From what Simon could gather, there was a large welcoming party for Kenneth going on. The sound of Celtic music was filling the streets, in addition to hearty war songs, dancing, and din of laughter and cheer, but the nobleman just sat at a wooden table, staring into his glass mug of scotch emptily.

Fellow soldiers were all around him, recounting old tales from their childhoods and discussing the rather illusive speech that Kenneth had made upon arriving. Simon secretly wished he had someone to share his own anecdotes with, but there was only one person in the whole camp he had been able tolerate, and who knew where he was now? Besides, the adrenaline from hearing his name being announced to everyone by Kenneth Hetzer himself had yet to wear off, and Simon was far from in a drinking mood. Why out of everyone there did it have to be him?! He took a deep breath and leaned back in his wooden seat, eyes shifting to survey his surroundings in order to find something to distract his mind. He spotted the small commander Joseph, who was overlooking the installment of various festive Chinese lanterns upon the sides of tents, which would provide a warm source of illumination to the area. It was apparent that the arrival of Kenneth had taken even him by surprise, despite being forewarned of his coming a month in advance.

Simon was only a short walk away, as the oak table he sat at was situated to the fringe of the gap between tents which made up the ‘street.’ He felt as if he needed to talk to someone about what their visitor had said earlier, and Joseph seemed to be a rather understanding person despite being one of the two people in charge of the place. The nobleman rose to his feet and brushed himself off, walking towards the short, chubby man and nearly bumping into one of the passing soldiers in the process. Joseph looked to be extremely fatigued, with bags under his dark blue colored eyes and scruffy brown hair. Light colored whiskers covered his face, features indicating he was middle aged at the very least. Simon could possibly be proud that he stood slightly taller than him, although it wasn’t much of a feat since Joseph held a much more distinguished position than him.
“Umm… Hello, sir Joseph, I kind of wanted to ask you something.” Simon spoke nervously, hoping that the man wouldn’t be too upset with his intrusion. Joseph briskly turned to face the noble with an expectant look on his square visage.
“Out with it, then.” The voice had a slightly more noticeable German accent to it, in addition to being rather low pitched. The exact opposite of the tone Simon tended to speak in.
“Well, umm.” Simon started warily, “were you actually expecting general Hetzer to arrive tonight, sir?” Joseph held a puzzled expression after hearing the question. “By that I mean, do you know why he wanted to see me?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re part of a rather influential family, Mr. Ziegler.” Joseph began, shifting his body to face Simon. “Kenneth requested I not reveal his true intentions to you, but I will say that the government has been much more focused on making peace with Russia as of late.”
“What are you meaning by that, sir?”

Joseph looked from left to right ever so briefly, as if to insure that nobody would overhear him. He then leaned in, cupping his hand to his mouth.
“There’s something far worse than the Federalists coming, son. And we aren’t going to stand a chance fighting it alone.” The conversation was promptly interrupted by another voice before Simon could question Joseph any further.
“Where do you want me to put this light, sir?!”
“Hold on, I’ll be there shortly!” Joseph replied, turning back briefly and whispering a final sentence to a dumbstruck Simon. “You’d best be off, boy. Kenneth is not a patient man.”
There was a noticeable touch of sympathy in both his eyes and voice as he turned to attend to the decorations. While Simon had certainly been putting off going to see the general, it was more out of a large feeling of apprehension than anything. But what Joseph said about his family being important would make a lot more sense if Kenneth came into contact with literally anyone else in it. Why would Kenneth choose an outcast over one of his much more respectable and favored brothers? Waiting wouldn’t help him find the answers, though, that was for sure.

The mug of scotch Simon had poured himself sat untouched behind the man, who turned and began walking down the street with a renewed confidence in his stride. The paved sand was filled with a vast amount of people, as it seemed no one wanted to be cloistered within a tent during such an occasion. The lights now dotting the tents behind Joseph made finding ones way through the throng a much easier task, however. The road itself was only about seven meters in width, with various structures in neat lines at either side. Most of the tents were large enough to hold at least four cots, and some held arms, ammunition, and rations. Unit leaders got to live in small adobe-like buildings made of clay, which offered more than enough room for a bed and even a dining table. Important guests, however, were given access to the only building in the Garrison that could qualify as a house, and that made finding this guest a much easier task. Simon assumed it also wasn’t a coincidence that most of the unit leader’s quarters were located closer to that guest house, though. There was once a pre-determined route the overseers used to take Imperialist Inspectors on, which made the settlement seem much more civilized and wealthy than it actually was. From what Simon had heard, things were much worse in the past, but with the new leadership these routes were no longer necessary. The nobleman assumed that he was actually walking upon one of them now, judging by how dramatic an improvement it was over his shoddy little residence situated in the south-eastern block of the camp. All he could really think about in his mind were the various different ways the conversation with Kenneth could end up going. It was nothing short of a punishment for his mind.
“Hey, watch it kiddo!” Simon swerved, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pair of men who were carrying a rack of various different tank gun shells towards the armory in the southwestern block. Even if they had fallen they wouldn’t have detonated, but it was always best not to get your toes crushed by a mess of eight pound High Explosive canisters falling from about four feet in the air. This quickly snapped Simon out of his daydreams, and instead his mind began to finally acquire some degree of focus. Before any kind of conversation, he would first need to actually get to Kenneth.

Thankfully, the road ahead was quite familiar and before long Simon had found his way to the northeastern block, just left of the welcoming area that Kenneth had first pulled into. The rows of tents parted in this area to reveal a massive chrome colored hangar with sliding doors, which was used to keep tanks and other heavy ordnance in the case of an attack. It also doubled as a garage for visiting officials that needed to repair, modify, or rearm their vehicles. The structure was easily twenty meters tall, and shaped like half a cylinder had been placed on the ground. It had been constructed out of aluminum and some more sturdy metals that were resistant to rust, as the desert tended to have a very adverse effect on exposed metals. Simon had never actually been inside the place, as he had only been at the camp for about three weeks now, but he was most certainly curious about what lurked within.

This aside, the guest’s house was located just to the west of this hangar, and Simon now knew where to find the general. People were still out in abundance, mainly unit leaders and mechanics in this area, who were drinking from expensive reserves of wine and eating much more lavish foods than the regular soldiers were allowed. Small tables sat at the edges of the road here, filled with all manner of these things, and Simon was a little envious of this. As a noble, wine was much more suited to him than the unrefined scotch, and he couldn’t help but think that he belonged here, amongst these much more wealthy and higher up gentlemen, but it was best not to dwell on it too much. The road snaked a tad to the right after while, taking Simon past the hanger a little ways and at last revealing a large, brick house at the very edge of the camp. Even this wasn’t very well constructed, but the dark grey stone and white, slanted roofing were enough to make it stand out amongst the decrepit shelters nearby. It was also much taller than them, and had a multitude of windows installed into its foundation, which was more of a luxury than anyone could afford here, including the unit leaders.

Simon came to a halt and gazed at the distant building. Was he ready to meet the general? The man looked himself over, gingerly brushing away small amounts of dirt that had been clinging to his uniform and running a hand through his hair, to be reminded once again that it had been cut. A small, golden crest of a flying hawk was pinned to the right side of his overcoat, made to symbolize the Garrison’s duty to spot the first signs of danger. It was made of real gold, and was complimentary to all who served. It felt like a medal on Simon, something he could be a little proud of wearing. On the opposite side of this was a single silver star, which signified his rank as a recruit. He didn’t look like anyone special around here, but perhaps that was a good thing. Simon inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, and exhaled, reopening them. The noble resumed his walk towards the distant building, clearing his mind and feeling far less nervous about the matter. His boots collided with the first of three wooden steps to the front porch, quickly scaling the other two as well, but as soon as he reached the top he was met with the stern face of a soldier in full, dark green, uniform who was also holding a very nasty looking rifle in his rough hands. Clearly the guard wasn’t too happy about being left out of the party.
“The hell are you doing here?” He spat, venomous look in his eyes. A grey helmet cast a shadow upon his face, only making the rather tall man appear even more intimidating. Simon looked him directly in the eyes as he replied, however.
“My name is Simon Ziegler, and I’m here to see Kenneth.” The nobleman’s voice was firm and determined despite how unnerved he really was. The guard paused for a moment, looking Simon over from head to toe judgmentally.
“Rank?”
“Errm… Private.” The guard laughed a little, removing his right hand from the stock of the rifle and pointing it towards the star on Simon’s uniform.
“That’s what I thought. Get out of here, kid, I’m too busy being envious of those lucky bastards down there.” The gruff man stared past Simon at the people eating and drinking in the nearby street. Simon could understand where he was coming from. Even he was able to partake in the celebrations tonight, but this poor fellow wasn’t .
“Just ask Kenneth, he said he wanted to see me.” The guard grumbled a little at the response, and opened the stark white door. Apprehension quickly returned to Simon’s mind as he awaited a response. He even flirted with the idea of there being someone in the camp with his same name or something. The noble just tapped his boot on the ground rhythmically, looking around at the aging, but quite well designed porch. A pair of thatch chairs sat to the east flank, facing the little wall that looked down upon the road, table sitting between them, more than likely intended to set drinks on during meetings. Some of the paint had peeled off of the mildly splintered wood as well, giving the house a distinct sense of age. Indeed, the building had been here since the 1950s, and the desert was far from a forgiving landscape. It gave Simon a sense of wonderment to think of how many important Imperialist men had once been here. Even Hitler himself was here at one point, but the government sought to distance themselves from the cruel tyrant as much as possible. It was assumed that the old Nazi party had conspired against the man, and were the ones who assassinated him in the 60s. History always had a way of taking Simon’s mind away, and on occasion he was thankful for that.

The door opened with a noticeable creek, and the guard from before emerged, taking up his position once again and motioning towards the interior.
“My mistake.” Simon nodded briefly, and stepped inside. The guard promptly closed the door behind him, and just like that he was standing in the same house as Kenneth Hetzer. Directly before him was a small staircase that led to the second level, which was invisible from where Simon currently stood. A mahogany colored carpet lined each step, and turned into a thin, creamy color on the actual floor. Simon took a step forward, and was rewarded with a slight squeaking noise from below, only further cementing the immense age of the place. The walls had thankfully been refurbished so that the paint wasn’t peeling off or anything of the sort, and were a natural sort of dark green, with thin ivory shaded highlights on each corner, bottom and edge. Made of wood, and most likely Birch. The room closest to Simon was on the right side a few feet forward. The noble looked in, only finding a hallway with a shiny hardwood floor. A little ways up from this was a room on the opposite side, which Simon also gazed into, hoping to find his destination. A crystalline chandelier was the first thing his eyes caught, hanging above what could be described as a ‘lavish’ brown dining table and casting a bright yellow glow about the whole room. The carpet had not changed, but polished cases full of all manner of porcelain and other valuable looking items stood about on the skirts. Simon was a little surprised that this room was so small, but he quickly stopped thinking about that when his eyes settled upon the rear of a tall, distinguished figure who was pouring wine from an expensive bottle into a glass goblet. The entire area was dead silent, save the steady ticking of a nearby grandfather clock and the thin sound of the drink being poured. Simon nearly called out in surprise when a deep, firm and aged voice filled the room.
“Have a seat.” It spoke, originating from the man who was standing before Simon, who hesitantly walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. Kenneth had still not actually revealed his face to Simon yet, and the suspense was just about killing him as he placed his body upon the surprisingly comfortable chair and folded his arms on the face of the table. There was only silence for a moment, until the thin trickle of the wine finally died out, and Kenneth took the cup, gingerly setting it near a very nervous looking Simon, before taking another and starting to repeat the process. “How has your day been, Mr. Ziegler?” He asked politely.
“Oh, umm… Good, sir.” Came the reply.
“Very well. Mine has been quite the opposite, I’m afraid.”
“W-Why might that be, sir?” Kenneth shrugged, gray trenchcoat flowing almost gracefully with his form as once more he finished pouring the wine. This time the general set the bottle down and took a seat opposite Simon, at last revealing his features to the young soldier. The man’s hair had begun to gray a considerable amount, leaving his head a little bald in some parts. In addition to this, some of it was beginning to shift to a pale color that just about matched his tanned skin. Kenneth’s eyes caught Simon a little off guard, however, as they looked like those a twenty two year old would possess, with sharp blue pupils and seemingly youthful highlights. The rest of the face looked firm, but tired. That was all Simon could think of when looking it over.
“My Panther’s AC unit went out halfway through the trip. The inside of a tank gets pretty hot, as you may imagine.”
“Yes, sir.” An awkward silence overtook the two, and Kenneth began staring at Simon as if he had just punched himself in the face.
“Stop… Calling me ‘sir’, It’s… It’s getting rather annoying.” Simon nodded obediently, awaiting what the general would say next. “Anyways, Mr. Ziegler, let me introduce myself.” An excitement began running through Simon as his apprehension began to give way to the fact he was speaking with nothing short of a celebrity. Ever since he joined the military he had dreamed of fighting alongside the greatest heroes of the Imperialist army, and now he was speaking with one! But now wasn’t the time to be too excited. Not yet. “My name is general Kenneth Frederick Hetzer of the Imperialist Guard Brigade.” He announced with a sense of pride in his voice, as if he had spoken this many times and to many different people.
“I assume you already know mine, then. It’s Simon Anderson Ziegler.” Simon said with more confidence in his voice. Kenneth nodded slightly and continued.
“You may be wondering why I called out your name in front of so many people.” He began, insinuating that Simon did indeed care about this. “I apologize for having to do so, but I dislike having to seek people out on my own. Call me slothful, but it is my nature.”
Simon gave Kenneth a look that indicated it was indeed fine, and the general picked up on this. “As you may already know, your family is one of the more influential in all of the Fatherland. And while your brothers are both admirable men from what I’ve heard, they are not suited for the task I have in mind.”

Simon had been taking a small sip of the wine before him, which tasted both bitter and extremely sour at the same time. Despite this, it had an oddly appealing feel to it. The young soldier set the drink down in order to give a reply, though, hoping that if he got himself drunk just enough, he wouldn’t have a panic attack.
“What task do you mean, si-I mean, Kenneth?” Simon wanted to slap himself after this.
“I am getting old, Simon. Of course, I will continue to serve my empire until my body can no longer stand, but it’s getting to be a much more difficult job.” There was a strange feel in the tone Kenneth took. As if speaking this had wounded him inside. “Everyone looks up to your family name and respects it. And while your mother is rather old, and your brothers working the business, we have you, Simon. The underdog. People would look up to you like a sort of hero.” The nobleman most certainly liked the sound of this, and gave Kenneth a little smirk.
“A hero?”
“Yes. You may think me a boastful person, but I was Germany’s hero for a time. I fought battle after battle, won battle after battle, fought injustice, stopped feuds, was fair to my enemies, and never backed down when there was a possibility of victory. But even heroes get old. Even heroes can die. I’m no longer fit to be a hero anymore, Simon. And I find you the best candidate to take my place.”
“But we’re winning against the Federalists, aren’t we? Why would the Imperialists need a hero now?” Simon began, confusion on his face. Kenneth sighed and drank some of his wine.
“I may have defeated the Federalists, but do you know the reason why the Suez Garrison was constructed, Simon?” The young soldier nodded.
“To protect this important strategic point from Federalist attack.” Kenneth leaned into the table a little, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
“This is the best possible point to invade Europe from. The amount of oil and gasoline in these deserts makes this the perfect staging ground for an armored offensive, and ever since 1945 the government has been worried.” His tone had taken on a much more dire pitch, indicating the importance of what he was speaking.
“You don’t mean…” Kenneth nodded grimly.
“America has been silent for over five decades now. Imperialist U-Boats have been detecting unknown ships amassing towards the south of Africa, and high command fears the worst. Can you imagine the panic that will spread once word gets out that the First World is being invaded? Our military needs strong and capable leaders if we are to survive this.” Simon’s face became completely pale upon hearing this news, realizing that if America were to invade, they would most certainly start at the Suez Garrison.
“With all due respect, Kenneth, the only gun I’ve ever fired in my life was a hunting rifle, and the training one. I’m not a soldier.” There was a firmness in Kenneth’s eyes that led the noble to believe he was not to be dissuaded.
“No. But you will be a tanker.” Simon was about to reply, when a woman in the camouflage uniform of a scout appeared in the entrance to the room. Kenneth looked towards her as well. “I trust you have a status report for me.” She nodded.
“High Command says the fleet is moving on our position. They estimate three days until landing.”
“What?!” Simon exclaimed, fear only growing upon hearing this news. Kenneth promptly stood up from the table and motioned for the nobleman to do the same.

“How many will there be?”
“We expect at least 50,000 vehicles to arrive on the first landing, followed by about 40,000 more. Command is sending reinforcements as we speak, but we can’t hold against this kind of an assault.”
“I suppose that goes without saying.” Kenneth muttered, ensuring Simon had also readied himself, before walking towards the doorway with him.
“Ninety… Thousand?” Simon whispered in disbelief, stopping at the side of Kenneth near the door frame.
“Is the Imperial Guard coming? These men are untrained and will need leadership.” The woman nodded and began walking into the entrance hallway and towards the other hall on the right side.
“For now, we will only have to deal with the 50,000. The rest have invaded Japan, and we assume they will be attacking Russia from there.” Simon’s boots made a tapping sound as they made contact with the hardwood flooring of the hall. It felt noticeably colder in here, and the path seemed to shift left up ahead, like a tunnel.
“Pardon my asking, but what exactly am I doing here?” He asked, trying as best he could not to sound rude by speaking this. His voice echoed a little throughout the hall.
“I already have explained what you will be doing, Mr. Ziegler. When the invasion comes, this Garrison will be ready for it. And you are a member of this Garrison.” As the three took a left turn, they would find a metal door at the end of the hallway before them. It looked very sturdy, and a panel of numbers was mounted upon it near the handle. The scout briefly punched a combination in, and a ‘click’ resounded through the area. She proceeded to open the door, and Simon peeked around his two new ‘companions’ to find a stairwell leading downwards into what looked like a dark abyss.
“There’s an entire hallway just for a secret passage?” He asked with a raised brow as they began to descend it.
“It’s not exactly secret, now is it?” The scout replied sarcastically, shutting the door behind them. Pale translucent lights upon the ceiling flickered to life, casting a ghostly green aura about the seemingly ancient wooden stairs.
“W-Well, why do we have to use a secret passage anyways?” Simon started nervously. “The invasion isn’t for another three days, right?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time to idly chat with all of the soldiers waiting outside, Mr. Ziegler.” Kenneth answered. Simon was happy he wasn’t claustrophobic, as the walls and ceiling felt extremely cramped and close together. It didn’t help that the stairs felt as if they would give way with every step either. As Simon neared the bottom, things only became more and more unsettling, as a very long tunnel was ahead of him bathed in the same light as was present on the stairs. These lights were surrounded by small metal cages and flickered on and off, like they had not been in use for years. The noble nearly jumped when the voice of Kenneth cut through the silence.
“This tunnel was constructed in 1962. It was to be used as an escape route for VIPs in the event of an emergency.” His voice rang up and down the entire place, only amplified by the design of the tunnel. Simon shuddered a little as they made it to the end, and turned right to reveal yet another portion of the tunnel. After yet another right turn at yet another segment of the walkway, a massive final portion stood before them, which led to another staircase at the very end.
“So wouldn’t this lead to the hangar?” Asked Simon, as the three neared the conclusion of the passage.
“Yes.” Came the frustratingly brief reply from Kenneth. Simon sighed as they began to ascend the stairs, which seemed much more sturdy, oddly enough. The scout opened the door via a small metal handle, and the sudden change in lighting forced Simon to squint a little in discomfort as he emerged. This was especially strange, because he hadn’t been in that tunnel for any more than five minutes.

But the sight that would await the noble was most certainly worth the trip to get there.

The sound of roaring engines immediately filled Simon’s ears as he walked through the doorway. His feet had taken root upon a metal floor with small grooves incorporated into the design to prevent slipping and falling.

Noises seemed to ricochet around the entire building, with every metallic ‘clang’ and voice making itself known from even the opposite end of the place. Simon stepped over towards a guardrail that overlooked a huge, tiled floor below filled with all manner of different tanks, even some Federalist ones as well. Spare materials like the huge engines were lying around in different parts of the hangar, along with other such parts and guns. It most certainly looked to be a very expansive workshop for tanks and other armored vehicles. The walkway the three stood on was elevated into the air about fifteen feet up, and if one were to walk left they would find a staircase leading to the hangar’s ground, and to the right, an outpost-like position with windows overlooking the whole place, and yet another walkway leading out the other end and to the floor as well. If this was how the hangar was designed, a large portion of it had to have been made underground for whatever reason.

Very large panels of lights were hanging from the top of the cylindrical-shaped ceiling, and easily illuminated the entire place. Simon sniffed a bit, and the scent of oil and gasoline immediately assailed his nostrils. It wasn’t overpowering, but still very noticeable.
“I suppose I have three days to teach you how to command a tank.” Kenneth spoke nonchalantly, placing his hands upon the guardrail and leaning into it a bit. The veteran’s eyes looked the facility over as if it was a long forgotten pet.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you try and get here earlier?” Simon asked, training his eyes on Kenneth expectantly.
“You’re not the chosen one, Simon. I’ve been hard at work training the Empire’s best and brightest from all across Europe. You just so happen to be the last one I’ve planned on working with.” Simon looked back at the garage before him without a reply. 50,000 vehicles were about to land at the Suez Garrison for the first time in almost a century. For all he knew it could mean the end of the world as he knew it.
“Do you think we can win?”
“No,” Kenneth answered, shaking his head. “Not alone.” There was a brief, and almost chilling silence before someone spoke up.
“Mind if I show Simon around, Kenneth?” The scout girl asked. Kenneth leaned back from the rail and took a deep breath.
“Show him his tank and quarters. I have a speech to write for tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you get to that sooner?”
“Too lazy.” The general answered, walking back towards the tunnel entrance, each step making a pitter patter on the walkway.

Simon looked at the engineers below curiously, observing one of them adjusting the gun of a Panzer lV with a wrench, while another was hoisting an engine into the gaping compartment of a Tiger 1 using some kind of a pulley system. Everyone seemed to be working frantically on getting an armored division ready for rather understandable reasons. Seeing the little intricacies only visible by the higher ups was fascinating to the nobleman in no small way.
“So you’re Simon Ziegler, right?” The almost bored tone of the scout spoke out from behind him.
“I am.” The man replied, turning around to face her and perhaps pay attention to her features, which immediately appeared rather… Firm, for a woman. She was just about as tall as him, with light colored chestnut skin, and brown freckles on her face. Her uniform was camouflaged to blend in with the desert, with a loose fitting design and a multitude of pockets incorporated into it. The colors alternated between an extremely bland yellow and a greyish cream color palette, and Simon could immediately imagine how it would blend into the dunes be it night or day, along with similar colored boots. Her hair had not been cut near as much as was demanded by regulation, and it had been done in a flat sort of way with no braiding to speak of, and was also a dark brown shade that hung down to her neck area. From what the nobleman could tell, she was about twenty one, and thinly built. A good body design for a scout. “So what might your name be?” Simon asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
“My codename is Lodestar. Now follow me, it appears I will need to get you acquainted with the place.” She replied abruptly, beginning to walk towards the stairs on the left and motioning for Simon to follow. The young man sighed and began to trail behind her, looking over the surroundings and trying to spot anything of interest. To his right, sparks began to fly from a blowtorch in the distance, which made a drill-like screeching sound as it started welding something to the frontal part of the strange tank from earlier. Simon had never seen the model before, which was a little strange since he had studied them all extensively during his childhood. The sound was loud, and yet didn’t bother Simon much when combined with the cacophony of other mechanical noises. To think just a few short hours ago he had been carrying out guard duty, and now he was here.

As the two set foot upon the white and black tiles that comprised the floor, a hunched over man in an orange jumpsuit approached Lodestar. Goggles were over his eyes, and his figure was strangely thin.
“The-The ‘modification’ has been made. It took almost a month to m-m-modify the turret and c-c-create the weapon itself, but now it even o-o-outdoes the 88 millimeter cannon, ma'am.”
Simon raised an eyebrow at the odd man. He didn’t appear to be stuttering because of some kind of problem, but instead because he was giddy with excitement. The voice itself sounded almost like how Simon imagined a snake would talk. “C-C-Can we kill something with it, p-p-please?” That last sentence didn’t exactly feel warm and inviting to Simon at all.
“Three days, Rat. Three days.” Lodestar replied, not seeming to share the engineer’s enthusiasm. Rat presented a wide smile, teeth out of order and some substituted for gold and metal ones that appeared dirty and unclean. It looked almost frightening in a way.
“E-E-Excellent, Ma’am! Anyways, the engine has also been i-i-improved. Should be able to k-k-keep up with some mediums now.” Lodestar nodded and returned her attention to Simon.
“This is Rat, our engineer. He is an exceptionally skilled mechanic, and always can be relied upon.” The man put up a meaty hand to say hello, and chuckled a little as he did so. Simon nervously raised his own with a forced grin.
“P-P-Pleasure to meet you, sir! I eagerly look forward to optimizing your m-m-machine for k-k-killing things! Heheheh.” The nobleman’s face contorted into one of sudden uncertainty, as he dropped his hand back down to his side.
“Don’t worry, Rat wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Lodestar attempted to explain.
“I’d k-k-kill the fly, not hurt it!” The scout gave Rat a look that screamed ‘shut up’, and the man snickered a little in amusement.
“Alright, let’s show you the rest of the hangar then.” Simon was all too willing to comply, and joined with Lodestar as she began walking towards the center of the room, briefly glancing back to see Rat waving each of his grubby fingers to say goodbye. The noble couldn’t help but think they let some real eccentrics into the Imperial military, especially considering that Rat was the first person he met here besides Kenneth and Lodestar. “Don’t mind him too much. He enjoys making people feel uncomfortable.” The scout added.
“Yes, I can see that.” Replied Simon.
“Now this is just going to be a brief tour. We don’t expect you to be commanding a tank on day one, but Kenneth wants you to be able to get yourself out of here when the… Invasion occurs.”
“Okay, so not day one. Just day two or three.” The noble’s tone was rather sarcastic as he spoke this, and Lodestar scoffed a little as they walked past a man with a blowtorch who was melding two metal plates together on a worktable, which was being showered in white sparks. From what Simon saw, they looked to be fragments of a Panzer lVs sideskirts. Possibly damaged in battle from the sideways impact of a shell that had cut through them. It most certainly looked as if the Garrison was a little slow on the uptake when it came to the impending invasion. It was likely that no one even knew what was coming before Kenneth arrived to tell the leaders in person.

At ground level the various hulls of the different vehicles looked much more menacing and huge up close. The bare hull of a Tiger 1 without its turret sat to Simon and Lodestar's left flank, a crane stood over it, unmoving, presumably there to hoist another turret onto the hull later.
“What’s that one called?” Asked Simon, curiously pointing towards the mysterious tank that had arrived with Kenneth.
“That is the RU-251 Spähpanzer. It’s a prototype model designed for long range engagements and recon.” Answered Lodestar. There was an edge to her voice that seemed as if she had recited this line on multiple occasions in the past.
“Prototype? So there’s only one?”
“Correct. One of the main reasons we took it along was for combat testing against the invasion force to determine if it’s suited for mass production.”
“I find it odd,” began Simon, “that the government seems to have known about this attack for some time, and hasn’t reinforced the Garrison. All we have are three naval guns and a bunch of moronic soldier wannabes.”
“The government is dealing with the Federalists now. No one wants to admit it, but we’re facing an attack from two angles, and ending the war with Russia is crucial to the survival of the Empire.” Simon thought about his two brothers, who both worked with the Imperialist government. Both Thomas and Martin had recently left for Berlin just before he was sent off to the Garrison. Did his family already know about the invasion? Was that the reason he had been stationed here? To die? The noble scowled at the thought of it, and kept pace with Lodestar.
“Have you ever been in Berlin?” Simon asked her.
“Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly, “met your brothers there too. Thomas was a polite young, fellow and-” She suddenly stopped speaking after this, leading Simon to be a little perplexed at the situation.
“... And?”
“Well, I can’t seem to remember what Martin was like. It’s odd, really, I just am having a hard time recalling.”

At last the two approached the hulking figure of a Tiger 2 heavy tank, which sported a massive gun that much have stretched almost as long as the tank’s hull. The turret was unlike any Simon had seen on a Tiger 2 before, and looked more boxy than the usual curved one. Being so close to one of the infamous beasts of steel took Simon’s breath away as he observed the monstrous tank with wide eyes. Every last bit of it looked to serve a purpose. From the machinegun port poking out of the huge, sloping, frontal plate, to the headlights that were mounted near the suspension to provide illumination at night. The vehicle was a shiny grey, and every last bit of it looked brand new, the white glint of the lights above reflecting off of the upper glacis plate with ease. Simon could even see a distorted reflection when he walked a little closer towards it.
“That’s a 105mm main cannon,” Lodestar mused, obviously impressed with it, “should be enough to get through the front of a Pershing when the time comes.”
“A Pershing?”
“One of the stronger tanks our spies have reported back about. From what we’ve heard they will be lethal in this kind of environment, and we needed a countermeasure capable of penetrating its front armor. Rat worked out a design, and here it is.”
From what Simon understood, modifying the very structure of an existing tank was a feat that required extreme skill and precision, and the noble couldn’t help but be a little impressed at Rat himself, despite still thinking him a rather unnatural individual to say the very least.
“Tell me this will be my tank.”
“This will be your tank.”
Simon lit up in enthusiasm and faced Lodestar in anticipation.
“Really?!”
“No.”
“Dammit.”
The soldier muttered, happiness giving way to disappointment at the tease.
“This will be Kenneth’s vehicle. We aren’t about to trust the strongest tank in the Garrison to someone who’s never been in one before.”
“So… What tank will I be in, then?”
Lodestar immediately motioned to the RU-251, a slight grin on her face. Simon shifted a little, looking the odd little machine over again, this time much more critically.
“That thing looks like it could be destroyed by a large stone.”
He muttered unhappily.
“Well, you’re not far off,” Lodestar stated blandly, “the back could probably be penetrated by rounds from a high caliber machinegun.”
Simon’s face grew a little pale after hearing this news. He would be fighting off the biggest invasion in history in… This?! A prototype model with undocumented effectiveness and paper thin armor?! And this was saying nothing about what his crew would be like, and if they were anything like the kind of morons present in this camp, he was as good as dead.
“Think of it as a training tank. The first rule of good strategy is patience and keeping a cool head. You will be playing a reconnaissance role on the battlefield, and hitting the sides of the enemy when such force is needed, so don’t expect to be placed on any vanguards.”
“So what, does it have dummy rounds or something?”
Simon asked, still not satisfied.
“That thing has a 90mm main gun. It will be anything but helpless when engaging enemy vehicles.”
The noble sighed, and began making his way towards where the vehicle rested. His boots felt almost alien on the smooth tiles below them, the air only becoming more and more filled with the reek of exhaust and motor components. The young man stooped over upon reaching the suspension of the tank, and ran his hands over the rugged treads. They felt cold, rough, and there was no doubt in Simon’s mind they were capable of gaining traction on the desert sands with ease. That must be the plus side of having no armor; this tank was most certainly a speed demon.

“Sixty four miles an hour on flat ground.”
Spoke Lodestar, confirming Simon’s theory. The man stood back up, looking at the small stains of motor oil now covering his palm in disgust, serving as a reminder that this would not be a very clean job either. He would be killing people, even if he couldn’t see them face to face. “So what will the name be?” The woman behind him asked, arms crossed before her. That was right, though, as all the esteemed tank commanders named their vehicles something. Much like how old swords were given names by those that wielded them in times of old. Oddly enough, a name immediately popped into Simon’s head.
“Hermes.”
He answered plainly, turning to face Lodestar with a confident look in his eyes. She grinned a little at this.
“You and Kenneth both seem to have a thing for the Greek gods.”
“Huh?”
Simon raised an eyebrow, awaiting an explanation.
“He named that Tiger back there ‘Ares’.”
To be honest, it was a fitting name for such a powerful vehicle. The god of war and bloodshed. It made Simon a little curious as to the name of the Panther he had arrived in. Probably ‘Hades’ now, because the AC unit broke during his trip. “You’ll get more acquainted with Hermes tomorrow, then. Allow me to show you the way to your quarters.”
The thought of sleep was most certainly a comforting one now, after all that had transpired tonight. The nobleman followed behind Lodestar without a word as she began walking back towards the staircase. The faces of the mechanics looked to be equal parts, tired and frightened. They knew the truth, and that ugly truth was what was spurring them on to work so hard, no doubt.

The two walked past Rat again, who was holding a clipboard in his right hand, goggled eyes staring down at it judgmentally, a look of uncertainty on his face that looked almost foreign for a man like him to wear.
“Lodestar.”
He spoke as she and Simon were about to pass by him. The scout stopped in her tracks and faced Rat with a look of sudden urgency in her eyes.
“What is it, Rat?”
“Our supply of gasoline…”
The woman snatched the clipboard from his grasp and scanned the paper as well. Gone was that enthusiastic stutter Rat had been using previously, instead replaced by a far more serious one. Simon, a little confused, peeked over to look the board over as well, seeing a plethora of numbers that he couldn’t hope to find the meaning of.
“Is something the matter?”
He asked, not really sounding too concerned with the matter. There was a brief pause before Lodestar answered his question.
“We have barely enough fuel to operate five tanks now.”
“What?! How is that even possible?!”
Simon exclaimed, baffled.
“The government has been sending all the gasoline here to fuel the war effort in the north. We never stockpiled much of it here, and the supply ship they sent to give us what we needed has been sunk, along with five battleships.”
This thought made Simon worry even more. Obviously, the American Empire also had a firm control over the sea, making supplies all the harder to obtain. And without enough gasoline to fuel the Garrison’s tanks, they would be obliterated for certain.
“That’s idiotic! Why wouldn’t they at least send some fuel our way?!”
Simon continued, panicking a little at the news. Lodestar seemed to be almost as worried, but kept a cool head and took a deep breath.
“They did. Just not enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“You do realize that running this garrison requires lots of gas, right? It’s just been using as much as it’s been given.”

In the meantime, Rat was carefully studying the paper before him with a thoughtful look on his unkempt face. One of his gloved hands was rubbing his chin as he did so. After a while, the engineer smiled his maniacal little smile and spoke up.
“I-I-I have a solution!”
Both Lodestar and Simon turned to face him expectantly, looks both saying ‘go on’.
“Th-Th-There were a few s-s-shipments of gas that were s-s-stolen by bandits on their way here a f-f-few months back. We c-c-could send a small group to r-r-recover them!”
He spoke, enthusiasm having returned to his voice once more.
“That’s… That’s a very good idea, actually.”
Lodestar spoke with a nod, before turning to Simon. “Something tells me that Kenneth will want you on that mission. These guys are a bunch of underarmed criminals and nothing more.”
“So can you confirm they won’t have anything pertaining to ‘anti-tank’?”
“No, but it’s unlikely they will have anything other than a couple rocket launchers at the most. Good idea, Rat, I’ll talk your idea over with Kenneth and the Garrison Commanders.”
The engineer motioned as if he was tipping his hat, before returning his attention back to the clipboard, which he gently removed from Lodestar’s hands. “Now for your quarters…”
Simon followed the woman back up the metal staircase, becoming a little worried about how much he had to exert himself in doing so.

As the noble maneuvered over the metal walkway his eyes would quickly rest once more upon the small overwatching room on its other side. A polished wooden door was opened by Lodestar to reveal a dark interior which Simon couldn’t really make out from where he stood, the features of the control room only became apparent after he was actually standing inside it. And to say the very least, it looked quite old. Thick glass monitors were stacked upon each other in the rear, some displaying the technology of radar, as a thin green line perpetually spun around a circle to reveal nothing. The light shining through the glass windows and from these monitors was the only thing that illuminated the interior at all, save the extremely dim, incandescent light mounted overhead upon a flat, steel ceiling. It was a cramped room as well, with three black swivel chairs mounted to the floor near the monitors, and a single one just beside the windows. Clearly this was once used as a sort of command center at one point, and the fact it was still operational even now only served to perplex Simon further. Another door sat towards the east, and Lodestar hadn’t paused for even a second before opening it and stepping through. Simon, caught a little off guard, quickly jumped to exit the place, to find himself stepping upon yet another metal walkway, this time leading down the whole width of the garage with a series of small descending flights of stairs.
“I can’t help but notice this place is a little,” Simon paused briefly, eyes looking over the workers and machinery below, “...Weird.” He had to speak up a little in order to be heard through the noise rising up from underneath.
“And what might you mean by that?”
Lodestar questioned, not changing her pace for even a moment.
“I meant to ask when this hangar was constructed.”
“Sometime in the 60s. Some of the technology is pretty old, but it was created by order of Hitler himself.”
That didn’t satisfy Simon at all. Well, it did, but not in the way he wanted it to. From his limited understanding of the old dictator, he was psychopathic murderer, and Simon was effectively living in his house now. The two reached a metal door with a small, glass window on the upper left of it. This door had been mounted into the side of the hangar, and there looked to be no way to reach it without the walkway. The doorknob appeared loose as Lodestar turned it, and the fixture gave way to bring a completely stark hallway.
“What the-”
Mused Simon, as he stepped onto one of the pure white tiles ahead. The hallway was just as cramped as the one he had originally entered the hangar from, except every last part of it was a completely pale color. There were no visible lights, instead the illumination was seemingly provided by the very walls themselves. “What is this?”
“This entire place is one of many underground bunkers across the world.”
Explained Lodestar as they walked through the eerily silent corridor, that stretched on for what looked like a hundred feet. “Hitler originally constructed them in case his initial armies fell. They essentially are self sustaining bunkers capable of supporting human life for incredible amounts of time, and have enough space to contain entire armored battalions.”
Her voice had no echo to it whatsoever here, instead sounding oddly sharp and clear.
“What was his intention for them?”
“Wait until the enemy was unaware, and coordinate with the other nearby bunkers. Then deploy all the forces at once in the most massive blitzkrieg ever conducted. Most of them are entirely underground, but the Suez bunker is a special one.”
“Hmm?”
Simon grunted, suddenly curious.
“In the case of invasion, a gigantic stockpile of explosives was placed underneath. So much that everyone within a half mile would be obliterated in the blast.”
How much was being kept from Simon anyways?! First there was a massive invasion on the horizon, and now there was a sodding time bomb underneath the place! The nobleman, almost used to these revelations at this point, simply groaned and shook his head as they came to the end of the passage. “For the most part they are inactive, though. Only with the approval of the two Garrison Commanders can the charges be detonated now.”
“Remind me not to piss off Kellinger, then.”
Muttered Simon, waiting for Lodestar to lead him to wherever the hell they were going. The hall ahead split into two directions, and a small plaque was mounted at the end of the one they had just entered from.

‘Crew quarters, right. Command center, left [Officers ONLY].’

This was written in an official looking font, and in black. Two arrows pointed in either direction, and before Simon could think about what the command center was, Lodestar immediately began walking towards the crew quarters, forcing him to lag behind a little.
“So what was living in Germany like?”
She asked, not really seeming to care about the question.
“Oh, very… Nice. Lots of… Grass.”
Simon answered in a purposefully awkward way.
“I kind of meant the lifestyle, actually.”
Lodestar replied in a tone that showed slight annoyance at the answer Simon had given her. The young man took a deep breath, eyes drifting to observe his boots as they made contact with the ground below.
“My father liked to take me fishing alot,” the youth began, voice lacking its usual snarky edge all of a sudden, “he could always afford to spend time with me because of how wealthy our family is. I can hardly remember a day when I didn’t see some sort of tank driving down the gravel road, though, always headed east. We usually just drove out to this one spot in the middle of the forest which seemed to have kidnapped all the fish for miles within it. I always remembered catching something when we went there, be it big or small.”
Simon paused for a moment, eyes becoming glazed over at recounting the memories he thought he put behind him. Lodestar shifted a little as she walked, her usually firm and expressionless face loosening a bit. “Then I grew up. Turned nineteen. I’d been away from my dad for some time, and I asked if he wanted to head over to the fishing hole like old times. This was during the big Federalist offensive a couple years back, mind you, and since we lived towards the far east of Germany they were closer to the fatherland than I had originally thought. When we arrived at the fishing hole, I think we both were equal parts horrified and surprised to see the huge figure of a T-34 sitting just offshore.”
Lodestar came to a halt beside a door that was mounted in the wall itself, but refrained from pulling the handle, instead turning around and waiting for Simon to finish his story. “There was this guy in full uniform outside who was filling his canteen in the pond. He was grumbling a little as he did so, perhaps he had been given the duty to fetch water for the rest of the crew. My father and I both thought the same thing, and started backing off, but before we could get away the hatch of the tank opened and this guy shouting things in Russian crawled out, rifle in hand. The man with the canteen spun around, unsure of what was going on. The rather intimidating man who came from the tank started yelling again, this time at him, and occasionally gesturing in our direction with the rifle. Both me and dad were glued to the spot, unsure of what to do. I started getting suspicions when the rifle was thrust into the hands of the man with the canteen violently, and the one who did so was pointing at us, all the while keeping up his shouting. Beginning to understand what was going on, I raised my hands in the air and dropped my fishing rod, and dad did the same. The two soldiers seemed to ignore the gesture, and before I knew it the canteen guy was hesitantly pointing the gun at us.”

At this point, Simon’s entire demeanor had changed whilst he was speaking this. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his body as he continued.
“You don’t have to continue if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Lodestar advised. Simon just shook his head and resumed once more.
“Nyet means ‘no’ in Russian. That much I knew. The poor bastard now holding the rifle kept shaking his head and shouting those words over and over. Then I assume the commander threatened him with something, and he slowly took aim at the person he’d feel the least guilty of killing, and fired. I screamed as my dad staggered back a little, a bullet hole near his abdomen, which was already bleeding profusely. My attention was more on him than the fact the commander was now signaling for his lackey to shoot me next. Then the turret of the T-34 started to turn, sound being masked by his incessant yelling. Just as the bastard took out a knife and lunged at the canteen guy, the turret MG opened up and tore him to pieces. Like literally tore him apart, until all that was left was a pulverised slab of meat and clothing lying on the ground in a pool of crimson. The canteen guy looked just as horrified as me, and was soaked in blood. I saw him start climbing back into the tank out of the corner of my eye, and I guess I didn’t hear the thing leaving while I was frantically trying to close dad’s wound. That's saying something, considering how loud they are."
Simon sighed, looking back up to Lodestar with a changed face. A face of acceptance. Of finality. “I got him back to our estate. I was sent to the Garrison before I was told whether he survived or not.”
“I thought you are twenty years old. Why did you agree to come here at all?”
Lodestar raised an eyebrow slightly to be met with a shrug from Simon.
“It was a punishment. One I am bound by my families’ honor to serve. The benefits of being here are helpful to my stepmother, so it was the most suitable one, I guess.”
The noble walked closer to the doorframe. “Now about my room…”
Lodestar nodded and opened the door for him, a look of sympathy on her face. As Simon walked in, she asked a final question.
“How do you feel about this?”
“Hmm?”
Simon turned to face her expectantly.
“How do you feel about being made to be… A hero?”
Lodestar clarified.
“I swore an oath to the Imperialist military code to obey my superiors without question. My family honors its vows, and Kenneth is my superior. So I will obey him.”
“I didn’t ask you why.”
Lodestar looked more concerned than anything now, noticing Simon’s apprehension to answering the question. The nobleman sighed and gazed into her eyes with tired ones of his own.
“How do I feel? Overwhelmed would be a good term. Perhaps you could add ‘frightened’ too, but I am a Ziegler and proud to be one. I will not falter. I will not fear.”
With that, the man shut the door behind him, leaving Lodestar to walk back down the hall, with more questions than answers to ponder.

Simon’s form was pressed against the backside of the door. His legs were crumpled before him, and eyes closed tight as he tried to hold back tears.

“He is weak.”
A harsh and deep male voice resounded through his head, as the noble remembered the fateful night just a few weeks ago.
“And he shall grow strong.”
An extremely aged voice of a woman replied, sounding raspy. Gravelly.
“He is afraid.”
“And he shall have courage.”
“He is blinded.”
“And he shall see.”

Simon pressed the palm of his hand against his face. What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

“He has fallen.”
“And so he shall rise.”

It had been almost three hours before Simon was able to fall asleep.

The room he had been given was not large enough to be the size of an apartment, but not small enough to be the size of a single room cubicle. Thankfully, the walls were a standard dull yellow, as opposed the the jarring pale ones outside, and they were of the sort one could expect to see in a hotel.

The floor was a fuzzy, light brown carpet that felt comfortable to walk on barefoot. A countertop with an oven lined the northwestern part of the main room, in addition to a round wooden table and four chairs arranged neatly around it, vase of flowers sitting at the top. Simon had quickly picked up that these flowers looked just about new, further adding to his theory that him being ‘recruited’ had been pre-meditated for quite some time now. A square-shaped arch was installed in the east, leading to a rather small bedroom with a simple nightstand, and radio that also looked to serve as an alarm clock. Simon didn’t have much time to look around the place, though, as he had thrown himself into the… King-sized bed not soon after Lodestar left. He had sat up that night, thinking back to the evening before he had been sent to the garrison and the two voices that he had only the faintest memory of. The noble was unsure as to who they belonged to, but all that could be recalled was what they sounded like, not where they spoke from.

It shaped up to be a night that was identical to those before it. Intertwined with the horrible, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and thoughts of the mysterious voices, his father being shot, and everything he had left behind when he was sent to this place. He had held back his tears for a time, but now he had been pushed off the edge. At least the bed was comfortable this time around.

The young man quickly discovered there was more to his quarters than he originally anticipated, upon awakening early at just shy of 5 A.M. There was a small bathroom with a locking door to the left of the bed. It came with a toothbrush, and all the other natural amenities he had once enjoyed back in Germany… Including a shower. Simon had only bathed twice since arriving at the garrison, since the lines to the showers were long, and the showers themselves hardly private. As a noble, looking upon the unmentionables of other people, and showing them off to basically everyone was far worse than being unclean. Being able to take a decent, hot shower for the first time since Germany was easily the highlight of his coming to the Garrison itself. When Simon had first emerged from the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he saw some clothing hanging over one of the chairs. At first, he was more worried than anything at how people could come in during the night to place them there, but that soon gave way to a sense of wonder as he realized their color; A dark gray.

The heavy trenchcoat and trousers fit him perfectly, which was hardly a coincidence in Simon’s mind. In fact, they fit so well it was like stepping into clothes he had worn for the past three months. Every single part of the uniform was designed seamlessly, each deep pocket towards the middle easy to access, and designed to hold everything from grenades to handguns with optimal comfort. The pants also had pockets, but much more casual ones that allowed the noble to hit his hands into them without feeling awkward or uncomfortable. These pants came with an easily adjustable black belt too, which served to further enhance the fit even more. It didn’t take Simon long to realize this uniform was easily better than anything he had worn back at the mansion, and that was saying something. Despite the coat covering most of his back, and midsection, it didn’t manage to feel any warmer than when Simon was almost naked. Same for the pants.

The uniform came with a pair of well polished obsidian colored dress shoes, with similar colored socks made from the softest material the youth had felt in a long time. And finally, a black military hat with a grey stripe around a portion above the visor sat on the chair cushion. Unsurprisingly, it fit perfectly, not obscuring the man’s view at all, and instead making him look that much more official when Simon looked himself over in the mirror. He appeared like a completely different person now. He looked confident, important and powerful, even more proper than when he was in the Fatherland. A slight shadow was cast over his eyes by the hat in the current lighting, and it only served to cement the fact he had been returned once more to his former glory. And possibly then some.

The youth had never really thought about this turn of events in such a way before, only now realizing that he had been given another chance to regain his honor, and perhaps even surpass both of his brothers. Perhaps even carry the family name. The man staring back at him in the large bathroom mirror was what Simon had been wanting all this time, but now he’d have to prove himself worthy of it.

Simon’s head turned as a gentle knock sounded at the main door of his quarters.
“W-Who is it?!”
He called out, walking over towards the entryway. The noble was only met with more knocking until he opened the door to see no one there. “Huh?” His face lit up in confusion, before a voice called out to him from below.
“Ello, commander!”
It was high pitched, the voice of a young child. It carried with it the accent of a British youth as well. Simon’s eyes dropped to find a boy with bright green eyes and messy blonde hair staring back at him, a mischievous grin across his smooth white face.
“Oh, umm. Hi.”
Simon answered in German, trying to deduce if the boy could understand him.
“You know English, eh?”
He replied in kind. “You’re a rare sort around these parts!”
“Well that is because I am properly educated, unlike a majority of these miscreants.”
Explained Simon haughtily. The boy also looked to have a slight overbite in his teeth, only making his appearance all the more-
“I bet you’re wonderin’ why I’m ‘ere right?”
The amount of enthusiasm in the kid’s voice was to the degree that Simon had to will himself to not slap the obnoxious grin off of his face. All the same, Simon most certainly was wondering that, amongst other things.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
The nobleman replied, eyes narrowing a bit.
“Well it’s quite simple, really. I’m an agent! One of many! We’ve come over to have a gander at how your military’s doin’, to see if we should give you support or not!”
“An… Agent?”
The boy nodded, keeping up his seemingly endless smile.
“From good ol’ England! Our country likes to think itself an business one and we’ve just been tryin’ to see if you lot are good for business!”
“What do you mean by that?”
Asked a wary Simon, uncertain as to how this child had been able to infiltrate a stronghold such as this, unless his entrance was permitted by a Garrison Commander.
“We sell tanks! Big armored tanks, and quick little tanks! And when Uncle Sam comes knocking at your door, you’re going to need to be a spell more prepared than, well…” The child’s grin turned almost mocking as his head looked quickly from left to right. “You are.”
“And why the hell are you seeing me about this? Why not the Garrison Commanders, or Kenneth?”
“Already did. Wankers said they didn’t trust me! So I’ve been askin’ around for someone with some authority to sign my little agreement here and you could do it now!”
“And why would I do it now?”
Asked Simon, feeling a little uncomfortable.
“Could bloody well end up bein’ the difference between life and death, sir! We can have the tanks over in a couple days, with crews and everything!”
The boy removed a clipboard from behind his back and handed it to Simon, whose eyes immediately flitted to the bottom, promptly widening.
“Six million Marks…”
“Didn’t say it was cheap.”
Simon shook his head in uncertainty.
“I can’t spend six million Marks of the government’s money like pocket change. How did you even get in here?”
The boy giggled a little.
“Us agents aren’t pushovers, sir! How about you keep the board for now? Maybe you’ll change your mind!”
With that, he took off down the hall, running towards the crossing that lead to the exit. Simon poked his head out of the doorframe.
“Wait! How will you know if I sign it?!”
“Trust me, Simon! I’ll know it!”
He called back, vanishing from sight down the corridor. The nobleman felt very confused as he stepped back inside the room, closing the door behind him and setting the clipboard on the table. The soldier pulled out a chair and looked the thing over with uncertainty.


Hello, military leader!

Warcorps. London has decided that you are
suitable for business, and has dispatched one of our talented
agents to give you this offer!

Are you in need of a private military, capable of winning a dispute, aiding you
in a war, or just for a parade? Warcorps. has you covered! For the low
low price of: six million German Marks, we are willing to provide
your outfit with a battalion of heavy, medium and light tanks to
help you emerge victorious from battle! And you only pay if they win!

Sign below, and our agent will collect this board at his earliest
convenience.

Below this brief bit of writing was a spot for a signature, and fine print that detailed how long the tanks would be in service for, what happened if they lost, and a variety of other legal things too. Signing this would definitely require more thought, and most certainly a talk with Kenneth and the Garrison Commanders on the matter would be in order. Six million Marks was nothing to laugh at. Even by the standards of a once wealthy noble. It was clear these people knew the situation they were being put in, and were trying to cash in on the Garrison’s desperation. But this also raised an unrelated question; Simon had the ability to sign this. So he had clearly been put in a much stronger position than he had originally thought. Why he had been entrusted with it on such short notice was beyond him, however. Was this a test?

It was almost an uneventful hour before Simon heard a knock at his door. The man had just finished eating breakfast, which had been supplied to him in the kitchen area, and consisted of plain ham, extremely sour orange juice and a dry pastry. It was still miles better than the rubbish he had been eating at the Garrison, so the man didn’t complain. The noble opened the door once again, half expecting to see the kid from earlier, but was instead met with Lodestar, who was in her typical uniform and looked almost identical to yesterday.
“Commander Hetzer is to address the Garrison in a half hour, Simon. Please be ready and in the Garrison welcoming area by that time.”
She gave him a stiff salute, which Simon returned, and turned on the heel of her boots to walk down the hallway. This behavior was a lot different than what he had saw from her yesterday. Clearly this was an important speech. It brought a little smile to Simon’s face upon remembering this speech had been written overnight by Kenneth, and the poor bastard would probably look awfully tired while he was giving it, too.

The noble took the golden pin from his previous uniform, which he had thrown haphazardly on the floor the previous night, and attached it to his new one. From what the man had heard, this was a customary thing amongst officers, and was meant to serve as a reminder of when he was just another recruit. Simon just put it back on because he had grown accustomed to it, and thought it looked nice, though.

He thought it would be best to arrive at the speech early, however, considering he was now some kind of official and would no doubt be expected to behave as such. The hallway actually had some people walking through it today, some dressed like him, and some just random soldiers. Each looked to be doing something different as well, such as taking notes or walking with noticeable purpose. The ‘garage’ area, which Simon had now termed as such, was full of engineers eating their breakfast and drinking what remained of the alcohol some had saved from the previous night. The whole place was full of conversation, but everyone seemed to have had the same idea as Simon when it came to arriving early to the general’s speech. None looked to be using the secret passage the noble had originally arrived from, and were instead exiting through a huge, square doorway framed in metal. This must be what they used in order to get the tanks outside when needed. Simon had once remembered seeing an odd metal ramp located near the visitor’s house, but the door was always closed.

The nobleman went through the control room and down the metal staircase, almost immediately hearing a familiar voice upon reaching the ground floor.
“H-H-Hello Mr. Ziegler!”
Simon continued walking, and the odd man fell in pace to his side, smiling that unsettling smile he usually wore.
“What is it, Rat?”
“I-I-I must ask you a most i-i-important question!”
He would receive no reply, as Simon made his way around the hulls of different tanks and the shiny floors, deliberately picking up the pace. “I will have some t-t-time to install a modification on your t-t-tank before your mission! Would you like s-s-sideskirts, or an AC unit?”
“Wait, this is the desert! Why wouldn’t an AC unit already be installed?!”
Simon asked, looking at Rat, perplexed.
“S-S-Sorry, we just received the model yesterday! I-I-It was originally intended for much c-c-cooler climates, you see.”
Simon sighed.
“Very well, the AC unit. Couldn’t you put the sideskirts on as well?”
“Not enough good engineers or t-t-time.”
“Get to it, then.”
Rat nodded and went off towards the RU-251 immediately. Would he not be attending Kenneth’s speech? Either way, it felt oddly satisfying when he ordered people about. He might just get used to this yet.

The ramp had a variety of rough edges put into it, likely to help vehicles climb it better. It also helped Simon climb better, coincidentally. Every now and then, one of the engineers would shoot him a glance that said something along the lines of ‘I don’t remember that guy wearing grey’. It felt a little uncomfortable. People didn’t really know who he was just yet, and for all they knew Simon was just some random guy in a grey uniform. The sun was a dark, blood red, and slowly was creeping over the dunes in the distance as the noble emerged. The heat hadn’t kicked in quite yet, but the weather wasn’t cold either. Simon’s new shoes felt a little out of place upon the flattened sand, so he would probably need to change his wardrobe to include the usual boots when the time of the mission came. People spread out among the compound rather rapidly, leaving Simon to find his way towards the pocket that Kenneth had arrived in the night prior. The rows of tents quickly formed up again, with the usual sluggards drinking booze and laying about in front of some of them. Simon felt a little upset he hadn’t really gotten to take part in the festivities of the previous night, come to think of it.

“Get over to the entrance area in twenty five minutes or there will be consequences!”
A man in a dark green officer’s uniform hailed, walking up and down the dusty roads in an orderly manner, being sure to direct as much of his voice towards the people outside the tents as possible. When Simon arrived at this area, a large crowd of people had already gathered ahead of time, and more we're beginning to trickle in. All the tanks from the convoy must have been taken into the garage, as they were no longer sitting in the center of the pocket. The air was so dry today that Simon almost felt like coughing. Even the wind didn’t feel cool at all, only… Dry. Simon stood towards the front of the west block of the pocket, ears indicating that more and more people were beginning to fall in. The tired looks in their eyes indicated that this early wake up call was quite the shock to them, but Simon knew that in the Imperialist military it was just about a given. And besides, it was better to stand outside during morning than in the scorching heat of afternoon.

Kellinger and Joseph were talking with each other in the innermost part of the welcoming area. A little table had been placed there, and a map now rested upon it. A very boring twenty minutes passed, before Simon jerked at the jarring sound of a pistol firing. Before this, the crowd had been quite loud in volume, but the entire area became dead silent after this sudden jolt.
“All silent, as commander Kenneth gives the speech!”
Kellinger shouted, holding a Luger pistol with a smoking barrel in his right hand. The man looked over all that had gathered, before lowering the weapon as Kenneth walked towards the center of the pocket. The elderly general raised a salute like he had done upon arrival, once again being mirrored obediently by all present. After a brief pause, he lowered his hand and cleared his throat.
“Yesterday night I briefly spoke of a storm.”
The general started, voice being heard loud and clear from across the area. “This storm is on the very horizon of this garrison, and I am here to prepare you for it. Just two days time away from here are fifty thousand armored vehicles, and likely even more infantrymen and warships, belonging to the American Empire.”
People quickly began to speak up, until the noise from before had once again returned. Everyone sounded mortified and frightened as they spoke. Another pistol shot fired off.
“Silence!”
Kellinger demanded, firing the gun twice more until the ruckus had finally died. The faces of everyone looked either unbelieving or horrified. The majority were the latter, and all the higher-ups seemed to know it. “You will let Kenneth speak, or you will be shot!”
For now, it seemed this threat was far worse than the one of invasion. Kenneth resumed.
“I am aware you are unprepared for such an attack, and have decided to order a fighting retreat once our position here has been compromised. We cannot win this battle alone, but we can hold them off long enough to rendezvous with the reinforcements high command is sending our way.”
This seemed to make everyone feel a little better, not taking the edge off, but at least making the soldiers less frightened. Simon felt adrenaline rushing through him as he heard these words. He had been trying to forget about the whole matter, and instead focus on settling in to his new ‘job.’ His family had always prided themselves on war, so maybe he could think of this as some kind of an opportunity. “I also hasten to inform you that our allies in Japan are also under attack by a similar force, and will not be able to help us. Essentially we are alone. We are also very low on fuel and tanks. This will make holding this position much harder than originally expected, but we are currently taking measures to combat this. Our naval bases near the Cape have all been captured or destroyed by the enemy, meaning we will have no support from the ocean either. As I said before, we are alone, and also the last thing standing between this Empire and invasion. A new command system is in order, and will be implemented immediately, so please report to whomever you are assigned to serve under. The coming weeks will be bloody. They will be worse than most of you have ever experienced in your lives. I’m not asking you to fight for me, or for the Imperialists, though. Fight for the Fatherland and your families back home. Make it back alive.”
Kenneth raised a salute, once again there was a ‘fwoosh’ before he lowered it and walked over towards the Garrison commanders. There were a few completely dead seconds of silence before the man who was ordering people to gather here in the first place walked into the center of the pocket with a megaphone.
“You all will be separated into different units! Report to your company officers to await further instructions! Those of you partaking in the assignment to retrieve our stolen gas, I have been asked to tell you to meet in the hangar and await further instruction! Repeat-”
The man began speaking the same thing again and again, while soldiers began to disperse, talking amongst each other in whispers. Simon knew he was one of the people who were to retrieve the gasoline, so he began to make his way back towards the hangar once more.

About halfway there, he heard a familiar and welcome voice call out his name.
“Simon! Simon, wait damn you!”
It sounded slightly more mature than his voice, but still kept a little high pitch. Simon stopped, and looked around the throngs of people in hopes of seeing the owner. A few seconds later, a man who was marginally more chubby than Simon pushed his way past a group of men and threw himself at the nobleman. The young soldier felt almost crushed by the strength of the hug.
“Uncle! Uncle!”
He shouted in a muffled tone. The grip quickly released him, leaving Simon to brush himself off and straighten his body once more. “You need to stop doing that.”
“Oh c’mon, it’s way too much fun.”
Replied Baker, the one man at the Garrison that Simon might be able to call his friend. Baker was far stronger than Simon could ever hope to be, and was built on a much more weighty frame. His black uniform was oversized in order to suit his body, and he was also completely bald. Even so, Baker had a warm face and didn’t look like a soldier at all. The man loomed over Simon like a giant, but thankfully the noble knew he wouldn’t be hurt by this one… At least on purpose.
“Where were you last night?” he spoke, panting a little, “and what’s with that uniform? Were you promoted?”
The two had to speak up in order to hear themselves through the crowds of nearby men.
“I was on guard duty, and the uniform is a little more-”
“-Complicated?”
Baker finished, smile fading from his face. Simon nodded grimly, and resumed his pace towards the hangar, Baker keeping pace at his side with ease. “Wait, are you going on that gasoline recovery thing today?”
“Yes. I’m not entirely sure if I’m going to come back from it or not, so wish me luck.”
Baker’s face lit up with enthusiasm and excitement at the news, slapping Simon’s shoulder playfully with the top of his palm.
“That’s awesome! You’ll be a hero if you come back with the gas!”
Simon froze, Baker looping around to stand in front of him. The thought had never occurred to him for whatever reason. If Simon was able to bring back the supplies, gone would be those morons constantly criticizing him and calling him names. It would be his first step of regaining his honor!
“You… Really think so?”
“Hell yeah! People are freaked out about this, man. If you’re the one to give them a fighting chance they’ll be grateful for sure.”
Baker’s words were oddly comforting. The first really comforting words that Simon had heard in awhile, in fact. The heat from the sun was beginning to pick up, which was a bad omen for everyone who was here. Poor Baker would have to live with it while Simon was riding in a nice, air conditioned tank… On his way to an enemy that may or not have anti-tank weapons. On second thought, he almost envied his friend for not having to go through that.
“When this place comes under attack, I’ll be the first to get you out, buddy.”
Simon replied with a smile.
“Alright, take care, and good luck.”
Baker spoke with a slight nod, before disappearing into the crowd. Simon took a deep breath and began walking towards the hangar again in a faster manner, hoping to get there before the heat got too bad.

When the nobleman reached the hangar ramp, he was surprised to see the forms of three tanks parked just outside, with a variety of different people near them. Most if not all were in similar gray uniform, but lacked Simon’s officer cap. Oddly enough, Rat was the first person who spoke to him.
“We g-g-got the AC unit installed. M-M-Managed to do its just before they s-s-sent it out.”
The engineer spoke from just to his right. This time Simon was most certainly impressed, and now owed the man something, considering today looked to be an especially hot one.
“You installed an AC unit in thirty minutes?!”
Rat chuckled a little.
“Y-Y-You give us far too much credit. It was Th-Th-Thirty five.”
“So why are the tanks out so early?”
Asked Simon, a little confused. His mind kept telling him the answer to his question, but he didn’t really want to believe it. Rat removed a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and began unfolding it with a multitude of crinkly sounds resounding through the din of talking men around them.
“Mr. Ziegler,” Rat suddenly began reading, “as you may know, you have been instated as a panzer battalion officer by order of both me, and the Imperialist government. I have spent about two hours preparing and rehearsing a small speech to give the Suez Garrison, and have also decided to write this in order to clarify why you have been asked to partake in this mission on such short notice.”
Simon was baffled at how clearly Rat had been speaking this. He would have to ask the engineer about his odd stuttering some time, because it clearly wasn’t occurring now. “The intricacies of being a tank commander on the modern battlefield are difficult for any man to grasp, but the basics are simple. You will order your gunner to fire the cannon, operate the turret MG, (if applicable) and coordinate movement with your driver both on and off the battlefield. However, the most important role is to command the other vehicles in your unit. You should already know the basics of this, having gone through basic tactics training during-.”
Rat rolled his eyes and just handed the paper over to Simon. “I was s-s-supposed to read it aloud to y-y-you, but I’ve d-d-decided not to.”
Simon, shooting the man an unimpressed glance, skipped to where he had left off.
‘-Your initial military briefing. Our scouting party near the raider outpost has confirmed the stolen gasoline has not been exhausted by them. It should be obvious why we are sending a panzer battalion, as these men are well armed when it comes to infantry weapons and explosives, but are lacking in anti-tank defenses.’
Simon breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing this.
‘The weapons they do have are located at the frontal part of the outpost, and consist of two 75mm AT guns. These are easily capable of penetrating any part of your vehicle, so I trust your judgement on how you deal with them. I have provided your radio operator (or the crew member with this role) with a map that shows the outpost’s location. I will also be sending my assistant, Lodestar, along with you to take care of this objective if you fail in completing it. Keep in mind the two other vehicles coming with you are very lightly armed and armored, but are the only things we have that are capable of this high speed operation. Meet up with your crew, ready your vehicle and set off immediately. Good luck, Godspeed, and Rat is the best engineer in the world, by the way.’
The last portion was written in clearly forged handwriting.
“Really?”
Simon spoke to Rat, eyes glazed over.
“R-R-Really.”
He motioned as if he was tipping his hat, and was gone, leaving Simon unsure of what to do, other than walk over to his tank and wait for something to happen. He crumpled the piece of dry paper in his palm and pocketed it, just in case he would need it later. As Simon walked over towards Hermes, he noticed a tall, lanky man in a similar uniform leaning against its hull casually, one leg bent and boot resting on one of the drive wheels. He removed a smoking cigarette from his lips and puffed out a small cloud of smoke. Simon felt almost uncomfortable walking towards him, considering the guy had multiple scars across his face and stood noticeably taller than him, which seemed to be a pattern all of a sudden. The soldier turned his tan white face to look the nobleman over, eyes narrowing a little.
“Nice shoes.”
He spoke gruffly, motioning to Simon’s feet with his cigarette and a nod.
“Looks like I won’t have time to change them.”
Replied Simon, trying to sound as confident as possible and walking to within a few feet of the man. His hair looked very greasy, and was a dark brown color, long and messy to boot. From what the nobleman saw, he looked to be about twenty two or so.
“So you’re that noble kid who was made a tank commander because of his last name, eh? Probably never been in a tank in your whole life.”
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
The man scoffed, taking another puff and throwing the remains of the smoke to the sand, where a thin trail of smoke rose up towards the sky.
“The hell’s a Ziegler doin’ way out here, eh? Rolling around in money got too boring?”
“Anyways,” Simon began, tiring quickly of the way the conversation was going, “my name is Simon Ziegler. What’s yours?”
“My name’s I don’t give a damn, and I’m your driver, buddy boy.”
Simon could already tell this was going to be a long trip. He should have expected his crew to be a little less than willing to be ordered around by someone like him, and could only hope the rest of his crew would be more compliant than this fellow. A rather glaring problem Simon had now, was that he was unsure of what to do next, so he may as well try to communicate with this unpleasant fellow again.
“We don’t have to make this trip a nightmare, you know.”
Replied Simon, beginning to observe the flat rear of his tank, which had two exhaust pipes mounted on it. The RU-251’s design looked far more advanced than any of its counterparts at the Garrison, that was for sure.
“Desmond Vern,” the soldier spoke spitefully, “just keep outta’ my business and I’ll keep outta’ yours. alright?”
“Very well.”
The man took out another cigarette and ignited it with a rusty old lighter, removing it from his mouth after while and once again breathing out a small cloud of smoke.
“You got any commanding experience? Like… Any at all?”
Simon shook his head.
“I was made a commander in a single night. Not much time to prepare.”
“Kenny’s throwing you in the pool and expectin’ you to swim. Must not think much of us.”
“Well why should he? What have we done to prove ourselves to him?”
Desmond snickered a little at the reply.
“Nothing. But that ain’t an excuse for puttin’ me and two other guys in a tank without a commander.”

For about five minutes the two were silent, Desmond continuing his smoke and Simon inspecting the tank. From what he could see, the RU-251 looked extremely capable, and in great fighting condition, at least from the outside. The inside could very well provide enough room to walk around in, considering the crew would probably consist of just four people. Simon began inspecting the side of the turret, when a voice spoke out from behind him.
“Reporting.”

It seemed to have a noticeable French accent to it. Simon turned, trying to get a glimpse of who just spoke to find a man that was actually about Simon’s size, and had a worn but still rather youthful complexion about him. This was strange, considering he looked to be in his mid forties. The newcomer was appropriately strong looking, with a small amount of chestnut hair that was thinly spread across the top of his head, along with deep brown eyes that bordered on being completely black.
“Hello. I’m Simon, and this is Desmond. Who might you be?”
The noble asked, trying to sound as polite as possible.
“Oscar Poules, Panzer commandant.”
He answered obediently, legs together and giving a salute.
“Don’t give him that kinda’ respect just yet, pal.”
Desmond told Oscar with a dismissive wave and a leer. The newcomer dropped both his salute and stance upon seeing Simon.
“Wait, who is this?” He asked, eyes narrowing, “This is not commandant Hetzer!”
“Next you’ll be tellin’ me he ain’t a goat either.”
Simon audibly groaned.
“You may have misheard your briefing. I was assigned leader of this mission by sir Hetzer, he’s not the one you’re fighting with.”
Oscar looked at the nobleman, completely dumbstruck, shifting from Desmond to Simon, and then to the tank behind the two.
“Where is the Tiger?”
This was met with mean spirited laughter by the driver.
“Man, you’re confused, aint’cha?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
The newcomer replied, obviously knowing he didn’t need to answer in the first place. Oscar walked up to Simon, suddenly paying no heed to his superior rank, and poked him directly in the chest. This mere action almost sent the nobleman stumbling backwards, as he stared directly at Oscar, trying to look the least frightened as was possible. “Why is this shiny haired…” he paused for a moment, eyes scanning Simon over almost in disgust, “Child, in command?!”
“Damn good question.”
Desmond added nonchalantly, while Simon while Simon began to back away, being careful not to corner himself against the hull of the tank. Of course this guy had to be even worse than Desmond. At least Desmond just verbally attacked him, and not walk up like he was going to stab him.
“I-I don’t know myself,” Simon stammered, “Kenneth just called out my name last night, and gave me the position. I don’t know how I’m qualified for it either!”
Oscar glared at the nobleman indignantly, backing away and promptly looking back to Desmond.
“Who are you?”
“Desmond Vern, pleased to meet you.”
Simon sighed, remembering the struggle he had trying to get a name from the guy previously.
“Do you know what is going on here?”
The driver shrugged.
“Ain’t got a clue. Some guy with a megaphone told me to show up, so here I am.”
Oscar looked back at Simon, as if his own commander was a last resort in finding the meaning of this. The young man desperately tried to think up something.
“We’re on standby for a raid mission, and so far we have a driver. What role might you be?”
“Loader,” Oscar replied, “in case you do not know what role that is, it is the one who puts the tank shells in the gun breech.”
“C’mon, don’t be too hard on the guy.”
Desmond interjected, not putting much heart into the sentence. Oscar turned to him with a quizzical expression.
“And why the hell not?”
“Dunno, just don’t like seeing kiddos bein’ picked on by the big boys, I guess. Makes my big ol’ heart weally weally sad.”
He replied, feigning tears dramatically. None of the three seemed to notice another person showing up from behind them, until Oscar turned to face him. Both Simon and Desmond also looked, finding a grizzled old bear of a man looming before them menacingly. A thick, curly beard was covering his mouth area, and he immediately appeared rather old, with a bald head and wrinkles around his face.
“Hullo.”
He spoke in an extremely deep tone, carrying with it a Russian accent of all things. It didn’t sound unfriendly, however, in-fact quite the opposite.
“Hey there, big guy, we’re in the middle of a little immaturity party right now. Wanna join in?”
Desmond immediately quipped.
“Think I’ll pass.”
He replied, moving his way past Oscar and to the tank. His shadow was partially covering Simon now, who looked at the man as if he had no clue what was going on. He placed his huge, meaty hands upon the tracks, running them up and down the length like he was polishing a sword. No one seemed to have the courage to speak up, so Simon attempted to take the opportunity to prove himself to his comrades.
“You know, That’s an-”
“-RU-251 light tank. Prototype.”
Simon laughed nervously.
“Y-Yeah.”
Desmond eagerly took the opportunity to make another sardonic comment.
“The gang’s all here! We got a weakling, rich goody two shoes, a bastard French guy, no offense,” he hastily added, to be met with a brief and uncaring nod from Oscar, “and a grizzly bear that learned how to walk. Doesn’t that just scream ‘dream team’?”
No one really seemed to react to this, the burly man continuing to look the tank over insightfully, and both Simon and Oscar remaining completely silent. Desmond just sighed and shook his head.

“This is gonna be great.”

“Panzer battalions, ready yourselves! The mission’s active in twenty minutes!”

The man from earlier who was holding the megaphone yelled out to each of the crews standing by their vehicles. He had been shouting up and down the tent rows for some time now, and Simon could tell it was only a matter of time before he came to them. Desmond actually seemed to care, all of a sudden.
“The hell are you all doin’?! Let’s look at the inside of this thing, or we’ll have no clue how to use it!”
Simon felt as if he had been punched in the gut after the gruff man spoke this, feeling that he was doing more leading than him right now. Quickly he tried to add onto Desmond’s order.
“Right, let’s get a feel for this tank before we go on any combat missions.”
No one really seemed to appreciate Simon’s input, and Oscar began climbing atop the hull, goal obviously being the hatch at the top. Simon scurried upon the cold metal as fast as he could, though, nearly slipping and falling but eventually managing to hoist himself to the top before the Frenchman could. Desmond was grinning in an obviously sarcastic way, hands busy golf clapping for Simon’s ‘accomplishment’. The nobleman gave him a venomous look, pulling at the circular hatch as hard as he could. The thing didn’t budge, however, leading him to pull harder and harder until Oscar gently pushed him aside and opened it with a single hand by turning it in the opposite direction. The metal made a brief ‘clunk’ and with a simple pull the inside of the tank was now accessible. “I was just testing to make sure that side wouldn’t actually work.”
“Sure.”
Oscar replied, throwing himself through the open entryway and landing with a hollow metallic noise that shook the whole frame of the vehicle. Simon sighed, moving to enter himself, but was cut off as the burly man from before pushed his way past him. The edges of his uniform slightly brushed past Simon’s face, feeling like sandpaper, oddly enough. The guy made an even bigger noise and almost shook the hull itself when making impact. Simon waited for Desmond to enter, as he was crouched atop the turret with him. To his surprise, the driver grinned.
“Ladies first.”

The noble rolled his eyes and lowered himself into the dark interior of the vehicle using a couple of steel rungs attached to the inside. His shoes hit the ground, which took the form of a flat, cast iron deck that was easier to stand on than one may imagine. The inside of the tank felt almost humid and even a little cold, with dull green LED lights positioned all about the innermost parts of the thing, flickering on and off sporadically. Tanks on both sides of the war had received a lot of technological innovation to make them more accessible and effective in combat. This sometimes included toxic gas detection systems, an ‘autopilot’ system that could maneuver the vehicle along basic pathways, advanced communication devices and even targeting systems in the most powerful vehicles. The hulls of most tanks had been expanded, and allowed for the crew to eat, drink and even sleep inside their machines at the expense of being a larger target. Overall, this tended to be quite a useful addition that made the tanks a sort of home away from home for the crew and people.
“Bunk beds…”
Oscar stated plainly, voice seeming to reverberate as if he had shouted into a long tunnel. Simon fumbled around, trying to remember where they said the lighting system was located in training. His hands finally came into contact with a plastic cover, which the he flipped open. The man proceeded to flick the switch within and the interior of the tank came to life. The lighting had been implemented scarcely, with different panels lining the top and sides of the vehicle. This light looked more eerie than anything, not actually being able to illuminate the place reliably and instead casting a flickering incandescent green around the place that accentuated the creeping shadows near the outermost parts of the interior.

Simon was amazed at what he saw, as the inside of this combat vehicle was more akin to a very small apartment than anything. In the rear, two bunk beds were mounted to the walls on each side firmly. They contained guardrails, sheets and even pillows that were all a milky white.
A small round table was also bolted to the floor in a place that was as far from the front portion as possible, and four little stools were bolted to the floor on opposite sides as well. On the far right ‘wall’ a stainless steel cube stood, presumably a refrigerator of some kind that was hooked up to an even bigger cube that was below it. Different wires hung limply from around it, though, leading Simon to believe this was actually the AC unit Rat installed. Was this some sort of a kitchen? There was no sink or anything, which was to be expected, so clearly it was still pretty basic. Towards the frontal portion of the tank things became much more military oriented, with a driver’s station featuring a steering wheel and a stick-shift gear system. As soon as Simon saw this, he knew there was more to this tank than he originally thought. The stick-shift driving system was very expensive to implement, to say nothing of these crew quarters. Even so, it looked more like the controls of a standard automobile than anything.

Desmond dropped down from the hatch opening, which was casting a beam of golden light within the interior, and hit the ground on two feet, proceeding to look the place over quickly.
“The hell’s this?” His eyes narrowed and shifted towards Simon. “You’re being given a pretty fine piece of equipment for your first time.”
“Yeah…”
Simon mused, continuing to inspect his tank, trying to find something else that might be particularly noteworthy. His eyes fell across a white slip of paper on the table in the back, which Simon promptly picked up and looked over.

Hello, Military Leader!

Warcorps. London wishes you the best of luck on
your tour of duty, and hopes that you will only lose a minimum
of the crewmembers you’ve come to know and love! As a token
of our good nature, that is most certainly not being forced upon
our marketing department in any way, we have
provided your outfit with: 3 HEAT (High Explosive Anti Tank) rounds!

These devastating (and extremely costly) projectile rounds are
capable of puncturing even the thickest steel at any range, as
long as you aren’t braindead and aim for the
gun mantlets of enemy tanks on a regular basis!

We hope you feel morally obligated
to purchasing our merchandise in the future as
result of this completely genuine act of kindness!

-Klaus Kellerman, CEO of War Corps London

Below this message was a cartoon of an elderly man with a silly, white handlebar mustache and a black tophat. The character wore a fancy black suit and red tie, and was motioning as if tipping its tophat to the reader, with a corny wink on one of its eyes and beaming smile. Simon immediately thought it looked similar to how Rat motioned… Perhaps Rat actually worked for these guys. The noble’s mind also drifted back to when he spoke to the boy at his door during the morning. It seemed as if PMCs from all over the world would be rushing to the aid of both the Federalists and Imperialists, because they knew both the governments were wealthy and would need outside support in order to fend off the invasion.
There was a radio near the turret that Simon would probably need to operate, considering they didn’t have a radio operator present. Thankfully, he was quite decent at operating them considering his father had taught him the basics of communications and politics, along with various things about panzers. That part of Basic had been a breeze for him.

“Hey, glorious leader, what’s that paper say?”
Asked Desmond, taking a few steps towards Simon and looking over his shoulder.
“Some PMC wants our money, and gave us a few nice tank shells.”
The noble handed it to Desmond, but the paper was snatched from his hands before he was halfway done with the movement. The driver’s eyes scanned the note surprisingly quickly.
“War Corps. London?! These guys from Britain?! The hell they care ‘bout us for?”
“We are about to become cornered animals, and these kinds of people know it,” explained Simon dryly, “they know we’ll be profitable when the invasion hits.”
“We should take em up on the offer.” Desmond replied, handing the note back and beginning to look over the driver’s area. “We need all the help we can get.”
“And that is the point.”
Oscar added, seeming to understand the situation far better than Desmond did, despite only speaking five words. The Frenchman was gazing up towards the dome-like hole in the roof that was the turret. A small seat was bolted to the edge facing the cannon breech that was presumably for him to sit on. Nearby this were some viewports and a telescopic device hanging from the ceiling, which would serve as the gunner’s optics and targeting systems. A turret crank and control panel was also mounted within it on different ends, along with the radio box in the rear. Oscar pulled the device on the ceiling to eye level with ease, and peered through it. “These optics are very good. Looks like an accurate reticle.”
He pulled the binoculars off his face and pushed them back towards the ceiling. The parts near the gun looked quite expensive, and detailed to say the very least.

The loader was inspecting the sides of the tank, which had different holes cut into them that allowed for the stowage of tank ammo that was far enough apart to not cause a chain reaction if hit.
“I hope we do not get struck from sides.”
His deep voice sounded rather concerned as he stroked his beard and inspected the various shells.
“Oh, umm… We never actually caught your name.”
Simon stated, implying he wanted to know it. At the same time he felt a little nervous talking to someone as strong as his loader.
“Clyde,” He replied plainly, “Clyde Henderson.”
“Alright. Good to meet you, Clyde.”
Clyde simply nodded and returned to his inspection without a word. Everyone seemed pre-occupied with looking about different parts of the tank. Oscar was adjusting the different gun controls, with metallic clicking and the other sounds of such machinery resonating throughout the hull from his work. Desmond was trying to make his seat more comfortable, and looking around at the various odds and ends in the ‘cockpit’ curiously. Particularly, the viewport in front of him, in addition to another pariscope hanging down from the top of the slightly sloped hull. Clyde never stopped looking at the shells, seeming to inspect all of them for about the same amount of time. Methodical, like the work of a skilled craftsman. Never once did Simon have doubts that Clyde knew exactly what he was doing, and assumed the norse loader was one of the most experienced in the whole Garrison.

Simon, on the other hand, simply watched his crew distantly. The nobleman was very nervous about the coming mission, considering it was his first live one. All of them at least knew the barebones of operating armored and unarmored vehicles from the training back in Berlin, but each tank took getting used to. Simon particularly had trouble operating the Jagdpanzer 38(t) during his training. Oddly enough, the crews liked calling it the ‘Hetzer’. Perhaps Kenneth’s name had something to do with that tank? Either way, it was extremely cramped, uncomfortable and difficult to operate for him. On the other hand, Simon loved the Panzer lV for how simple it was compared to everything else, but he never expected to be in control of a light tank, especially one like this. It was more of a command tank than anything. The training had taught them to operate every tank in the Imperialist military that was in mass production, but the RU-251 was an enigma to him. To everyone.

This tank was also huge compared to all the others, with a tall roof for such a low profile thing, and an exceptionally long hull. That would probably make them a huge target…
“I’ll be right back, I need to ask someone for a favor.”
Simon announced. No one replied, but all seemed to at least acknowledge him. The noble climbed out of his tank and immediately felt the heat of the desert upon his face as he did so. His eyes had just about adjusted to the inside of the tank, so they were squinted as he threw himself off the turret and onto the sands below. People were going this way and that around him, leaving hundreds of different footprints. How was he going to find Rat like this?! Simon wandered around the various tanks that were with him, trying to find the mechanic operating on one of the Luchs tanks, but coming up empty handed. It had been a solid five minutes of wandering until he finally found Lodestar talking to some young looking man, perhaps younger than Simon. Normally the noble wouldn’t have paid it much mind, but he looked scruffy and rugged.
“Hello, Lodestar. Do you perhaps know where Rat went off to?”
Inquired Simon, walking up to the two after making sure they weren’t having an important conversation or anything. Lodestar turned to face him promptly and gave a simple reply.
“He should be in the garage.”
Simon nodded appreciatively, and ran off towards the ramp, briefly looking back at the man she was talking to, and discovering that he was wearing a similar uniform to him… But more importantly, the young fellow was looking back at him too, and Simon could have sworn he was glaring.

Not thinking much of it, the noble’s feet were soon running across the metal floor of the ramp and into the hangar. Much less people were here now, and the few present were idly talking and eating breakfast with each other. Nothing that important, it seemed. Simon wasn’t focusing on them, however, and was instead trying desperately to spot Rat.
“S-S-Simon, what are you d-d-doing here?”
The all too familiar voice spoke out from directly behind him.
“How did you-” Simon started, before just shaking his head after realizing it was pointless to ask anymore, “I need camo for my tank. Can you set it up before the mission begins?”
Rat frowned and gave Simon a dismissive look through his red tinted goggles.
“There is n-n-not enough time to do that, I’m afraid.”
“The tank is stark grey, not the usual brown.”
“Y-Y-Yes, am I missing something?”
Simon shook his head with a groan.
“We’ll be spotted much easier with a grey color scheme than the usual brown one. And I don’t exactly want to be spotted in something as flimsy as…” The noble waved his hand weakly towards the ramp, “whatever that thing is.”
Rat shrugged, a look of defeat on his face.
“I c-c-cannot give it a new coat of paint in twenty m-m-minutes, but,” Rat stroked his chin in sudden thought, expression turning to one of pondering, “we have c-c-camo nets that could serve the purpose well enough. I’ll s-s-see what I can do.”
Simon nodded and took one of Rat’s hands in both of his palms, shaking it briefly.
“Thanks, Rat. This will really help, I’m sure.”
As the noble let go, Rat smiled and did his signature imaginary tip of the hat.
“G-G-Good luck on your first mission.”
Simon grinned and began walking back to the ramp, a little short on breath. Even with a camo net he would still be rather visible to the enemy but at least now it would be that much harder to be spotted.

Simon stopped suddenly upon hearing the sounds of swing music coming from nearby. It didn’t sound real, but instead an odd grainy and metallic version that wasn’t like it would sound on a radio. The young man turned his head towards a small metal table with a dusty cube-shaped television sporting lopsided antenna sitting upon it in an almost lonely way.
“Hello, men and women of the Suez Garrison!”
The mildly distorted voice of a middle-aged man called out. The screen displayed nothing but an image of a slightly dark hawk insignia on a white background. There was no color on televisions such as these, but Simon began to recognize the voice… “It… Has come to… Our attention, that…” This familiar voice was beginning to distort more and more, but Simon had turned his full attention to it, face awash with confusion at who it belonged to through the jungle of static that concealed its nature. “Long forgotten Empire of America has gathered for… Attack on… This coming… Japan. Our allies in Japan have reported he-... Losses, but… Be afraid! Rest assu-... The government is sending more reinforcement-... Immediately. Hold strong, men of the ga-... Help… On the way…”
With that, the music cut out and the screen faded into a jumble of incomprehensible static. The noble stared at the screen, fear once again building inside him. Japan was already taking heavy losses, and nobody here even knew an attack was coming just a few short days ago. They must be attacking both fronts at once, the Federalists from Japan and Imperialists from the Suez Canal. It was a grim reminder that in just two days, the whole garrison would be evacuating because of this, and anyone not fortunate enough to be on a tank would be left to die or be taken prisoner for certain. And if they didn’t have fuel…

He tried not to think of it much, and made his way back up the incline and back onto the desert sands.
“Ground team will be mobilizing in ten minutes, I repeat! Ten minutes for ground team!”
The man with the megaphone continued to shout. Simon felt a little bit sorry for him, having to call out these things all day to no end. Surprisingly, a group of people in orange jumpsuits of engineers were already beginning to hoist a bunch of mesh netting onto the hull of Simon’s tank. Rat must have already contacted them via radio or something, judging by how quickly they had responded. It was obviously to be expected, though, considering the fact there would only be ten minutes to repair, but nevertheless it felt as if there were invisible strings being pulled from the shadows when it came to the men that now surrounded Simon. The noble thought the troops he had been serving with originally just a bunch of dumb idiots, but the ones he was with now all seemed… Different, in a way. And not one Simon could quite put his finger on.

The rookie tank commander watched as the netting was arranged atop the cannon, and placed so that it wouldn’t interfere with the commander’s hatch or other such vital components. The engineers seemed to anticipate each others movements, working in tandem to correctly position the different ends correctly and from what Simon saw they were very successful in doing so. It had been just four minutes, and the netting now covered the sleek vehicle from top to bottom. It was colored a tannish brown and a dull black, alternating in striped form. It reminded Simon of another such camo scheme that was to be painted on tanks, but since this was a netting it was a little different from that. Their job completed, the engineers made their ways towards the ramp to the Hangar, while the other mechanics in charge of the Luchs tanks that would accompany Simon began packing up and leaving as well.
“Five minutes until deployment, ground team, five minutes!”
The noble spared no time in climbing back up his vehicle, this time the ascension was made easier with the easy to grip netting. Simon had also made a mental note to pull the hatch open differently, and it opened for him without opposition as he did so. The commander would shut it behind him as he climbed down the ladder, however, eyes already straining to adjust to the green lighting of the interior.
“Why haven’t we started the tank up yet, Desmond?”
Asked Simon upon entering.
“Well, sir, I can’t start the tank without your permission unless it’s an emergency, so…”
The man replied, sitting at the controls lazily. His tone seemed somewhat annoyed.
“I am giving you orders now, then.”
“Alrighty then, glorious leader.”
Simon wanted to ask where the other two members of his crew were, but instead decided to take in the first starting of the engines instead. Desmond masterfully flipped open a small panel to his right and flipped a switch, before his fingers flew to a small button. As soon as it was pressed the lighting within the vehicle intensified a little, flickering on and off briefly before settling at a slightly brighter illumination than before. This only lasted for a couple of seconds, until the whole interior of the tank began to rumble as the engine roared to life towards the rear. It sounded like ten lions roaring at once, a magnificent display of power.
“Hear that baby sing.”
Desmond mused, face lit up in an enthusiastic smile. The blast of the engines soon dimmed down to just a faint rumble, as the apparent noise cancellation module kicked in and replaced the raw sounds with an almost relaxing putter. “This thing could easily be one of the most expensive I’ve ever seen, just hopin’ ya know that kiddo.”
“Yeah… Really.”
Simon said, still in wonder from it all.
“Oscar and Clyde said they wanted to get some sleep for now, so they’re in bed. We won’t be needin’ them till things get bloody so let em’ get rested up.”
“It’s starting to feel more as if you’re the commander, Desmond.”
Replied the noble sarcastically, putting one boot on the first rung of the ladder and his opposite hand on the rung five notches upwards.
“Listen, buddy, I got some experience with commanding myself, so please don’t be an ass and shut me out. At the very least hear out my suggestions, or you’re gonna be in a world of hurt. Now you should know what happens next from Basic, so I won’t preach any longer, but just keep what I said in mind, alright?”
Simon returned a slight nod, which seemed to satisfy his driver, before climbing the ladder and looking at the radio he was to be using in the coming months. Like most of the equipment in the tank, it was in perfect condition, with a long wire that connected the mouthpiece to the bulky box, designed to provide radio coverage to vehicles miles away, and communicate with tanks in the unit. There were two dials that stood apart from each other, one adjusting a channel and the other adjusting the volume. Simon removed the receiver from its slot on the side and looked it over in his hand thoughtfully.

He almost jerked back in surprise as it came to life with a crackle just a few seconds later.
“Kenneth to Hermes, Kenneth to Hermes, do you copy, over?”
The commander’s voice sounded appropriately grainy and only slightly distinguishable. Simon pressed down a plastic panel on the side of the device and replied.
“Yes, this is Hermes, we copy. Over.”
There was some adrenaline flowing through his veins as he said this. It was like it was even more stressful speaking to him via radio than it was in person.
“I would like to excuse my assistant when she said you wouldn’t be commanding on day one… That ended up being incorrect. I trust you have received my message from Rat?”
“In a sense…”
A brief pause ensued before Kenneth resumed.
“Keep in mind this is a test of your abilities. If things go sour I will have Lodestar take over the mission, so as not to jeopardize it. Normally I would accompany you, but there are matters that need attending to at the garrison. I do hope you understand.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Your crew will know how to work the vehicle well, so just give orders and don’t bother yourself with the intricacies quite yet. Be smart, stay safe. I have confidence in your abilities, Mr. Ziegler. Kenneth out.”

Simon took a deep breath and returned the earpiece to the box in a swift motion. His head faced downwards as his mind attempted to comprehend what had just taken place.
“Ground team is cleared to mobilize! Ground team mobilize!”
The voice of the megaphone man was muffled from where Simon stood. The nobleman froze stiff upon coming to the reality that he didn’t know where they were to be heading. Just then, his eyes caught something upon the side of the tanks’ inner turret; a map. It looked to have been painted on not long ago, and was exquisitely detailed with geographical lines and an easy to understand key. Best of all, a red line that began at the Garrison and ended at a location named as ‘camp’ was right before him, showing the path perfectly. Simon knew he could take it from here with ease, once again picking up the receiver and adjusting the dial to the ‘company’ frequency.
“This is Panzer Commander Simon! All units head north on me, repeat! All units north on me! Over!”
Desmond immediately picked up on this, and before Simon realized what was happening they were already beginning to move.
“You can look out of the turret if you want, boss… Just pointing that out.”
The driver called out from below. Simon took his advice and positioned his feet on the ladder, opening the hatch and moving half of his body upwards and into the desert air. His arms found themselves resting comfortably on the turret edges soon enough, and just like that Simon was looking out the top of his tank at the desert sands flying past him from below. The man shifted to the rear, observing the two Luchs tanks tagging behind his own a little sluggishly. Behind them was a small crowd of people, each sporting blank faces and watching apathetically as the unit began distancing themselves from the Garrison. Simon frowned as they began growing smaller and smaller. Mind coming to a sudden conclusion.

They all looked hopeless.

The trip was eerily silent.

As the sun’s heat began picking up as the day went on, Simon was forced down from the top of the turret and into the conditioned hull, peering at the surroundings using various observation ports mounted onto the sides of the turret. Desmond didn’t seem to be in much of a speaking mood either, just driving the tank forward without a word and possibly waiting for Simon to start something up. The nobleman wasn’t sure about this, though, so he didn’t bother trying to communicate with the man unless it was absolutely necessary.

Eventually his attention turned to the map painted on the inside of the turret, and all there was left to do that would be meaningful was study it relentlessly until he could recite the surrounding locations like they were his hometown. An impoverished town here, a wasteland there. A surprising amount of canyons were nearby, possibly created by the bombs of the Old War. Many claimed the surrounding desert was haunted by the souls of the men who died on the fields of battle during that war, battlefields remaining untouched by either faction. Occasionally travelers may spy the old ruins of encampments, weathered statues of previous military leaders and docile wrecks of destroyed tanks that made up one of these almost ancient battlegrounds. Hardly any part of the Mainland was untouched by the war, least of all North Africa and Egypt. Lords of war and power had risen and fallen here, only to have their legacies buried beneath the ever blowing sands.

Thankfully, the route Simon was using didn’t take them through the Sinai Death Fields, which were infamous for being the staging grounds for one of the largest battles of the New War. The locals had actually came up with the term, as nobody lived in Sinai anymore, and all that remained on that bloody peninsula were long decayed bodies and thousands of silent tanks.
The nobleman’s attention was quickly diverted by the sound of a bear growling… Or at least something similar.
“Desmond!”
The commander called down, not really caring to look for the source himself.
“Yeah, the hell is it?!”
“What in the blazes is that noise?!”
There was a brief pause, during which Simon could have sworn he heard a chuckle arise from the bowels of the vehicle.
“That’d be Clyde, sir. He’s sleeping well.”
Simon’s face turned to one of perplexion briefly, shifting to the direction of the mighty rumble in almost disbelief.
“Are you sure it’s not the engine?!”
“Nah, it’s definitely Clyde.”

The sound never faded, and soon became a sort of white noise about the hull that Simon eventually grew used to, despite its rather ridiculous volume. It had almost been an hour, when the nobleman jerked upon hearing the crackle of the radio coming to life.
“Ground force to Hermes, ground force to Hermes, requesting acknowledgement, over.”
Simon scrambled to pick up the receiver and upon doing so gave an almost frantic reply.
“This is Hermes. We acknowledge. Over.”
“Alright, Hermes, we have what looks to be a supply convoy converging on our position, over.”
The voice sounded pretty young, but Simon knew the person speaking had done so before. Clearly, this was from one of the Luchs that were accompanying him, and he took this as a sign to poke out of the turret and look around. Despite how fast they were moving, the air still felt incredibly dry. It was like having sandpaper gently rubbed across all parts of your exposed flesh, and the heat didn’t help either. The turret was more than likely scorching hot at this point, so Simon knew better than to touch it. He had taken the receiver up with him, however, and the wire was easily able to stretch that far without tightening up too much. At first, the noble was at a loss as to what exactly he should be doing, as he didn’t see anything nearby.
“Use the binocs, jackass!”
The ever encouraging voice of Desmond called, muffled only slightly. Simon rolled his eyes and ducked back into the turret area.
“This is Hermes, requesting direction of unknowns, over.”
He had only really said this in order to buy some time to find the optics, and this tactic paid off as the slight glint of glass hanging on a hook in the turret sides caught Simon’s eyes. After picking them up, the man once again emerged into the desert air and awaited a reply.
“Two o'clock from your position, about eight hundred meters out, over.”
Simon followed the instructions, and scanned the horizon through the lenses of his binoculars.

In the distance, just emerging from behind a large sand dune, was a mess of different military cars and supply trucks just seeming to be following a road. What unnerved Simon about this was the fact there was a bright red star on the side of one of them.
“... Holy sh*t,” He mused, removing the lenses from his face and holding down ‘talk’ on the receiver, “is that a Ruskie convoy? Over.”
“Looks that way, Panzer Commandant. Over.”
A thousand thoughts ran through Simon’s head at once, but only one really stuck out to him. A supply convoy could mean they wouldn’t have to raid the bandit outpost at all, and may even have more supplies to use. Simon was completely lost as to how Federalist forces were anywhere near this place, however, leading him to believe that he hadn’t been told the whole story from the beginning.
“Alright, await further orders and keep on course for now, over.”
“Roger that. Over.”
Simon lowered himself onto the floor of the tank, and took hold of one of the metal railings on the sides for support.
“So what’s going on, glorious leader?”
Desmond asked, not bothering to turn around as he said this.
“I think we just found a gold mine.”
Simon replied, making his way towards the bunk beds in the rear. Sure enough, both Oscar and Clyde were out cold. Clyde slept on the bottom right bunk and Oscar just above him. The commander could almost feel the roar of Clyde within his very body as he stopped near the two.
“Both of you, wake up! Combat stations!”
No response. The nobleman groaned audibly and tried once again. “We are under attack, wake up immediately!”
Oscar began to stir, groggily shifting his body away from the wall to face Simon. His eyes looked glazed over and dull to say the very least as they gazed down at the short man.
“What is it you want?”
“Man the damn gun!”
The Frenchman looked to only be obeying out of self preservation than anything, and leapt off his bunk to the floor with ease, running to his position and taking a seat. Simon had to both call out and shake Clyde just to get him to stir, but eventually the burly man rolled himself from bed and stood before Simon, almost menacingly. Like a brick wall.
“Yes?”
He asked, clearly not too happy with the situation. Simon knew there was no going back now.
“Prepare the High Explosive rounds. We just found ourselves some prey.”
The commander hoped he wasn’t trying too hard to sound ‘cool’ but it looked as if the loader paid him no mind, lumbering over to the stowage area and looking through the different shell labels. Simon scurried past Oscar and reached the turret area, grabbing the receiver once again from the box it was attached too.
“All units prepare to adjust course on me! Over!”
“Solid copy, over.”
“Roger that, over.”
Simon released the talk panel and turned his head downwards.
“Desmond, adjust course to two o’clock!”
The commander held on for dear life as the machine suddenly swung right, almost throwing Simon towards the opposite end of the turret. Thankfully, this didn’t happen and the commander promptly emerged from his turret once more, intercom clutched in his left hand. He had put the binocs around his neck previously, allowing him to place them to his eyes with his right hand.

The desert scorched his skin, but adrenaline was able to negate this with ease. All there was now was the sound of the tank, which was much louder from the outside. The two Luchs on his rear sides had changed course with him, as well, commanders also looking out of the turrets. One of them happened to be Lodestar, who was staring Simon down with an expression that told him not to mess up. The nobleman gulped, hoping this would go over in his favor as the three began closing in on the distant cars and trucks at surprising speeds. Normally, Simon would have taken the advice Kenneth gave and stayed at a distance, but he was trying to capture the caravan and not destroy it.

The sun was right above them now, a ball of unbearably bright white. There was not a cloud in sight, either, only the sands. Occasionally Simon would be jostled as they drove over some smaller dunes, but the suspension was of a good quality, as it seemed. It had almost been a full minute when Simon could begin making out the distant vehicles without binoculars. There was only a brief window of visibility, where a huge dune parted to reveal a small passing between its sandy arms. But this was all that was needed in order to view the passing cars and trucks who seemed to be picking up their pace considerably as the RU-251 closed in on them. The distance began fading more and more, until the three tanks were nearly within two hundred meters of the convoy. It was then, one of the trucks stopped. Simon saw something mounted in the rear, and almost instantly realized what it was.
“Clyde, load HE now!”
The commander ordered, throwing himself back inside his tank as a storm of hot metal engulfed the nearby air, the cracking sound of a 50. cal MG ringing out. The burst was definitely aimed at Simon’s tank and soon the shells began ricocheting off the turret and hull, showering the front of the tank in sparks, and sending bullets flying off it in random directions. On the inside, Simon felt each and every round make contact. It was like pressing your back against a thin metal surface while someone repeatedly hit it with a hammer, except the hammer was hitting multiple times every second.

“Get the gun loaded, dammit!”
Screamed Desmond, barely audible through the relentless din of the bullets.
“Cannon is loaded!”
Clyde bellowed from below.
“All units halt immediately!”
Called simon, just before his head made contact with the metal of the turret sides, as Desmond slammed the emergency brakes. The next thing the nobleman knew he was lying face up on the metal floor, head throbbing in pain and ears ringing. But by sheer determination, he arose once more, clutching his skull with a grimace.
“On target!”
Oscar shouted from above.
“Fire!”
The commander immediately ordered, clutching a guard rail as the interior shook once more with the boom of the gun. A canister of explosive filler flew from the mighty cannon’s muzzle, cutting through the hot air, and traveling like a mighty juggernaut towards the truck ahead, burrowing into the ground directly before the vehicle and detonating with a deafening boom that conquered the whole desert atmosphere with its strength. Instantaneously, the truck erupted into an inferno and shattered from the force, throwing the desert sands in all directions along with it and ending the gun’s spray of bullets for good. With the bombardment over, Simon could feel a hot, sticky substance leaking from just above his eye. Sure enough, his fingers were stained with it upon being removed from his head.
“Hey, we got some problems here!”
Desmond called, snapping the nobleman back to reality from his momentary daze.
“Wh-What is it?”
“Well look, ya lazy bas***d!”

Simon climbed into the turret section once more and peered out the observation ports into the expanse of desert stretching before him. The smouldering wreck of the MG truck still burned, and was easily visible. But something else was starting to emerge from behind the eastern slab of sand… Something big. The commander squinted his eyes, using his right hand to keep the blood out of them as he tried to make out the figure ahead. Looking back he would have cursed himself for not reacting immediately, but the man was frozen in fear and just didn’t realize it until nearly a half minute had expired.
“HEAVY TANK!”
Oscar exclaimed. The turret began turning and the interior soon shook once more, sending another High Explosive shell towards the distant monster. Simon watched in horror as the angled figure of a IS-2 heavy tank began turning towards them frontally, and ever so slowly. Only the upper part of the hull was exposed, along with the curved turret and enormous cannon. Even so, it was horrifyingly large, and seemed to send a wave of fear through all three imperialist tanks that dared to oppose it.

Another shell flew towards the north, this time striking the opposing tank in the front. But this time, it simply detonated and threw up debris all around, obscuring the IS-2 from sight momentarily. Simon’s whole crew scrambled to peer through observation ports, in an attempt to see what had become of their foe. All except the commander himself, who took a deep breath and calmly spoke to his driver. Silence had been covering the crew compartment up until now, and as Simon broke it he would be heard through the whole tank.
“Desmond.”
“Y-Yeah?”
“Turn left and drive.”
“What?”
“Do it now, Desmond.”
The driver immediately obeyed and the RU-251 began moving once again. Its two companions began lagging behind without having to be ordered to. Not ten seconds after this, the mighty Federalist tank flew up over the dune from behind the cloud of the explosion and began pursuing its fleeing prey as if nothing had happened.
“Load AP, Clyde!”
Ordered Oscar to the slightly worried looking Norse man. Clyde removed a shell from the ammo wall and began placing it into the gun breech. Just as the cannon was ready to fire the entire surrounding area was shaken by the firing of the 122mm gun of the IS-2. The sound was like nothing Simon had heard before, a clang mixed with the sound of thunder soon after. There was a faint noise of yet another boom, as the gigantic shell made contact with something. Simon opened the turret hatch and looked out, expecting to see the burning wreck of one of the Luchs tanks, but instead looking at the clearing of kicked up dust that had occurred just behind them.

The IS-2 had missed.

“Gun is ready, commander!”
Clyde shouted. Simon watched the IS-2 stop and begin turning its turret towards them, suddenly having a risky idea take root in his head.
“Desmond, swing this thing around!”
“That’s bad for the suspension!”
“Just do it!”
The nobleman grasped the the turret ring, hoping Desmond knew what he meant. Thankfully, it seemed he did, as the vehicle swung its entire weight around, spinning through the sands until the gun was facing directly towards the opposing tank. Simon had nearly been thrown from the turret by the inertia, but managed to just hold on.
“Oscar, aim carefully. Don’t rush the shot.”
There was a brief delay, until the turret and gun of Simon’s tank began moving in slight shifts and taking aim at the IS-2, which looked to have its gun trained directly on them. The whole turret jerked with each movement, and adrenaline began building within Simon with each passing second. He knew the enemy tank he was now facing could reload at any second now, but this was his best opportunity to knock it out. Finally the turret stopped and there was dead silence, until a deafening noise and a distant flash filled the area, as the shell struck the opposition.

“Armor piercing rounds are used primarily to knock out hostile vehicles,” the teacher explained to the class, pointing at the chalkboard with a thin switch demonstratively, “they are designed to bypass the armor of the opposition and destroy the internal components of the target. Always use this kind of ammunition when engaging a hostile target with sufficient armor.”
Simon had been staring off into space until this lesson had came around. He knew it was an important part in PanzerKrieg, and had decided to pay close attention. “Also be sure to know the filler of your AP shell. Armor Piercing with a High Explosive filler is usually the most effective way of destroying an opponent. AP with no filler tends to penetrate more armor, but may not destroy the target in a single shot. Either way, if anything gets through the armor of a tank, it’s going to be causing problems.”

Simon didn’t know what the filler of the shell that just struck the enemy tank’s upper hull was made of, but he knew for a fact it had just hit a sloped portion… And glanced off into the sky harmlessly. Everything was in slow motion after that. The sparks flying from the impact of metal on metal, creating a brilliant firework-esque visual. The white outline of the AP round flying into the distance at unfathomable speeds. The intense ringing in his ears from being exposed to the sound of his own gun firing right below him. And the three T-50 light tanks that were beginning to crest the ridge, sporting sloping armor on all sides, and fantastic maneuverability.

But deep down Simon knew that wouldn’t matter anyways, since the IS-2 had to have reloaded by now. The commander waited in horror for the shot that would end it, but no such shot came. Instead, the hatch on the top opened to reveal a face Simon had hoped he would never have to see again.
“That’s not possible…”
He mused in disbelief, as his eyes locked with those of the man who had shot his father during that fateful trip not one month back. The opposing soldier seemed to be just as bewildered as Simon, and the two exchanged incredulous looks for what felt like a full minute. “How is he here? HOW?!”
As if on cue, the figure of the Federalist tanker disappeared back into the enemy tank, leaving Simon frozen in shock. Expression pale, and blood running ice cold. Sound returned.
“Do something, you useless jerk!”
Desmond was screaming frantically. “Do something, or we’re all going to die!”
The IS-2 began moving slowly in reverse, back towards the sand dune it had came from.
“No.”
Simon stated plainly.
“Oscar, shift the gun right and take out those T-50s!”
“Are you insane, sir?!”
“Just kill those damn T-50s, Oscar!”
The turret began turning again, and sure enough the enemy heavy tank had crested the small ridge, and disappeared. Simon’s hunch had paid off.

Meanwhile, the opposing light tanks were moving to engage the two Luchs Simon had accompanying him. It appeared as if one had been trying to flank behind the IS-2 and had ended up being swarmed by the wolf pack of Russian steel. The other was far back, and taking shots at the enemy tanks with what looked to be a modified 50mm Panzer 3 cannon. Unfortunately, the other was armed with the standard 20mm autocannon, which was incapable of piercing the armor of the T-50. One such vehicle had managed to get behind this Luchs, and was turning its turret to fire into the engine deck. Thankfully, Oscar sent an AP shell into its vulnerable side armor and detonated the ammo stowage within. Simon jerked back as the tank burst into a fireworks display of detonations, turret being torn from its mount and thrown into the sky as jets of flames erupted from within. No one was going to be getting out of there alive, that was for certain.

The two other enemy vehicles were still descending from the sand dune towards their prey, firing at random and sending shells flying in the general direction of Simon’s ally, but no more. A moving tank’s accuracy was horrible and at that kind of speed there wasn’t much hope of gaining a hit. A shell from the other Luchs flew true and struck the front armor of one of the attackers, colliding with the crunching sound of metal but failing to penetrate.

Simon felt like the IS-2 commander had just doomed his allies to death by sparing his life, but certainly wasn’t complaining. He just hoped this was indeed a supply caravan, or all this would be for nothing.
“Loading cannon!”
Clyde shouted from below. Simon knew they had the advantage of a good gunner and being stationary, which would allow them to put accurate fire into the opposition with each loading of the gun. His companions would have to hold out until they were ready to fire again, however. The Luchs in front of Simon was lashing out with its 20 millimeter cannon on a T-50 that was beginning to maneuver to the right. The worrying thing was that the other was going left, meaning they were using a sound strategy. The MG bullets ricocheted off the armor harmlessly, even when they began hitting the sides, and the sound of guns firing was all Simon could hear at this point. They were far louder than small arms.

Another shot was fired from the Luchs in the rear, but it lodged itself into the sand dune to the right of the other T-50. The other one was within a few meters of the other Luchs, and looked to be preparing for a strafing shot.
“Gun loaded!”
As soon as this was announced, the hull of Simon’s vehicle jerked back as its gun immediately fired. The shot very nearly missed the T-50 and hit their own ally, but thankfully punched through the rear side armor and started an engine fire within. The Russian light tank skidded to a halt, throwing up sand. A single man managed to escape the burning tank, and leap to the ground below before the fire ignited the ammo and obliterated what remained of his vehicle. Simon watched the Russian tanker crawling away, face and body covered in blood. Probably from spalling, which was when bits of metal fly off from the armor upon a sufficiently powerful hit, acting as dangerous projectiles.

“Bring us closer, Desmond!”
Ordered the commander. This time there was no questioning, as the driver pushed the accelerator and maneuvered the light tank towards its ally. Another shot from the Luchs in the rear, that narrowly missed the last remaining foe, which had swung around and was retreating back towards the sand dune. As Simon grew closer to the knocked out T-50 and his allied Luchs, he noticed the turret was beginning to turn towards him, gun facing down. It soon grew apparent they were going to aim for the survivor of the detonation. “Okay, halt Desmond!”
They came to a slippery stop, as Simon ducked into the turret to grab the radio receiver.
“This is Hermes to platoon! Cease all offensive activities immediately, over!”
“But… Sir.”
“You heard me!”
The noble sprung out of the hatch again to see that the cannon of his ally had stopped just short of the wounded Federalist. He breathed a sigh of relief. “A little closer, Desmond.”
Simon’s steel behemoth crept nearer to the wreck of the T-50, and came to a halt about seven meters from the wounded tanker. Simon proceeded to jump down from his vehicle and onto the scorching hot sand, which he could feel through his shoes. He immediately felt sorry for any poor bas***d who was traveling through here without an AC unit. Kenneth probably had a right to complain a little.

The Federalist had left a small trail of crimson liquid behind him, and was trying to claw himself away upon seeing Simon walking towards his body.
“Calm down I-” the nobleman sighed, realizing he wouldn’t understand a hint of German, “do you speak any English?”
English had become a sort of universal language for officers of both sides of the war. If Simon was fortunate enough that this was the commander, he would surely know some English. It was mandatory during officer’s training, after all. The man seemed more keen to the idea of crawling away however, forcing Simon to step in front of him and prevent his would-be escape. “English. Do you speak english?”
The soldier’s face had been burned severely, from what the noble saw. Parts of his flesh had peeled off, leaving deep red scorch marks with the black of roasted skin surrounding them in distorted rings. It was quite possible he had been in the engine block when the fire started. It would also explain the small bits of metal embedded into his face as well, some glinting at the touch of the huge sun looming above. The face still looked discernable, just severely mangled.

“Wat… Wa…” He rasped in a weak tone. “Water.”
As soon as he stopped, the soldier started cringing, rolling left and right and curling in on himself every once in awhile, writhing in pain. Faint gasps escaped his gaping mouth as he did so, making simon grimace at the sight. Standing and watching silently with a look of disgust on his face. “Pl-Please… Water.”
Simon continued to stare at the poor man, before tilting his head towards his tank a little.
“Somebody get me some water. Get me some water!”
The insides of the vehicle began rumbling for awhile, until Oscar climbed out. He held a glass bottle in one hand that was filled with the life giving substance. The gunner squinted from atop the turret before making his way over to the other two.
“We are leaving ourselves exposed.”
He said, handing the bottle to Simon with a look of genuine concern on his face. It probably wasn’t for his commander though.
“Yeah.” Simon replied, voice a little shaky. “Go tell that Luchs over there to round up the caravan with his ally.”
Oscar nodded, walking over to the distant tank and leaving Simon alone with the Federalist tanker once more. “Here, I uh… Got you some water.” The man snatched the bottle away immediately, and tore off the cap with his opposite hand. He guzzled the liquid at an alarming rate until it was about halfway empty, before proceeding to roll over and throw what remained upon the wounds in his chest and face. A scream resounded through the area as he nearly started to go into convulsions. There would be another raspy breath of air and brief silence, before another blood curdling cry of agony.
“The hell’s going on he-” Desmond stopped dead in his tracks, after emerging from the tank. Both him and Simon were sharing the same expression now. “I’ll be in the Hermes.”

As the engine of the nearby Luchs started up and sent the vehicle on course to the nearby dune, Simon picked up the Federalist soldier and proceeded to throw him over his shoulder. The faint cries of the man being a little obscured by the ringing noise still present in his ears. This was exceptionally difficult for Simon, but somehow he managed to throw the body onto the frontal hull area, and start climbing up himself. His flesh stung as the heat of the sun reflected by the metal burned into his palms, but the nobleman refused to falter. With one final effort, he took hold of the soldier and pushed him atop the turret, following close after. Soon, they were both within the cool, air-conditioned hull, and it felt like Simon had just walked into a blizzard after being exposed to the desert heat for even that long.
“Get him into a bed, Clyde.”
Ordered an exhausted Simon to the loader. The crystal blue eyes of the Norseman gazed directly into his, as he picked up the tanker with ease. They looked proud in a sense, as if Simon was a son who had impressed him in some way. With a brief nod he walked towards the rear and placed him in his own bunk gingerly. The nobleman walked to the small refrigerator and removed one of the many bottles of water within. Each had been placed into separate rungs to prevent them from breaking during combat, and the system looked to have served its purpose. Simon removed the cap, and began drinking the contents almost as quickly as the soldier had done previously, closing the door and taking a seat at the bolted table.

He would look tired, face pale and eyes glossed over as they looked over to Desmond’s back at the drivers controls. The driver spoke as if he knew he was being watched.
“Shoulda’ let him die.”
His voice was emotionless. Like a void.
“Shut the hell up, Desmond.”
Simon spat venomously.
“You’re growin’ too attached to the opposition.”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Hey, pal. The reason I joined the goddamn Panzer Brigade was so that I didn’t need to see people die. When the tank goes down, they tend to go out with the tank.”
“Good. I just saved somebody, so you have no reason to complain.”
Desmond turned to face Simon with agitation.
“Freakin’... Three other people just burned to death, and you saved one. Congrats. If you just followed orders, this would never had happened.”
“If I followed orders, we would be cutting people down with machinegun fire.”

There was no reply.

Making the caravan surrender had been a very easy task. By the time Simon’s Hermes had made its way over the veil of the distant sand dune, the IS-2 was nowhere to be seen, and catching up with the convoy driving into the distance was child's play for three fully equipped panzers.

None dared to open fire, as Simon’s platoon skirted the line before reaching the very top, and finding an armored car with the Crimson Banner sailing overhead.
“This is Simon Ziegler of the Imperial Guard, please respond, over.”
The commander still didn’t feel safe enough to poke his head out of the turret, and instead tried communicating with the hostile car within. Finding a correct channel to speak with enemy vehicles was a rather straightforward task that involved the turning of a few knobs and a couple small adjustments. Simon spoke this in English, and awaited a reply.
“This is Lance Captain Sergey Borisovich. We read.”
An old and spiteful voice with a Russian accent replied. By ‘Lance’ he meant a unit of Federalist armored vehicles. Apparently, Simon had just bagged one of the higher ups on his first outing… Not bad at all.
“Halt your supply convoy immediately, Captain. You cannot pierce our armor.”
There was a brief pause, most likely indicating hesitation, before Simon received a reply.
“Very well, Mr. Ziegler. Shall we meet in the usual way?”
“I believe the com line is fine.”
The noble answered. Typically the Federalist hierarchy was bound by a code of honor in war and peace, but Simon still wasn’t ready to expose himself just yet.
“They’re halting.”
Desmond observed from below.
“Alright, bring us in front of their path to discuss things.”
The German light tank swung onto one of the only flat roads of the desert for miles, front facing the tip of the supply convoy. The two Luchs swung to his sides like oversized bodyguards. Instead of sand, all three kicked up some degree of dry dust that billowed into the air around them similar to the way smoke acted.

“I will first need to ask for unconditional surrender.”
Simon explained.
“Yes, of course. I will arrange it now,” About a minute passed, all the while the radio beeped as it picked up outgoing signals. Signals issued to the Lance units to surrender, no doubt. “Is there anything else?”
“Unfortunately, the three light tanks you sent to intercept us were destroyed. Along with a truck sporting a heavy MG.”
“There are casualties in war… There is no need to throw salt in the wound.”
Sergey’s voice sounded even more bitter through the background of static and radio distortion. Simon remained quiet momentarily, thinking up a reply that wouldn’t sound insulting.
“I mean you no offense, captain, but we were able to recover one of your wounded who escaped the wreck of his tank. We plan to return him to you, but ask for a favor in return.”
“I am in no position to refuse…”
“Splendid,” Simon answered, a smile creeping onto his face, “in return, I want you to fight for me.”
“What?!” Sergey answered, obviously taken aback by the request. “Fight for Imperialist scum?! I would rather die!”
“You would not be fighting for us…” The nobleman started in a mysterious sounding voice. “But with us.”
“... Explain.”
Simon knew he had the man’s attention.
“I’m not sure what a Federalist Lance is doing in this place, but I’m pretty sure you know about the invasion. If you would be willing to unite your Lance with the forces of the Suez Garrison, I swear on my honor as a Guardsman you will not be made prisoners. You will be soldiers. And I swear that you will never be forced to fight your fellow countrymen either.”
Sergey scoffed.
“How am I to trust the honor of a man who refuses to show his face? Leave your tank and we may speak. That is the only way I am willing to discuss this.”

A ‘click’ resounded through the cabin, signalling that the man had dropped the signal. Simon shakily placed to communicator where it belonged and took a deep breath. He knew it would be exceptionally dangerous being among a Lance of men armed with all manner of small arms, but it was the only way to make his plan work out.
“I-I’m going to speak with the enemy commander.”
Simon told his crew from within the turret. He heard Desmond laughing in his usual sarcastic tone from the depths of the crew compartment.
“Alright, glorious leader. Try not to get your ass shot too much.”
The tank commander took another breath of air, calming his nerves down as his eyes rested upon the outline of a Luger pistol mounted to the edge of the turret. The conflict quickly returned, as Simon tried as hard as he could to get the paranoid thoughts of him being killed out of his head. The man’s arm reached for the weapon but hesitated a few inches away. If he was ever going to truly feel normal again, this would probably be a turning point for him.

Slowly, carefully, Simon’s hand strayed away from the weapon until it once more rested at his side. And with a quick burst of confidence, he threw open the hatch, letting the midday light cascade around him.
“You are not doing too badly.”
Oscar spoke just as he was about to exit.
“Not badly enough for you to start calling me ‘sir’?”
The Frenchman chuckled in a deep toned manner.
“Not quite yet.”
At the very least, the sandpaper-like texture of the wind had died down, since they were now stationery. Simon knew he would have to eventually get used to the sudden change in lighting he experienced upon leaving the dimly lit interior of his machine, but today was not that day. His eyes felt incredibly awkward as he was momentarily blinded, but upon adjusting they revealed the surroundings adequately. The trim figure of a Federalist officer stared up at him from in front of his vehicle, face expressionless and arms crossed behind his back. The uniform was a dirty green shade, and was more a simple coat than a trenchcoat. His hat looked a little similar to Simon’s but had a crimson stripe running around the circumference, rim jutting out meagerly.

The officer himself, while looking about twenty five years, had a small brown mustache and oddly firm features. A chiseled face if there ever was one, with oaken eyes that shone with his real age.
“Come out of your nest, I see.”
He spoke, sounding both wary and grim at the same time.
“If you knew the armor of this thing,” Simon started, jumping down to the ground with a grunt, “you would know it isn’t much of a nest.”


The commander approached Sergey, trying to look as casual as possible.
“You say you destroyed three of my T-50s, commander?”
The Russian soldier said.
“That is correct.”
Answered Simon, coming to a halt in front of him and straightening his back.
“No it is not. I remember seeing both it and the coward IS-2 fleeing there not ten minutes ago.” The officer pointed to the west, eyes squinting as if to try and catch a last glimpse of them leaving. “Find them as well. I do not let deserters off so easily.”
Simon nodded, glad that his misjudgement hadn’t led to an ambush.
“So about my… Proposal.”
“Yes, I am prepared to discuss it.”
“Very good. What I had in mind may be a little… Risky. But it may also be the only way either of us are escaping this desert alive or without being prisoners,” Simon began with a hint of uncertainty in his tone, “technically, I am supposed to take you all prisoner anyways, but if you would be willing to open up to me I believe we can come to an arrangement.”
The Federalist grunted.
“You speak good English. Are you educated?”
“I am,” Simon confirmed with a brief nod, “yours is rather good as well.”
“Because I am educated.”
Sergey smiled a little, but not in a genuine fashion.
“I see. Could you tell me why you are here… Exactly?”
“No.”
The smile remained on Sergey’s countenance as he gently shook his head. Simon looked a little defeated, not wanting to threaten the man.
“Okay. What would it take for you to tell me?”

“Why are you here, Mr. Ziegler?”
The noble hoped he was onto something, and decided to answer truthfully.
“Our Garrison is low on supplies, and we were sent to recover some from a local bandit encampment.”
“What a coincidence, my good commander,” Sergey started as soon as Simon finished his last word, “we were sent to do the same thing.”
It was only then that Simon noticed what was in the rows of trucks behind the officer: gasoline. Hundreds of barrels of it, easily enough to get the garrison back on its feet and maybe then some. For a moment, the noble was frozen, knowing that he had already succeeded in killing two birds with one stone.
“I-I see, Mr. Borisovitch.”
“Now this plan. I want to hear it.”
“If you would be willing to come back to the Garrison with me on your own volition I will convince the Commanders there to have us evacuate. From there, we will use your gasoline to power our tanks and allow you to either stay with us or leave.”
Sergey nodded, this time looking a lot more comfortable with the situation.
“I am glad to see that you are one of… Those commanders.”
“What do you mean?”
Simon inquired with a raised brow.
“The compassionate ones. They usually die quicker, but save more than they kill in the long run.”
“Errm… Good to hear. So do we have an agreement?”
Sergey rubbed his chin and began pacing back and forth within the shadow of his armored car. Simon remained stationary, waiting for him to do something. It had been a completely ridiculous amount of time before Sergey finally turned to him.
“Patient too. Perhaps you will live longer than I thought.”
He reached out his almost skeletally thin hand, for a shake and Simon promptly took it. It was embarrassing how much stronger his squeeze was as they did so, especially considering Simon’s hand looked far more healthy.
“Our Lance will follow you back to your… Garrison. Just lead the way, Mr. Ziegler.”

With that, he released Simon and opened the door on the right side of the car. The nobleman rubbed his palm a little before climbing back into the crew compartment, but not before accidentally burning himself on the exposed metal. He would need to remember to only touch the netting next time. Desmond’s voice cut in just as Simon closed the hatch.
“So how’d it go, glorious leader?”
The commander smirked a little and took a seat at the table.
“All according to plan.”
“Bullshit. No way.”
Simon couldn’t help but laugh at his triumph, and rub it into Desmond’s face.
“Well see for yourself. Get this thing moving back to the Garrison.”
Desmond yanked the controls so that the tank spun around at jarring speeds. This was most likely done intentionally, but Simon had anticipated this and hung on extra hard to the furniture. As soon as they began travelling, he climbed past Oscar and into the turret section, removing the intercom.
“All units watch the back of the convoy. We are heading home, over.”
“Roger that.”
“Affirmative!”
The noble couldn’t help but feel a little proud at the extremely faint sounds of cheering in the background as they replied.
“Friggin… Bullshit!”
Desmond cursed, looking into the rearview reflector.

The road grew a little bumpy as they continued, but sure enough the convoy was following behind them. Simon couldn’t focus on this for too long, though, as his comm unit crackled in his hand.
“Lodestar to Hermes, over.”
“This is Hermes, we read you. Over.”
“That was some damn good work, Simon. I’ll be sure to tell Kenneth about this. Over and out.”
Simon returned to the table once again, and sat back with a look of triumph on his face. He had done it! With these supplies they could escape the desert before the attack even took place, and hopefully regroup with General Zimmerman in the north! The desert flew by with each passing second as Simon regained momentum. His tank could easily keep up with the trucks behind him, it could even move faster, and with a series of well issued commands to his driver, they were on course to the Garrison at full speed.

There was one thing still eating away at Simon’s mind. It was where that IS-2 and T-50 had fled to. The man who poked his head out of the Russian heavy tank before was the exact same as the one who shot his father, and the noble knew it for a fact. Thankfully, he was unsure if his father had actually died from said shot, so it wasn’t hard to reserve judgement for the time being. Even so, he wanted to make finding him a priority later on in his journey.
“How do you suppose we will convince them to evacuate?”
Oscar asked from his seat at the gunnery station. Simon wasn’t really sure about how he’d do it himself, but with 60000 enemy tanks coming their way, there was little option but to retreat.
“They would have to be insane not to issue a retreat. I’ve heard General Zimmerman is stationed in the north with ten thousand Panzers, so it would be the logical choice to group up with him.”
“I worry about Kellinger…”
“Kellinger?”
Simon questioned, not really understanding what Oscar meant.
“In order to evacuate we need the permission of both Garrison commanders, or a Garrison commander and next highest in rank if one is killed. Do you know Kellinger’s history?”
The nobleman could remember some of it. Usually award upon award for bravery in battle, and refusal to give a single inch of ground to the enemy. His service record was exceptional, but this would truly be his last stand if he was crazy enough to try and hold the Garrison.
“Yeah… I’m aware.”

Time passed, and lots of it. Soon the sun had turned a crimson red and was creeping below the horizon, casting an orange glow upon the desert below it. Oddly enough, Simon was more curious about what Israel was like than anything, as he stared blankly into the east from atop his turret. All that was beyond the convoy of vehicles following him were endless amounts of sprawling sand. No city, no landmarks. Just sand. From what had taken place during the Old War, Simon would be a little surprised if anything remained of Israel now. Regardless of how he looked at it, the desert had a sort of mystical feel. As if an entire age had been buried beneath, to be forgotten by all who trespassed there in the future. Germany never felt that way, since every part of it seemed to be civilized, but Africa remained a continent of mystery to Simon. The air also felt much more approachable at this time of day, the wind hardly even being a bother and feeling comfortable, if anything.

It had been yet more time before night began to set in, bringing with it the horrendous cold that was the yang of what the desert was like in the day. But soon, upon cresting a small ridge, Simon breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the hundreds of miniature lights of the Suez Garrison near the banks of the Red Sea.
“How are we on fuel, Desmond?”
Asked Simon, briefly ducking into his turret.
“Reads about 3/4 full. This thing can travel pretty far.”
With that sort of mileage they could probably make it out of the desert with a full tank and maybe an extra barrel of fuel. The machine they had been given most certainly lived up to everything Simon hoped, even though the lack of armor worried him a little.

Soon they were pulling into the welcoming area, and the whole place looked completely different from this angle. Like a miniature city, and an oversized parking slot. As Simon came closer he could make out a single figure standing stoically towards the rear of the pocket, shadows of the night cloaking his entire figure.
“Stop the tank, Desmond.”
The Spahpanzer came to a smooth halt, and so did the vehicles behind Simon as he raised his right hand in the air, which was a signal for the convoy to halt. There was a hissing sound like steam as the engine cut out, which was a water coolant system that allowed the engine to recover optimally in desert conditions after a long journey. This was yet another feature Simon had not anticipated being a part of his machine, but once again was glad for having.

When his dress shoes hit the ground, the nobleman stretched himself out a little, considering how long he had been in one place. Clyde and Oscar had fallen asleep on beds on the left this time, so as not to be near the wounded man, so the only person who accompanied him was Desmond, oddly enough.
“What time’s it?”
He asked, arching his back and pressing down with both hands just after jumping down from the tank. Simon exhaled deeply after he finished stretching, feeling almost refreshed from his travels.
“Probably midnight.”
“Eleven twenty three, to be precise, Mr. Ziegler.”
The voice of Kenneth spoke from in front of them. The tall figure of the aging man stepped out from the darkness, one finger pointing at a wristwatch. He looked even more tired than Simon was at this point.
“Oh, sir Kenneth,” Simon said in surprise, “have you been waiting for us to return?”
The commander stepped forward a little and nodded.
“I see that you have some guests…”
Replied Kenneth, looking over Simon’s shoulder at the halted vehicles that were behind his tank. The nobleman laughed nervously.
“Well, there’s a long story having to do with that, si- I mean Kenneth.”
“And I would love to hear it. Lodestar!”
The man shifted his attention to one of the Luchs tanks, more specifically the one with the 50mm cannon. The scout was emerging from the hatch just as her name had been called, and turned to face her superior while crouched atop the turret.
“Yes sir!”
“Get all of this sorted out, please. I wish to speak with Simon!”
“Very good, sir!”

With that, the war hero motioned for Simon to follow and began walking in the direction of the guest house. Simon obeyed, looking back briefly as he did so to see Desmond staring back at him judgmentally. It didn’t feel like the typical stare either, more… Sinister, if there was a word for it. As Simon put his head forward once again he admitted he felt a little uncomfortable. Oddly enough he felt as if Oscar liked him more than Desmond now, despite Desmond being the one who originally told Oscar to stop being so hard on him previously. Clyde was just an enigma so far, and probably held the record for the least number of words spoken in a single sentence.

The walk to the guest house was familiar, if anything. Simon occasionally saw a soldier walking around in the dark, but the whole area was eerily empty at night. There was no curfew in place, so Simon assumed the reason no one tended to go out at night was because they had to wake so early the next morning. In his first week at the Garrison he hadn’t gotten the memo, which led to more than one days where his whole head was throbbing in pain with every motion. The walk was beginning to feel a little awkward, so Simon tried sparking up a small conversation with Kenneth.
“So, umm… Do you have any war stories?”
He didn’t receive a reply for the longest time, which began to make him flush red with embarrassment. But luckily Kenneth did eventually answer just as the distant house came into view, adorned with Chinese-style lanterns hanging from the trim edges. Poor Joseph.
“Many are too long to tell, Mr. Ziegler. But I remember my first time going into battle as if it was yesterday,” There was an air of nostalgia in his voice as he said this, leading Simon to believe he cherished this memory, “I was given this Panzer lV. It was in terrible condition, the plates rusted and almost every part caked with dirt. So naturally we named it the ‘ScheißePanzer’. Horrid tank, it was, but ended up getting the job done as my column was thrown into the battle of Ruddiger's Bay along with the main line," Kenneth grinned a little, shaking his head in a demonstrative manner, "if we didn't have the long 75 that day, I would not be speaking to you right now. The T-34 is just about the perfect medium tank, that I will admit. They came from behind buildings all at once and just peppered us in a hail of simultaneous fire. Contrary to popular belief, the reason we won at all that day was because there was a Bismarck class warship sitting in the bay, blasting apart their vehicles along with the buildings... Maybe the people with them."
Simon could tell Kenneth was not the veteran who liked putting his warlike history behind him. Either that, or in his old age he desperately wanted someone to tell his stories to. His legacy.

The two stepped onto the porch of the house again, and the guard regarded the both of them with a slight nod as Kenneth opened the door, allowing them to begin their small trip to the dining room. The nobleman turned to face Kenneth attentively.
"Why was the 75 so important?"
The commander chuckled as if Simon was a small child asking a stupid question.
"Have you heard about the sloping armor of the T-34?" Began Kenneth in some surprise. "It could protect from just about anything we had at the right angle, so we had to introduce new weaponry. The long 75 could go through the turret, and even the hull armor at decent ranges, and was frankly a superior weapon. They had better armor, we had better guns to get through it."
"I see," replied Simon, "and what of the Panzer lVs armor?"
"Well, fairly thick, but lacked angle. I believe the upper plating blocked one shot from a T-34 a fair distance away, but the driver was wounded by the spalling. We were able to penetrate the bit of side armor exposed, after two missed shots, and blew his ammo."
Kenneth took a seat at the dining table where he had sat the previous night, coincidentally. Simon fell in line by seating himself likewise and picking up yet another glass of wine that had been placed atop the table, which bubbled a deep amber color.
"This is different wine."
He stated, holding it to eye level and observing the liquid curiously. Kenneth nodded, looking at his own portion with disinterest.
"A gift from my fine friend Zimmerman. I plan upon meeting with him again quite soon..."
"So the Americans arrive in two days? Should we not be retreating already?"
The aging soldier shook his head in protest.
"We will inflict as much losses as possible at the garrison first. It is a good position to do so from, and we need time to distribute the gasoline you have procured amongst the forces here."
"I see..." Simon replied in a rather disappointed manner. "There are some things I need to discuss with you, though."
Kenneth leaned back in his chair a little and raised his brow expectantly.
"Very well, Simon. Where should we begin."

The conversation lasted almost two quarters an hour, and bounced about from the strange boy from Warcorps, and his offer, to the surrendered Federalist Lance. Kenneth expressed a good deal of opposition to the former, but ultimately gave Simon the decision. Regarding the mission itself, the noble was a little put off by how the good commander listened to his story as if he had heard it repeated upon many occasions, but considering a man such as Kenneth probably had, the noble took no offense. Eventually, the discussion drifted to Desmond, and the rest of Simon's ragtag crew of unlikely heroes, which was a subject Simon was particularly curious of.
“I picked them myself, you know.” Kenneth explained, taking a sip of his wine. “I actually was considering Desmond for you position, but narrowly decided against it.”
“Wait, what?!” Questioned Simon, attention completely diverted to Kenneth upon hearing these words. His face had shifted quickly to one of simple attentiveness, to that of shock. The good commander’s expression did not shift a touch, however, as he set down his drink. “He has been giving me these-these looks ever since I met him! Why would you pick me over an experienced man such as him?!”
“Simon, I will put this very plainly,” Kenneth began, looking the noble directly in the eye, “There is only one reason I chose you over Desmond, and it is because you are a noble. Your family name is generally respected throughout the fatherland, and people would be more accepting of you in a position of power.”
“So the only reason I have any power at all is because I was born correctly?!”
“Essentially, yes. But judging by the wound above your eye, you are at least adjusting.”
Simon touched the now dried cut above his eye, feeling the beginning signs of a scab that would soon form upon the area. Kenneth’s words had not hurt him too much, though, considering he knew plain well that he was hardly a soldier in the first place.

“Listen, Simon, you have just won a major victory here. Somehow, you managed to capture an entire Federalist Lance without killing the captain, and that alone cements my decision in giving you this.”
The nobleman nodded slowly, and sat back in his chair with a weary sigh.
“It was more luck than anything. I didn’t even know Federalists would be nearby in the first place, let alone they had just done the exact thing I was sent to do. It could have been a disaster!”
“But it wasn’t.” Kenneth replied firmly. The commander looked much more serious now, and Simon felt almost nervous as his gaze shot through him. “Considering the history of your family, this is hardly a coincidence.”
The young tanker shifted a bit at the mention of his family.
“I am no Upton Ziegler, Kenneth.”
“They called you the ‘Knights of Iron.’ At every turn, your kin excel at all things Panzerkrieg, and that is not something to forsake.”
Simon looked a little solemn, recounting the stories he had been told in his childhood. From every story his father had told him, Simon always felt a little apprehension when tanks were mentioned. The descriptions of how their machine guns eliminated entire infantry units and seconds, and how their main cannons decimated any building in their way. The stories made tanks out to be monsters, and in reality it seemed that they really were.
“The Knights have long been disbanded,” the nobleman answered with a more sombre tone, “you speak of a time that has passed already. Died along with everyone else in this war.”
“Not dead, Simon. Just waiting for a revival.”
The noble, now wanting to end the conversation more than ever, folded his hands on the table before him and leaned in.
“At least I know why Desmond has such disdain for me, but we need to be ready to evacuate at a moment’s notice. I plan on enlisting the support of War Corps to help us out a little.”
“Very well, that is your decision. But for now, please get some rest. Tomorrow we will be preparing for an invasion.”

Simon was hardly prepared to prepare.