it," Shin replied tersely, his eyes fixed on the towering machines.
Falke's voice broke in, unusually nervous. "They're not Legion… but they're not ours either. What are we looking at?"
The tanks didn't move. For a moment, the battlefield hung in an uneasy stalemate, the Juggernauts, the Legion, and the newly arrived machines locked in a tense silence.
And then, one of the tanks' engines roared to life, a guttural, primal sound that shattered the tense stillness and sent a shiver through the air.
The Legion, ever predictable, responded as it always did. A Löwe did what it was programmed to do: it opened fire. Its 120mm sabot round screamed through the air, aimed directly at the turret cheek of the tank on the left. The projectile hit with a deafening clang, but instead of penetrating, the round deflected harmlessly, leaving only a shallow scratch in the paint.
The massive tank turned its turret slowly, its movement deliberate and unhurried. It locked onto the Löwe, its sights zeroing in with precision. Then it fired.
The gun's report was thunderous, the sabot shell streaking through the air at speeds exceeding Mach 4. The projectile struck the Löwe's turret dead center, and the result was catastrophic. The turret flew clean off the hull in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, the Löwe crumpling into a heap of twisted metal.
Before the Legion could react, the second heavy tank came to life. Its turret swiveled to another Löwe and fired with equally devastating precision. The shell hit the Löwe square in its side, detonating its internal ammunition. The explosion lit up the battlefield, sending debris and smoke billowing into the sky.
Then the third tank moved.
Smaller in length but taller than the other two, it appeared almost unassuming by comparison. Its turret was more compact, and its main gun was smaller, but what it lacked in raw firepower, it made up for in speed. The tank's autocannon spun to life, targeting a nearby Ameise. Three 35mm rounds ripped through the air in quick succession, each one hitting with pinpoint accuracy. The first round was enough to tear through the drone's armor, but the second and third obliterated it entirely, leaving nothing but scorched remains.
The Legion hesitated, its mechanical hive mind recalibrating in real time. Then it shifted, completely abandoning its assault on the Processors and redirecting all its firepower toward the new threat.
The Löwen opened fire, their 120mm smoothbore cannons blazing, while the Ameisen peppered the tanks with 7.62mm machine gun fire. But the rounds glanced off the armor of the two heavy behemoths, their thick plating shrugging off the attacks as if they were mere pebbles.
Meanwhile, the third tank stayed behind the two heavies, its autocannon systematically picking off Ameisen one by one. Its rate of fire was relentless, each shot surgical, dismantling the Legion's infantry drones with ruthless efficiency.
Then the Grauwölfe entered the fray, their Anti-Tank Guided Missiles streaking toward the tanks. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the missiles might succeed where the sabot rounds and machine guns had failed.
But they never reached their targets.
The tanks' Active Protection Systems (APS) roared to life, their top-mounted units intercepting every missile with brutal efficiency. Some were neutralized mid-air by soft-kill systems, their guidance scrambled and sent careening harmlessly into the ground. Others were obliterated by hard-kill interceptors, small countermeasures detonating the missiles before they could reach their marks.
The Legion's relentless assault had met an immovable object. The battlefield, once dominated by their swarming, unyielding presence, now seemed to shift as the three mysterious tanks pushed back with calculated precision.
Inside their Juggernauts, the Eighty-Six watched in stunned silence. The battlefield, once dominated by chaos and relentless Legion fire, now seemed eerily one-sided.
Each shot that rang out from the two heavy tanks meant another Legion unit reduced to a flaming wreck. The Löwen, Grauwölfe, and Ameisen—machines that had once brought devastation to countless battlefields—fell one after another, their armor crumpling under the sheer power of the newcomers' weaponry.
Shin, ever calm, tracked the scene through his targeting system. The precision of the tanks was unnerving. Every shot found its mark. No hesitation, no wasted movement.
"These things…" Falke's voice crackled over the comms, his disbelief evident. "They're unstoppable."
Kirschblüte spoke next, her tone quieter but no less awestruck. "They're turning the tide. I've never seen anything like this."
As if the newcomers sensed the battle shifting in their favor, their pace quickened. The heavy tanks pushed forward, their treads grinding into the dirt, unbothered by the occasional potshots from retreating Legion units. The smaller tank hung back slightly, continuing its methodical disassembly of the Ameisen with its autocannon, each burst of fire accompanied by the collapse of another Legion drone.
The Legion, known for their relentless aggression, began to falter. Their formations crumbled as units started to retreat, pulling back toward their distant lines. The once-overwhelming tide of machines dissipated, leaving behind smoldering wrecks and scattered debris.
The Eighty-Six watched, their own Juggernauts still as the battlefield fell silent once more. The three tanks stood motionless, their presence dominating the scarred terrain.
"No visible damage," Raiden finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was low, almost reverent. "Not a single scratch on them."
A/N:
What's up Lads and lasses. My very first Eighty-Six fanfiction. I hope you liked the first chapter of this brainfuck of a story lmao.
I've seen something similar on here called "Once more unto the Breach"
So I tried it for myself with my own little back story here. World war three and shit like that. But this is still yet only the Prologue, Character development will follow and alliances are made. People die, others survive. It's going to be epic (Or at least I hope)
See y'all next time!