Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rhythmic sound of boots hitting asphalt echoed through the open parking lot of Liberty Prime University Academy. The clack-clack of rifle stocks, the sharp pivot of heels, and the synchronized metallic clicks as the L.P.U.A. Silent Drill Team twirled and maneuvered their M14 rifles created an almost hypnotic spectacle. Each move was flawless, disciplined, and intimidating. These weren't the iconic M1 Garands of traditional drill ceremonies; no, L.P.U.A. had upgraded. Everything about the school screamed modernity and innovation.

From his office window, Anthony Ulysses Grant watched the drill team with a quiet sense of pride. Dressed in his L.P.U.A. uniform—black pants, a white button-up shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms, and his blazer draped over the back of his chair—he looked every bit the composed commander. His short dreadlocks framed his face, and a thin layer of facial hair made him look older than his 17 years.

To anyone watching, he appeared calm, calculating, and serious.

On his desk, stacks of paperwork waited for his attention: logistics reports, maintenance checks for the tanks, and strategies for the upcoming match against China's Tankery school, Red Banner Academy. The Chinese school had a reputation for being relentless, their crews drilled to perfection with tactics that combined overwhelming force and strategic cunning. Their Type 99 main battle tanks were state-of-the-art, and their crews, mostly handpicked from China's military academies, had yet to taste defeat.

Anthony's pen moved steadily across the paper, his dark brown eyes scanning the fine print. Occasionally, his gaze drifted to a photo in a simple wooden frame on his desk. It was a snapshot of his childhood: seven-year-old Anthony, piggybacking a giggling Miho Nishizumi, with a grumpy Maho cradled awkwardly in his other arm. His sisters—Leah, Imani, Ann, and Harriet—stood around him, smiling widely. It had been taken during their summer trip to Japan, their first exposure to Sensha-Dō. It was a simpler time before responsibilities and rivalries complicated things.

A sharp knock at his office door pulled him out of his reverie.

"Come in," he said, his voice calm but firm.

The door opened, and the sound of high heels against the floor preceded a figure in a pristine white uniform stepping into his office. The air immediately grew tense. Standing before him was Liu Meixian, the Overall Commander of Red Banner Academy. Her long black hair was tied into a severe bun, and her piercing dark eyes scrutinized the room with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

She was flanked by two aides, both girls in the same immaculate uniform, their expressions unreadable.

"Ah, Grant," Liu said, her voice smooth but laced with condescension. "Hard at work, I see?"

Anthony leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his broad chest. He didn't rise to greet her; she hadn't earned that respect. "Liu," he said simply. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Liu's lips curled into a smirk as she approached his desk, her sharp gaze flickering briefly to the photo before settling back on him. "I thought it polite to pay you a visit before our match. After all, it's rare for Red Banner Academy to face... such a unique opponent."

Anthony's brow arched slightly. "Unique?" he echoed.

"You are a curious mix," she said, gesturing vaguely. "A co-ed school with boys and girls competing together. A school that uses... modern tactics." Her tone dripped with subtle mockery. "And of course, a commander so... young."

The comment wasn't lost on Anthony, but he didn't bite. Instead, he gave her a small, disarming smile. "Age doesn't define capability, Liu. I'd have thought a school like Red Banner would understand that."

Liu's smirk faltered for a moment before she recovered, her posture stiffening. "Perhaps. But I wonder how well your... unconventional methods will fare against our discipline and tradition. Type 99 tanks are not so easily bested."

Anthony didn't respond immediately. He let her words hang in the air as he picked up his pen and made a note on one of the papers before him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady, with an edge of warning. "Every tank has a weakness, Liu. The trick is knowing where to strike."

Her aides shifted uncomfortably, but Liu remained composed. "We shall see, Grant," she said, turning on her heel. "Until the match."

As she walked out, her heels clicking against the floor, Anthony leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. His eyes narrowed as he considered her visit. It wasn't just a courtesy call; it was a probe, a power play. Liu wanted to gauge his confidence, to rattle him before the match. She wouldn't get that satisfaction.

Later that afternoon, Anthony stood on the edge of the parking lot, watching the drill team finish their routine. The final move—a synchronized toss of the M14s followed by a sharp salute—earned scattered applause from a few onlookers. Anthony nodded in approval before turning to Leah, who stood beside him.

"Not bad," he said.

Leah, the most analytical of the Grant siblings, adjusted her glasses and crossed her arms. "Not bad? They were flawless. You're too critical, Anthony."

He smirked faintly. "Perfection's the baseline. We need them exceptional."

Leah rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She knew her brother's standards were what kept L.P.U.A. at the top.

Imani and Harriet approached, the former grinning widely while the latter wore her usual scowl.

Imani spoke first, her voice loud enough to draw stares. "Yo, Ant! Did you see that spin move? They nailed it!"

Harriet snorted. "They better have. I drilled them hard enough."

Anthony ignored their bickering and turned to Harriet. "How's the Marine Corps Regiment shaping up?"

"Solid," Harriet replied, her mohawk catching the sunlight. "The new recruits are rough around the edges, but we'll whip them into shape. They'll be ready for the match."

"Good," Anthony said. "We'll need every advantage we can get."

That evening, the main conference room buzzed with activity as the tank crews assembled. Boys and girls of all backgrounds filled the room, their chatter a mix of anticipation and nerves. At the head of the room, Anthony stood behind a podium, his expression serious. The room fell silent as he began to speak.

"Our match against Red Banner Academy isn't just about winning," he said, his voice firm. "It's about proving that our approach—our teamwork, our tactics, our innovation—is just as valid as their tradition. They'll underestimate us. That's their mistake."

The room was quiet, every eye on him. Anthony's gaze swept across the room, lingering briefly on familiar faces: Harriet and Imani, sitting with their fellow Marine Corps commanders; Leah, scribbling notes as always; and the younger recruits, wide-eyed but eager.

"They'll come at us with everything they've got," Anthony continued. "We won't back down. We'll hit harder, think faster, and work together. That's what makes us L.P.U.A."

The room erupted into cheers, the energy palpable. Harriet let out a whoop, slapping Imani on the back, while Leah nodded approvingly. Anthony allowed himself a small smile. They were ready—or as ready as they could be.

As the sun set over Fort Monroe, Anthony found himself back in his office. The photo of his childhood trip to Japan caught his eye again, and he picked it up, running his thumb over the frame. He remembered the joy of that summer, the excitement of seeing tanks for the first time, and the laughter he shared with Miho and Maho.

His thoughts turned to the match ahead. Red Banner Academy was a formidable opponent, and Liu Meixian wasn't someone to be underestimated. But Anthony had faced doubters and challengers before. He wasn't about to let his team—or his family—down.

Placing the photo back on his desk, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing with determination. The fight was just beginning.

Chapter Text

The sound of diesel engines idling filled the motor pool as Anthony walked through the open garage, his boots crunching against the concrete. Tanks of various shapes and sizes lined the space, from WWII-era Shermans used for training exercises to the sleek, upgraded M1A2 SEPv3 Abrams tanks that would be deployed in the upcoming match. Crews bustled around, performing maintenance and checks, their chatter mixing with the occasional metallic clang of tools.

Beside him was his Vice-Commander, Tyrone Williams, who moved at a much slower pace, hands tucked into the pockets of his L.P.U.A. uniform.

At 5'10" and sporting a laid-back demeanor, Tyrone looked out of place amidst the intensity of the motor pool. His short dreadlocks framed a face that always seemed to carry a faint smirk, as though he knew a joke no one else was in on.

"Yo, Ant, you gotta chill," Tyrone said, yawning as he lazily glanced at a clipboard in his hand. "I swear you're wound up tighter than the engine block on that Abrams."

Anthony shot him a look. "This isn't the time to chill, Ty. We've got less than a week before we face Red Banner, and I'm not leaving anything to chance."

Tyrone shrugged. "Fair enough. But you know you don't have to micromanage everything, right? That's what you've got me for."

Anthony stopped in front of a row of LAV-25s being inspected by the Marine Corps Regiment. Harriet stood nearby, barking orders while gesturing toward a maintenance crew. Anthony crossed his arms and nodded toward Tyrone.

"Alright, Vice-Commander. Let's see that genius of yours in action. What's the status?"

Tyrone flipped through the clipboard, squinting at the details as though the act of reading was physically exhausting. "Alright, let's see... Abrams fleet is good to go—engines tuned, optics calibrated, ammo stocked. The Shermans are running fine, no major repairs needed. LAVs... well, a couple of those babies need their turrets recalibrated, but nothing we can't handle before game day."

Anthony nodded, his gaze sharp as he scanned the tanks. "What about the T30?"

Tyrone whistled low. "Your big boy? Yeah, she's purring like a kitten. That new turbine engine you had installed? Chef's kiss. She's got more horsepower than a drag race lineup."

Anthony smirked faintly at the analogy. "Good. I want her ready to roll. She's going to be our ace in the hole."

Tyrone has an IQ of 210.

As they walked further down the row, they passed by a group of younger recruits struggling with a Sherman's track tension. Anthony stopped, watching for a moment before stepping in.

"You're over-tightening," he said, his calm voice cutting through the noise. "Loosen it a quarter turn and try again."

The recruits nodded nervously, fumbling with the tools. Tyrone leaned against the tank, shaking his head.

"Man, you've got to let the kids figure it out. You can't hold their hands forever."

"I'm not holding their hands," Anthony replied. "I'm teaching them to walk."

Tyrone snorted. "Yeah, and when they fall flat on their faces, I'll be the one cleaning up the mess."

Their next stop was the armory, where racks of ammunition and equipment were meticulously organized. Tyrone took the lead this time, pointing out the inventory as they walked.

"APFSDS rounds? Check. HEAT rounds? Check. Smoke canisters? Check. Rubber bullets for the Marine Corps'... unique methods? Also check," Tyrone listed, his tone deadpan.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Unique methods? You mean taking POWs?"

Tyrone grinned. "Hey, I'm just saying, it's not every day you see a bunch of teenagers rocking LAVs and grabbing 'prisoners' in the middle of a match. It's creative."

"Creative is one word for it," Anthony said, shaking his head.

As they moved through the armory, Anthony noticed a group of Marines loading crates onto a truck. Harriet was supervising, her arms crossed and her expression impatient. She spotted the two boys and waved them over.

"About time you showed up," Harriet said, her tone sharp. "These idiots keep loading the wrong crates. I swear, if I have to explain the difference between AP rounds and practice rounds one more time—"

"Relax, Harriet," Tyrone interrupted, stepping up to the truck and glancing at the crates. "You're too high-strung. See? This one's labeled wrong. It's not their fault they can't read your chicken-scratch handwriting."

Harriet glared at him, but Tyrone just grinned lazily and started fixing the labels. Anthony, meanwhile, inspected the contents of a nearby crate, his sharp eyes scanning for any discrepancies.

"Everything looks good here," Anthony said. "Just make sure those crates are secured properly. We can't afford any accidents."

After hours of inspections, Anthony and Tyrone finally took a break in the school's canteen. The room was bustling with students and crews, the air filled with laughter and chatter. Tyrone slouched in his chair, a burger in one hand and a soda in the other, while Anthony sat upright, sipping from a bottle of water.

"You know," Tyrone said between bites, "I still don't get why you're so worked up about this match. Red Banner's good, but we've beaten schools just as tough before."

Anthony set his bottle down, his expression serious. "It's not just about beating them, Ty. It's about making a statement. Red Banner represents everything we're not—strict tradition, rigid hierarchy, and a refusal to adapt. If we win, we prove that our way works, that Tankery can evolve."

Tyrone chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. "Fair point. But you do realize that means they're going to come at us with everything they've got, right?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Anthony said.

That night, Anthony sat alone in his office, the hum of the desk lamp the only sound in the room. Papers and diagrams were spread out before him, detailing every aspect of the upcoming match. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened, and Tyrone stepped in, still dressed in his uniform but looking slightly more alert than usual. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, which he set on Anthony's desk.

"Figured you could use this," Tyrone said, dropping into the chair opposite him.

Anthony nodded his thanks and took a sip. "What's on your mind?"

Tyrone shrugged. "Just figured I'd check in. You've been burning the midnight oil all week. Don't want you keeling over before the match."

"I'm fine," Anthony said, though the weariness in his voice betrayed him.

"Yeah, sure you are," Tyrone said, smirking. "Look, you've got this, man. You're the best damn commander this school's ever had. Stop stressing so much."

Anthony sighed, setting the mug down. "I'm not stressed. I'm focused. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh," Tyrone said, clearly unconvinced. "Just don't forget to breathe, okay? You're not a machine, no matter how much you act like one."

Anthony allowed himself a small smile. "Thanks, Ty."

Tyrone stood, stretching. "No problem. Now, get some sleep, or I'll make you."

As Tyrone left, Anthony leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The match against Red Banner loomed large in his mind, but with Tyrone and the rest of the team at his side, he knew they had a fighting chance.

The battle was coming, and Anthony would be ready.

Chapter Text

The faint glow of the moon filtered through the blinds, casting slanted lines across Anthony's sparsely decorated dorm room. His desk, neatly organized with papers, notebooks, and a few small personal items, sat opposite his neatly made bed. His T30 model tank was perched on the corner of the desk, a silent reminder of the responsibilities he bore. The digital clock beside his bed blinked 3:14 AM in bold red numbers when a loud knock echoed through the room.

Anthony groaned, running a hand over his face as he sat up. He was dressed in loose black sweatpants and a white tank top, his muscular frame shifting with irritation. Another knock followed, more urgent this time.

"Who the hell is it?" he growled, rolling out of bed and striding to the door.

When he yanked it open, he was greeted by the sight of a young Marine in the distinctive uniform of the L.P.U.A. Marine Corps College Regiment. The Marine snapped to attention, his face pale but determined despite the late hour.

"Commander Grant, sir," the Marine began, his voice tight with urgency. "We've apprehended a Chinese spy."

Anthony's dark brown eyes narrowed dangerously. "A spy?" His tone was low, almost a growl, as his brain worked quickly to process the information. "Where?"

"They were caught snooping near the motor pool, sir. The Marines detained them and brought them to the underground holding cell. They're... resistant, but we've, uh, made sure they're compliant."

Anthony's jaw tightened, but he nodded sharply. "Give me a minute."

Minutes later, Anthony walked briskly through the dimly lit hallways of the underground detention area beneath L.P.U.A.'s main complex. The air was cooler here, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the concrete walls. The sound of his boots echoed with each step, accompanied by the Marine, who trailed nervously behind him.

The underground prison wasn't officially listed as part of the academy's facilities. It was built as part of the Marine Corps Division's more... unique operations, meant for capturing and interrogating opponents during matches. However, it was rarely used for anything more serious than detaining trespassers.

As Anthony approached the holding cells, he could hear murmurs of conversation and the faint scuffle of boots. Two Marines stood at attention outside the heavy steel door, their expressions stiffening as Anthony approached. One of them saluted sharply.

"The spy is inside, Commander," the Marine said.

Anthony nodded, gesturing for the door to be opened.

Inside the cell, the air was heavier, carrying the faint metallic scent of blood and sweat. The spy sat slumped in a chair in the middle of the room, their wrists cuffed to the metal arms. A single bare bulb swung above, casting flickering light across their battered face. The spy, a young Chinese woman in her early twenties, glared defiantly at Anthony as he entered. Her lip was split, and bruises dotted her sharp cheekbones, evidence of a scuffle with the Marines.

Anthony's eyes flicked to the two Marines standing on either side of the spy, their uniforms slightly disheveled from the struggle. He crossed his arms, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the seated figure.

"So," Anthony began, his voice calm but cold. "You thought you could sneak into my academy and get away with it?"

The spy didn't respond, her dark eyes locking onto his with a mixture of defiance and calculation.

One of the Marines stepped forward, his voice tense. "Sir, we caught her near the motor pool. She had a device—probably for taking pictures—but she smashed it before we could secure it. She's been uncooperative ever since."

Anthony tilted his head, his gaze never leaving the spy. "Did she say anything?"

"Nothing useful, sir. Just kept speaking Mandarin. We didn't understand a word of it."

Anthony exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the back of the chair opposite the spy. He leaned forward slightly, his dark brown eyes boring into hers. "You're in no position to play games," he said, his tone low and menacing. "You're going to tell me who sent you, what you were looking for, and why you thought you'd get away with it."

The spy smirked faintly, her lips curling despite the obvious pain. She spoke in Mandarin, her voice soft but mocking.

Anthony straightened, his expression unreadable. To the surprise of everyone in the room, he responded fluently in the same language.

"{You think this is a joke? Let me make one thing clear: I don't play games, and I don't lose. Now, tell me who sent you, or I'll make sure you regret coming here.}"

The spy's smirk faltered, her confidence visibly shaken by his fluency. She hesitated, glancing at the Marines flanking her before returning her gaze to Anthony.

"{You can't stop what's coming,}" she said finally. "{Red Banner Academy is just the beginning.}"

Anthony's jaw tightened, but he gave no outward sign of frustration. Instead, he stepped back, his voice calm but firm. "Keep her here. No one gets in or out without my permission. I'll deal with this later."

As he turned to leave, the spy called after him, her voice laced with venom. "{You're already too late.}"

Anthony paused for a brief moment, his shoulders tense, before continuing out the door.

Back in the command room, Anthony paced the floor, his mind racing. Tyrone leaned casually against the wall, a mug of coffee in one hand and a raised eyebrow aimed at Anthony.

"So," Tyrone drawled, "what's the verdict? Is she just a wannabe, or do we have a real problem on our hands?"

"She's real," Anthony said without hesitation. "Too confident, too prepared. She's not just some random spy—they sent her here for a reason."

Tyrone took a sip of his coffee, his sharp mind already working through the implications. "Probably scoping us out for weaknesses. Red Banner doesn't like surprises, and we're about as unconventional as it gets. Makes sense they'd send someone to peek behind the curtain."

Anthony stopped pacing, his fists clenching at his sides. "If they're willing to go this far, they're planning something big. We need to tighten security. Double the guards at the motor pool and increase patrols around the campus. I don't want anyone getting within a hundred feet of our tanks without clearance."

Tyrone nodded, his usual relaxed demeanor giving way to a rare seriousness. "You got it. I'll make sure the Marines are on it."

Anthony sat heavily in his chair, his hands steepled under his chin. The match against Red Banner Academy was no longer just about Tankery—it was becoming a battle of wills, a clash of ideologies.

And Anthony had no intention of losing.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the command room's secure phone console filled the air as Anthony sat alone, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the metal desk. The underground command center was dimly lit, the faint glow of monitors casting shadows across his sharp features. The events of the night so far had left him restless. The captured spy's cryptic warnings echoed in his mind, and he knew that if Red Banner Academy was playing dirty, L.P.U.A. would need to stay two steps ahead.

Anthony leaned back in his chair, glancing at the encrypted console. It was a direct line to one of the U.S. government's most secretive operatives, someone who specialized in getting what was needed without leaving a trace. He typed in the necessary code, activating the secure channel. After a few rings, the line clicked, and a deep, calm voice greeted him.

"This is Specter. What do you need, Commander Grant?"

"Specter, it's Anthony," he said, his voice steady but firm. "I need a favor."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. "A favor at 3:45 AM? Must be something serious."

"It is," Anthony replied, leaning forward. "I need prototype engine modifications delivered ASAP. We're talking upgrades for our LAV-AGs, M10 Brookers, and Strykers. Something that'll push them beyond the redline without blowing them apart."

Specter chuckled lightly. "You don't ask for much, do you? Anything else?"

Anthony hesitated for a moment. "Yeah. I need prototype 130mm gun turrets for the Abrams. I don't care how experimental they are; I need them operational by the time we face Red Banner Academy."

There was a long silence on the other end, and Anthony could almost hear the gears turning in Specter's mind. Finally, the voice came back, calm but with a hint of intrigue.

"Alright, Grant. I can make it happen. But you know how this works. These deliveries don't come without strings. You'll owe us one."

Anthony's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I'll pay the price. Just make sure it's discreet. The last thing I need is Red Banner catching wind of this."

Specter laughed softly. "Don't worry, kid. By the time they realize what hit them, it'll be too late. Delivery will be arranged at your secure drop point within 48 hours."

The line went dead, and Anthony leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He trusted Specter to deliver, but the weight of the deal lingered in the back of his mind. The modifications would give L.P.U.A. the edge they needed, but the cost of such favors always had a way of catching up.

Leaving the command center, Anthony made his way back to his dorm. The halls of the academy were eerily quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of students and Marines replaced by the faint hum of the ventilation system. His footsteps echoed softly as he climbed the stairs to his private quarters.

As he reached his room, he paused for a moment, his hand resting on the door handle. The spy's warning echoed in his mind: You're already too late.

Shaking his head, he pushed the thought aside and stepped inside. His room was as he had left it, spartan and orderly. The bed was neatly made, and his desk remained cluttered with the documents and plans he'd been working on earlier.

Anthony sat down at the edge of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew he needed sleep, but his mind was racing with strategies, contingencies, and the weight of the decisions he'd made tonight.

His gaze drifted to the model T30 tank on his desk, a gift from his father when he first became interested in Tankery.

It was a reminder of why he fought so hard—not just for himself or his team, but for the ideals of innovation and adaptability that L.P.U.A. represented.

As he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind finally began to slow. The faint hum of the academy's systems became a lullaby, and the weight of the day's events started to fade.

The battle against Red Banner Academy was coming, and it was going to be a clash unlike any other. But for now, Anthony allowed himself a brief moment of rest, knowing that tomorrow would bring new challenges—and he would face them head-on.

Chapter Text

The sprawling campus of Red Banner Academy sat just outside the bustling heart of Beijing, its architecture a mix of modern grandeur and traditional Chinese design. Red and gold banners fluttered in the crisp late afternoon breeze, each emblazoned with the academy's symbol: a roaring dragon clutching a tank in its claws. The academy exuded an air of discipline and authority, with rows of pristine Type 99 tanks lined neatly in the motor pool, crews working tirelessly under the watchful eyes of their instructors.

Inside the command building, a tense meeting was underway. The room, a sleek conference hall with polished marble floors and walls adorned with military accolades, was filled with the academy's highest-ranking officers and commanders. At the head of the table sat Liu Meixian, Red Banner's Overall Commander. Her severe expression and piercing eyes silenced any idle chatter as she tapped her perfectly manicured fingers against the table.

The digital clock on the wall read 4:45 PM, and the atmosphere in the room was heavy with unspoken tension.

"She's late," Meixian said coldly, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "We were supposed to receive her report hours ago."

One of her aides, a slim man with glasses and a nervous demeanor, shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Commander Liu, it's possible she was... compromised. Liberty Prime University Academy is known for its tight security."

Meixian's eyes narrowed, her fingers stopping mid-tap. "Possible? Let me make something very clear," she said, her tone icy. "This academy does not deal in possibilities. If she has been compromised, then we must assume Liberty Prime is already moving to counter us."

Another officer, a grizzled man with a scar running across his cheek, leaned forward.

"If she's been caught, they'll interrogate her. She knows too much."

Meixian's lips tightened into a thin line. The spy they had sent was no amateur; she had been trained extensively to resist interrogation. But even the best agents had their limits, and Meixian couldn't afford to take chances.

"She won't talk," Meixian said firmly, though her words seemed aimed more at herself than anyone else. "But we cannot wait idly. If Liberty Prime suspects our intentions, they'll fortify their defenses. We need to escalate our preparations."

One of the younger commanders hesitated before speaking. "Commander, what if they've already uncovered her purpose? They might know about our plans for the match."

Meixian's gaze snapped to the commander, her eyes sharp enough to cut steel. "Then we'll make sure they don't have time to act on it. Begin the contingency plan."

The room fell silent as the weight of her words settled over the table. Everyone present knew what the contingency plan entailed—escalation. If Liberty Prime thought they could outmaneuver Red Banner Academy, they were gravely mistaken.

As the meeting adjourned, Meixian made her way to the motor pool, where her personal crew was overseeing maintenance on her command tank, a heavily modified Type 99. Its sleek, angular frame gleamed in the afternoon sun, the dragon insignia on its turret a bold statement of Red Banner's dominance.

She approached her crew, her sharp heels clicking against the concrete. The crew snapped to attention as she arrived.

"Status report," Meixian demanded.

"Commander, your Type 99 is fully operational," the crew chief replied, his voice steady. "We've installed the upgraded composite armor and enhanced the fire control system as per your orders. The 125mm cannon is calibrated for maximum accuracy."

Meixian nodded, her expression unreadable. "Good. And the rest of the fleet?"

"The entire fleet is combat-ready, Commander. The crews have been running drills nonstop, and morale is high."

Meixian allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "Excellent. Double the drill schedule. I want every crew operating at peak performance. If Liberty Prime thinks they can stand against us, they'll regret it."

"Yes, Commander," the crew chief said, saluting.

Later that evening, Meixian sat alone in her private office, the room dimly lit by the glow of her computer screen. She reviewed the plans for the upcoming match, her mind racing with contingencies and countermeasures. The spy's silence was a glaring hole in her strategy, but she couldn't afford to show weakness.

Her computer beeped, signaling an incoming encrypted message. She clicked it open, and a single line of text appeared:

"Agent 712 compromised. Liberty Prime is aware. Prepare for Phase Two."

Meixian's jaw tightened. Phase Two was a drastic measure, one that would blur the lines between a Tankery match and actual warfare. But if Liberty Prime wanted a fight, Red Banner would give them one.

She reached for her desk phone, dialing a secure line. After a few rings, a gravelly voice answered.

"Phase Two?" the voice asked.

"Yes," Meixian said, her tone cold and deliberate. "Begin preparations immediately. If they want war, we'll bring it to them."

Hanging up, she leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled under her chin. The game had changed, and Red Banner Academy was prepared to play dirty.

"Let's see how far you're willing to go, Commander Grant," she murmured to herself, a predatory smile curling her lips.

Chapter Text

The sprawling arena in Texas was unlike any other Tankery battlefield. Stretching across miles of rugged desert terrain, it was designed to challenge even the most skilled teams. The dry air carried the faint scent of sagebrush, and the early morning sun bathed the battlefield in a golden glow. Dozens of spectators, officials, and crew members bustled about, their chatter and movement adding to the anticipation that hung in the air.

At the center of L.P.U.A.'s staging area, Anthony Ulysses Grant stood tall, his Woodland BDU uniform pristine and his 5-star Overall Commander insignia glinting faintly under the sunlight.

His short dreadlocks framed a face of calm determination, and his broad shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the moment with ease. Next to him, Tyrone Williams, in his matching Woodland BDU with 4-star Vice-Commander insignia, let out a lazy yawn.

"Could you at least pretend to be awake?" Anthony said, not turning to look at his best friend.

Tyrone smirked, adjusting the sleeves of his uniform. "Man, I'm awake. Just conserving energy. You should try it sometime, Ant."

Anthony didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the Chinese delegation was expected to arrive. The roar of engines in the distance signaled their approach, and he adjusted his stance slightly. His hands rested behind his back, his calm demeanor masking the tension boiling beneath the surface.

Nearby, the Overall Commanders of the Mexican and French Tankery schools stood, offering their support. Alejandro Cortés, the Mexican commander, was a wiry young man in desert camouflage.

He wore a wide grin that seemed permanently fixed to his face, exuding confidence and charm.

"Anthony," Alejandro said, his thick accent carrying warmth and camaraderie, "you've got this, amigo. Just remember—hit them hard and fast."

Beside him, Émilie Moreau, the French commander, stood with a more reserved air. Her navy-blue tanker uniform was immaculately pressed, and her blonde hair was tucked neatly under her beret.

Her piercing blue eyes studied the horizon as she spoke.

"Do not underestimate them," Émilie said, her voice calm but firm. "The Chinese are relentless. They will test every weakness."

Anthony nodded, acknowledging their advice. "Thanks. We'll handle it."

Tyrone, leaning lazily against a nearby Stryker, chuckled. "I mean, we've got the best tanks, the best crews, and the best commander. What could go wrong?"

Alejandro laughed, slapping Tyrone on the back. "Confidence, I like it!"

Émilie, however, remained serious. "Confidence is good, but preparation wins battles."

Anthony allowed himself a faint smile. "That's why we've got both."

The distant hum of engines grew louder until a convoy of sleek Chinese military transport vehicles emerged from the horizon. At the center of the formation was their prized fleet of Type 99 tanks, their angular frames gleaming under the Texas sun. The convoy came to a halt with precision, and the crews began disembarking with practiced discipline.

Liu Meixian, in her stark white uniform with gold trim, stepped down from her command vehicle, her expression unreadable. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her sharp gaze scanned the L.P.U.A. staging area. She carried herself with an air of superiority, her every move deliberate and calculated.

"Commander Grant," she said, her voice cool and formal as she approached. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Commander Liu," Anthony replied, his tone even but firm. "Welcome to Texas."

Liu's lips curled into a faint smirk. "I hope your team is ready. Red Banner Academy is not accustomed to losing."

Tyrone let out a low whistle, his lazy grin still in place. "Damn, she's confident. Almost makes me feel bad for what's about to happen."

Liu's gaze flicked to Tyrone, her expression unchanging. "Confidence is earned, Vice-Commander. I hope you can say the same."

Anthony stepped forward, his towering frame dwarfing Liu. "We'll let the battlefield decide."

Liu inclined her head slightly, her smirk never fading. "Indeed."

As the Chinese crews prepared their tanks, L.P.U.A.'s teams worked tirelessly to ensure everything was in place. The Marine Corps Regiment, in their darker MARPAT camouflage uniforms, moved with precision as they loaded ammunition and checked their vehicles.

The Abrams, Strykers, and LAV-AGs gleamed under the sunlight, their upgrades ready to be tested.

Harriet, her mohawk standing tall, barked orders at her crew as they secured the last of the supplies. "Move your asses! I want this LAV ready to roll in five minutes!"

Imani, standing nearby with her wild dreadlocks pulled back, smirked. "Relax, sis. We've got this."

Harriet shot her a glare. "Don't tell me to relax. We're about to go up against the best Red Banner's got. We're not half-assing this."

Anthony watched from a distance, his arms crossed as he observed the final preparations. Tyrone, standing beside him, tapped idly at his clipboard.

"Everything's set," Tyrone said. "Crews are ready, tanks are primed, and the prototypes are installed. We're good to go."

Anthony nodded. "Then let's show them what L.P.U.A. can do."

As the sun reached its peak, both teams lined up at the starting point, their tanks gleaming in the midday light. The referees gave the signal, and the match began with a thunderous roar of engines.

L.P.U.A. split into two main groups: the Heavy Armor Division, led by Anthony in his Abrams, and the Rapid Response Unit, led by Harriet and Imani in their LAV-AGs and Strykers.

The terrain offered plenty of cover, with rocky outcroppings and dry riverbeds providing natural choke points.

Red Banner Academy moved with precision, their Type 99 tanks forming a tight phalanx as they advanced. Liu Meixian's command tank, marked by a red dragon insignia, led the charge.

"Stay sharp," Anthony said over the comms. "They'll try to overwhelm us with coordinated strikes. Stick to the plan."

Tyrone's voice crackled through the headset. "Roger that. Let's make them work for it."

As the two teams clashed, the battlefield erupted into chaos. Shells exploded, dust clouds rose, and the roar of engines filled the air. The Chinese tanks were relentless, but L.P.U.A.'s crews responded with equal ferocity, their tactics blending modern innovation with old-school ingenuity.

Anthony's Abrams roared to life, its newly installed 130mm gun turret delivering devastating blows. The upgrades proved their worth as the tank maneuvered with surprising agility, outflanking the slower Type 99s.

Meanwhile, Harriet and Imani led the Rapid Response Unit in hit-and-run attacks, their lighter vehicles exploiting gaps in the Chinese formation. The LAV-AGs and Strykers darted in and out of cover, their speed and firepower keeping the enemy off balance.

"Keep the pressure on!" Harriet shouted over the comms. "Don't give them a chance to regroup!"

The match was fierce, each side pushing the limits of their skill and strategy. But as the sun began to set, it became clear that L.P.U.A. had the upper hand.

With the Chinese formation in disarray, Anthony saw his chance. "All units, focus fire on their command tank," he ordered.

The L.P.U.A. fleet converged on Liu Meixian's tank, their combined firepower overwhelming her defenses. As her command tank was immobilized, the referees signaled the end of the match.

Cheers erupted from the L.P.U.A. crews as the victory was announced. Tyrone leaned back in his seat, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Well, that was fun."

Anthony stepped out of his tank, his expression calm but his eyes gleaming with pride. As Liu Meixian exited her damaged tank, her usual composure faltered for a brief moment before she approached Anthony.

"You fought well," she admitted grudgingly.

Anthony extended a hand. "So did you."

She hesitated, then shook his hand briefly before walking away. The rivalry between their schools was far from over, but for now, L.P.U.A. had proven its worth.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Anthony stood amidst the cheers of his team, knowing that this victory was just one step in a much larger battle. The world of Tankery had changed, and L.P.U.A. was ready to lead the charge.

Chapter Text

The celebration was in full swing at Liberty Prime University Academy's makeshift camp. The sounds of laughter, cheers, and music filled the evening air, accompanied by the savory aroma of grilled food wafting from the outdoor grills. Tables were laden with dishes—everything from classic American barbecue to regional Tex-Mex specialties. The L.P.U.A. crews, still in their uniforms smeared with dirt and dust from the match, celebrated their hard-fought victory with well-earned enthusiasm.

Anthony stood to the side of the festivities, his Woodland BDU slightly unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a plain white undershirt. His arms were crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched his team unwind. Tyrone leaned against a nearby truck, a paper plate piled high with ribs and cornbread in one hand and a soda in the other.

"Man, we crushed it today," Tyrone said between bites. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Anthony nodded, his gaze shifting to the edge of the camp where the Chinese delegation was quietly packing up their gear. The mood around the Red Banner team was subdued, their once-imposing demeanor replaced by a palpable sense of defeat. Liu Meixian stood at the center of it all, her white uniform still immaculate despite the day's battle. Her expression was stoic, but Anthony could see the weight of the loss in her posture.

"They're taking it hard," Anthony murmured.

Tyrone followed his gaze and shrugged. "Can you blame them? They came in here thinking they'd steamroll us, and we handed them their asses. That's gotta sting."

Anthony's brow furrowed slightly. He understood the sting of defeat all too well. He had felt it before during his early days in Tankery, and he knew how isolating it could be.

"They fought well," Anthony said after a moment. "They're not failures. They just need to be reminded of that."

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "What're you thinking?"

Without answering, Anthony straightened his uniform and began walking toward the Chinese camp. Tyrone groaned, setting his plate down. "Of course. You and that damn sportsmanship."

As Anthony approached, the Chinese crews looked up, their conversations halting as they noticed the towering American commander. Liu Meixian turned to face him, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he drew closer.

"Commander Grant," she said, her tone polite but guarded. "Is there something you need?"

Anthony stopped a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his voice firm. "Yeah. I need you and your team to join our celebration."

The suggestion hung in the air for a moment, met with stunned silence. The Red Banner crews exchanged confused glances, and even Liu's normally unshakable composure faltered slightly.

"You want us to join your celebration?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Anthony nodded. "That's right. You fought hard today. You pushed us to our limits, and that deserves recognition. A match like that isn't just about winning or losing—it's about respect. So come on, join us. You've earned it."

Liu's lips pressed into a thin line, her mind clearly racing as she processed his words. Her pride and the sting of defeat warred with the unexpected gesture of goodwill. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

"You are... unexpected, Commander Grant," she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "But I will not refuse. Thank you."

She turned to her team, speaking in Mandarin. The Red Banner crews hesitated for a moment before nodding and beginning to follow her toward the L.P.U.A. camp.

The arrival of the Red Banner delegation initially quieted the L.P.U.A. celebration as everyone turned to see their former opponents approaching. Harriet and Imani exchanged surprised looks, and Tyrone let out a low whistle.

"Well, I'll be damned," Tyrone muttered. "You actually pulled it off."

Anthony shot him a glance. "It's called sportsmanship, Ty. You should try it sometime."

The silence was broken as Anthony stepped forward, addressing both teams. "Listen up! Today's match was one of the toughest we've faced, and we couldn't have done it without a worthy opponent. Red Banner Academy gave us everything they had, and we respect the hell out of them for it. So tonight, we celebrate together—as Tankery teams and as peers."

The declaration was met with cheers from the L.P.U.A. crews and polite nods from the Chinese. The tension between the two groups began to dissipate as they mingled, sharing food and stories. Laughter soon replaced the earlier unease, and the camp became a lively mix of cultures and camaraderie.

Liu Meixian stood near one of the grills, a plate of food in hand, as she watched her team slowly relax. Anthony approached her, holding a soda.

"Not bad, huh?" he said, handing her the drink.

She accepted it with a small nod. "I must admit, I didn't expect this. Red Banner is... not accustomed to such gestures."

Anthony shrugged. "Well, maybe it's time for a change. Tankery's about more than just winning. It's about building connections, learning from each other. Besides, nobody deserves to leave feeling like they're not good enough."

Liu studied him for a moment, her sharp gaze softening slightly. "You are an unusual commander, Anthony Grant. I respect that."

He chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

As the night wore on, the lines between the two teams blurred. Crews from both schools traded jokes, discussed tactics, and even challenged each other to friendly games of darts and arm wrestling. Harriet and Imani dominated the latter, much to the amazement of the Red Banner team.

Tyrone, sitting with a group of Chinese tankers, grinned as he explained one of L.P.U.A.'s more unconventional maneuvers from the match. "Yeah, that move with the Strykers? All me. Gotta keep things interesting, you know?"

One of the Chinese crew members laughed. "You are lazy, but clever."

"Hey, I take that as a compliment," Tyrone replied, raising his soda in a mock toast.

By the end of the night, the two teams parted not as bitter rivals but as mutual respecters of each other's skills. As the Red Banner delegation prepared to leave, Liu Meixian approached Anthony one last time.

"Today was a lesson for us," she admitted. "We will take it to heart. But don't think this changes anything. The next time we meet, Red Banner Academy will be ready."

Anthony smirked, extending his hand. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

She shook his hand firmly, her grip strong but respectful. "Until next time, Commander Grant."

As the Chinese convoy disappeared into the night, Anthony turned back to his team, who were already cleaning up the camp. The day had been a victory not just in the match but in bridging a gap between two very different schools.

And for Anthony, that was a win worth celebrating.

Chapter Text

The conference room of Liberty Prime University Academy wasn't used often, and for good reason. It was reserved for moments of utmost importance, where the highest-ranking individuals in both the academy and the US government came together. Today was one of those rare occasions.

The long, polished oak table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by leather chairs occupied by the school's commanders and officers. At the head of the table sat a mix of towering figures in both military and political spheres. The Principal of L.P.U.A., a stern-faced woman in her fifties, sat flanked by the four-star generals of the Army, Air Force, Marines, and admirals of the Navy and Coast Guard. Their uniforms gleaming with medals and insignias. To her left, sitting with an aura of authority that made the room feel smaller, was none other than the President of the United States.

Anthony Ulysses Grant sat near the middle of the table, his Woodland BDU uniform neatly pressed, his 5-star Overall Commander insignia marking his rank. Next to him, Tyrone Williams leaned back in his chair, looking as relaxed as ever despite the high-stakes atmosphere. On the other side of the table sat Harriet and Imani, their postures confident and unbothered. Meanwhile, many of the other student commanders fidgeted nervously, their gazes darting between the military brass and the President.

The tension in the room was palpable, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning.

The principal stood, her hands clasped behind her back, and addressed the room. "Thank you all for attending. This meeting is being held to discuss the results of the match against Red Banner Academy, as well as the future trajectory of L.P.U.A. in both national and international Tankery competitions."

Her gaze swept across the room, landing briefly on the President, who nodded for her to continue. "But before we move into specifics, I would like to extend our thanks to Commander Grant and his team for their exemplary performance."

There was a round of polite applause, but the President's voice cut through it with ease.

"Exemplary is an understatement," he said, leaning forward. His presence commanded the room effortlessly, his sharp blue eyes scanning the table. "Commander Grant and his team demonstrated not only superior tactics but also the kind of leadership and sportsmanship that reflects the best of American values. Commander Grant, stand up."

Anthony stood, his expression calm but his posture straight as a rod. "Yes, sir."

The President smiled faintly. "You and your team didn't just win a match. You proved that the US approach to Tankery—co-ed, innovative, and adaptable—is a force to be reckoned with. That was no small feat against an opponent like Red Banner Academy. On behalf of the United States, I commend you."

"Thank you, sir," Anthony replied, his voice steady. He sat down as the President shifted his attention to the rest of the room.

General Donovan, the Army's 4-star representative, took the floor next. He was a burly man with a deep voice and an air of no-nonsense authority.

"The match against Red Banner wasn't just about bragging rights," he began. "It was a test of the tactics and training that we've implemented here at L.P.U.A. While the victory is worth celebrating, it's also a reminder that our competitors are watching us closely. The capture of a Red Banner spy underscores the seriousness of the threats we face."

Harriet raised an eyebrow, muttering to Imani, "Guess the spy wasn't enough of a hint." Imani smirked but stayed quiet.

General Donovan's eyes flicked briefly to the sisters before continuing. "Commander Grant, your decision to extend an olive branch to Red Banner after the match was... unconventional, but it may have diffused tensions. What was your reasoning?"

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his tone measured. "Good sportsmanship, sir. Winning is important, but respect between competitors builds stronger relationships. If we can show our strength while earning their respect, we set a precedent that Tankery is about more than just combat—it's about unity."

The room was silent for a moment before the Navy admiral, a wiry man with sharp features, nodded in approval. "Wise beyond your years, Commander Grant."

As the conversation shifted to tactics, Tyrone, who had been leaning back and twiddling a pen, finally spoke up.

"Look," he said, cutting off a particularly verbose colonel, "we can sit here and analyze all day, but the fact is, we're not just playing chess. Tankery is as much about adaptation on the fly as it is about pre-planned strategy. That's why we win—we think like foxes, not hammers."

A murmur of approval rippled through the younger commanders, while some of the military brass looked slightly irritated at his casual tone. The President, however, chuckled.

"I like this one," he said, gesturing toward Tyrone. "You're right, young man. Wars are won by those who can adapt. And I hear you're the brains behind some of L.P.U.A.'s more... unconventional maneuvers."

Tyrone grinned, his laid-back demeanor unchanged. "Guilty as charged, sir."

The principal brought the meeting back to order. "Looking ahead, we need to ensure that L.P.U.A. remains at the forefront of Tankery innovation. This includes new technologies, additional training for our crews, and potential partnerships with allied schools."

The Air Force general chimed in. "We're also considering integrating aerial reconnaissance drones into training exercises. It's not strictly traditional Tankery, but it could give us a significant edge."

The idea sparked a lively discussion, with opinions ranging from cautious optimism to outright skepticism. Anthony listened carefully, occasionally exchanging glances with Tyrone and Harriet. Finally, the President raised his hand, silencing the room.

"This academy represents the future," he said, his voice firm. "Not just for Tankery, but for the values we hold dear: innovation, diversity, and unity. Commander Grant, Vice-Commander Williams, and their team are proof of what's possible when we embrace those values. Let's build on this momentum."

As the meeting adjourned, the room began to clear, but the President motioned for Anthony to stay behind. Tyrone gave him a thumbs-up as he left, while Harriet and Imani exchanged knowing smirks.

Once the room was empty, the President approached Anthony, his expression serious but not unkind.

"You've done well, Anthony," he said. "But you know this isn't just about Tankery. The world is watching, and L.P.U.A. is more than a school—it's a symbol. Keep leading by example, and you'll do more than win matches. You'll inspire change."

Anthony nodded, his voice steady. "I understand, sir."

The President smiled faintly, patting him on the shoulder. "Good. Now get some rest—you've earned it."

As the President exited, Anthony stood alone in the empty room, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but he also knew he wasn't walking it alone.

Chapter Text

The grand halls of the United Federation Tankery Academy (UFTA) in Saint Petersburg reflected both the history and modernity of Russia. The academy, housed in a sprawling fortress-like complex, was a testament to Russian engineering and military tradition. Massive columns adorned the entrance to the main building, and the walls were decorated with murals depicting famous battles throughout Russia's history. Inside, the conference room was no less grand, with its high ceilings, heavy oak table, and massive chandelier casting a cold light over the gathered attendees.

At the head of the table sat Miya Oktyabrskaya, her 6'3" frame radiating confidence and authority.

Dressed in the dark green uniform of the academy, complete with a 5-star Overall Commander insignia pinned to her chest, she exuded the aura of a seasoned commander. Her short blonde hair was neatly combed, and her piercing dark blue eyes scanned the room with an intensity that silenced any whispers.

Despite her young age, Miya's presence dominated the room, and her past—the betrayal by Katyusha at Pravda Girls High School—added an edge to her already formidable reputation. Around the table sat her officers, as well as representatives from the Russian Armed Forces and members of the government.

At the far end of the table sat President Alexei Vlasov, the leader of the Russian Federation. He was an imposing man in his sixties with a steely gaze and a calm, authoritative demeanor. Like his American counterpart, he recognized the significance of Tankery not only as a sport but as a demonstration of national pride and power.

The room was silent as Miya stood, her expression calm but her voice carrying the weight of command.

"Yesterday, we achieved a decisive victory against Brazil's Tankery Academy," she began. "Our tactics, discipline, and teamwork prevailed over their aggression and unpredictability. This match was not just a demonstration of our strength—it was a message to the world."

Her gaze shifted to her officers, who nodded in agreement. She then turned to the President. "Comrade President, I am proud to report that our teams are operating at peak efficiency. However, there is no room for complacency. Our enemies are evolving, and we must do the same."

President Vlasov leaned forward, his sharp gaze fixed on her. "Your performance yesterday was commendable, Commander Oktyabrskaya. But what of the intelligence reports concerning Liberty Prime University Academy?"

Miya's jaw tightened slightly at the mention of the American school. She reached for a dossier on the table, flipping it open to reveal detailed reports and photographs.

"Liberty Prime is unlike any opponent we've faced," Miya said, her tone serious. "Their unconventional tactics, combined with their integration of modern technology, make them a formidable force. Their victory against Red Banner Academy is proof of this."

One of the officers, a man in his late thirties with a gruff demeanor, frowned. "Are you suggesting they pose a threat to our dominance?"

Miya's eyes narrowed. "I am suggesting that underestimating them would be a grave mistake. They are unorthodox, yes, but effective. We must be prepared to counter their strategies should we face them in competition."

As Miya continued her briefing, the room grew tense. The recent loss by Red Banner Academy had sent shockwaves through the global Tankery community, and the Russian representatives were keenly aware of the implications.

One of the generals, a broad-shouldered man with a booming voice, leaned back in his chair. "This Liberty Prime," he said, his tone skeptical, "relies too much on technology. They lack the tradition and discipline that define true Tankery. It is nothing more than a gimmick."

Miya's gaze snapped to the general, her voice colder than the Russian winter. "With respect, Comrade General, gimmicks don't win matches against teams like Red Banner. Liberty Prime defeated them because they adapted, while Red Banner clung to tradition. We cannot afford to make the same mistake."

The general stiffened, but before he could respond, President Vlasov raised a hand, silencing the room. "Commander Oktyabrskaya is correct. Adaptation is the key to survival. Liberty Prime has demonstrated that Tankery is evolving, and we must evolve with it."

As the meeting continued, Miya couldn't help but think back to her time at Pravda Girls High School. Katyusha's betrayal during the 61st National High School Senshado Tournament had been a defining moment in her life. The memories of the ambush, the relentless fire from both Kuromorimine and Pravda tanks, and the desperate fight for survival were etched into her mind.

Her crew had fought valiantly, taking down multiple enemy tanks despite being outnumbered and outgunned. But the injuries they sustained—and the realization that their supposed leader had sacrificed them for her own gain—left deep scars. Miya and her crew had severed ties with Pravda, vowing never to trust anyone like Katyusha again.

That betrayal had fueled her rise at UFTA. She had channeled her pain and anger into becoming one of the most skilled and respected commanders in Russia. But the scars remained, driving her to ensure no one under her command would ever feel the way she had.

As the meeting drew to a close, President Vlasov addressed the room once more.

"We are entering a new era," he said, his voice firm. "The world is watching, and Russia must maintain its place at the forefront of Tankery. Commander Oktyabrskaya, I trust you to lead our academy to victory, no matter the opponent. Prepare your teams for anything—and I mean anything."

Miya stood, her expression resolute. "Yes, Comrade President. We will be ready."

As the room emptied, Miya remained behind, staring at the dossier on Liberty Prime University Academy. The Americans were formidable, but she was determined to ensure that if they ever faced each other, it would be Russia who emerged victorious.

In her mind, she could already hear the roar of engines and the clash of cannons. The battlefield awaited.

Chapter Text

The glow of the setting sun filtered through the tall windows of Miya Oktyabrskaya's private office in the United Federation Tankery Academy. The room, furnished with dark wood and military memorabilia, was a stark reflection of Miya's life-disciplined, purposeful, and burdened by history.

Seated across from her was her Vice-Commander and closest confidante, Anastasia "Nastya" Volkov, a 6'0" Russian girl with a wiry frame and a perpetual air of quiet intensity.

Like Miya, Anastasia had been part of the ill-fated Pravda crew during the 61st National High School Senshado Tournament. The two shared a bond forged not only by their survival but by the betrayal that had left its mark on their lives.

Anastasia wore her UFTA uniform with an air of disinterest, the sleeves of her dark green jacket slightly crumpled. Her dark brown hair was cut short, almost boyish, and her pale blue eyes carried a haunted look that never seemed to fade completely. She sat hunched slightly, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers tapping against the arm of the chair.

Miya stood by the window, her hands clasped behind her back as she stared out at the sprawling academy grounds. The silence in the room was heavy, the kind that only two people with shared pain could sit in comfortably.

"They're afraid," Miya said finally, her voice low and steady. "The generals, the politicians. They see Liberty Prime as a threat to the status quo."

Anastasia snorted softly, leaning back in her chair. "Good. They should be afraid. The Americans aren't playing by the old rules, and we're too proud to admit it."

Miya turned to face her, her piercing blue eyes meeting Anastasia's. "And what about us? Do you think we're ready for what's coming?"

Anastasia shrugged, but there was a tension in her movements that betrayed her calm exterior. "We're ready enough. Our crews are disciplined, our tanks are strong, and you're the best damn commander Russia has. But... the past doesn't let go so easily, does it?"

Miya's jaw tightened, and she sat down across from Anastasia, her posture rigid. "No. It doesn't."

For a moment, neither spoke. The weight of their shared history hung in the air, unspoken but palpable. Finally, Miya broke the silence.

"Do you ever think about that day?" she asked quietly.

Anastasia's fingers stopped tapping, her eyes darkening. "I think about it every time I close my eyes. The sound of the cannons, the way Katyusha's voice sounded over the radio when she ordered us into that trap... the screams when the shells hit. I remember all of it."

Miya nodded slowly. "I do too. Every detail. The way the air smelled, the way my hands shook on the controls, the look on my crew's faces when we realized what was happening."

Anastasia's voice softened, though her tone was bitter. "And the way she left us there. Like we were expendable."

Miya clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "We were expendable to her. We were nothing more than a distraction, a sacrifice for her victory. And yet, she still calls herself a commander."

Anastasia leaned forward, her voice hard. "You're not like her. You never were. That's why we followed you here, Miya. You're the reason we survived that day."

Miya's expression softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. "We survived because of each other, Nastya. Because we refused to give up, even when the odds were against us. That's what sets us apart-not just from Katyusha, but from every commander who sees their crew as tools instead of people."

Anastasia leaned back again, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "So, what's next? The Americans are making waves, the higher-ups are panicking, and Red Banner's licking their wounds. What do we do?"

Miya's gaze was steady, her voice resolute. "We prepare. Liberty Prime is a threat, but they're also an opportunity. They'll push us to be better, to adapt. And when the time comes, we'll face them-not as the Pravda crew who were left to die, but as the UFTA team that refuses to lose."

Anastasia smirked faintly, a glimmer of her old confidence returning. "Now that's the Miya I know. Let's show them what real Russian Tankery looks like."

Miya allowed herself a small smile, though the weight of the past still lingered in her eyes. "We'll show them. But first, we need to make sure we're ready-for them, and for anyone else who dares to challenge us."

The two sat in silence for a moment longer, the unspoken understanding between them stronger than words. They were survivors, fighters, and commanders. The scars of the past might never fade, but they would not define their future.

Together, they would forge a path forward, one battle at a time.

Chapter Text

The imposing gates of the United Federation Tankery Academy (UFTA) opened with a deep metallic groan, revealing the sprawling campus nestled amidst the snow-dusted streets of Saint Petersburg. Anthony and Tyrone stepped out of the armored transport that had carried them from the airport, their breath visible in the icy air. Both wore their Woodland BDU uniforms, the dark green blending against the snowy Russian backdrop.

UFTA's massive stone buildings loomed ahead, their architectural grandeur a testament to Russia's military tradition. Despite the cold, the atmosphere was warm with respect rather than rivalry. Unlike the tension-filled visit from Red Banner, this meeting felt different-both sides had something to prove but not at the expense of camaraderie.

Miya Oktyabrskaya and Anastasia Volkov waited at the steps of the main building, flanked by several officers from UFTA. The Russian commanders stood tall and composed, their dark green uniforms crisp against the white backdrop. Miya's piercing blue eyes met Anthony's as he approached, and Anastasia's faint smirk flickered as she noticed Tyrone's usual laid-back stride.

"Commander Grant," Miya said, extending a hand as Anthony reached the steps. Her voice was calm, steady, and free of any condescension. "Welcome to the United Federation Tankery Academy. It's an honor to finally meet you."

Anthony shook her hand, his grip firm but respectful. "Commander Oktyabrskaya, thank you for having us. The honor's ours."

Tyrone, meanwhile, gave Anastasia an exaggerated nod and a grin. "Vice-Commander Volkov, I like the setup you've got here. Feels like a Bond villain's lair but, y'know, classy."

Anastasia's smirk widened as she shook his hand. "Vice-Commander Williams, I wasn't expecting you to be so... casual."

"Casual's my middle name," Tyrone quipped, adjusting the sleeves of his uniform. "But don't worry-I get the job done."

Anastasia tilted her head slightly, clearly intrigued. "We'll see about that."

Miya motioned toward the entrance. "Please, come inside. The weather isn't kind this time of year."

Anthony and Tyrone followed the Russian commanders into the main hall, their boots clicking against the polished marble floors. The grand interior was adorned with historical artifacts, portraits of legendary Russian commanders, and banners celebrating UFTA's victories in international Tankery competitions.

The group entered a spacious conference room dominated by a long wooden table, its surface gleaming under the soft light of the chandeliers. A large map of the world covered one wall, marked with pins representing key Tankery schools and matches.

Anthony and Tyrone took their seats across from Miya and Anastasia, while officers from both sides settled into their positions around the table. Unlike the formal, stiff atmosphere of the meeting with Red Banner, this gathering felt less about politics and more about mutual understanding.

Miya opened the discussion, her tone direct but respectful. "Let me start by saying that UFTA respects the capabilities of Liberty Prime University Academy. Your victory against Red Banner was no small feat, and it has not gone unnoticed."

Anthony nodded, his posture relaxed but attentive. "Your recent win against Brazil's Tankery Academy was equally impressive. We've studied the footage-your strategies were surgical."

Miya's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Surgical, perhaps, but we both know that no match is perfect. There's always room to improve."

Tyrone leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Ain't that the truth. But I gotta admit, your crew's discipline is next level. Almost like robots out there."

Anastasia raised an eyebrow. "Robots? I suppose you could say that. But discipline and precision are the cornerstones of our approach."

Tyrone grinned. "Yeah, but don't underestimate a little chaos. Sometimes you gotta throw the playbook out the window to keep things interesting."

Anastasia's smirk returned. "You sound like a man who enjoys taking risks."

"Only the smart ones," Tyrone replied with a wink.

As the meeting progressed, the conversation shifted to more technical matters. Both sides exchanged ideas, discussing tactics, tank modifications, and training methodologies. The mutual respect between the commanders became increasingly evident.

Anthony shared details about L.P.U.A.'s use of modern tactics, blending traditional Tankery maneuvers with innovative strategies inspired by modern warfare. Miya listened intently, occasionally asking pointed questions about their approach.

"Your use of lighter vehicles like the Stryker and LAV-AG is unconventional," Miya observed. "Most schools rely heavily on heavy tanks for their firepower and durability. What made you choose this path?"

Anthony leaned forward slightly. "Speed and adaptability. Heavy tanks are important, but lighter vehicles can exploit weaknesses, outmaneuver larger opponents, and hit where it hurts most. It's about balancing offense and defense."

Miya nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. We've relied heavily on our T-series tanks for their firepower and resilience, but perhaps it's time we reconsider our approach."

Anastasia crossed her arms, her expression skeptical but curious. "And what about your Abrams with the 130mm gun turret? That's not exactly standard issue."

Tyrone chuckled. "Let's just say we've got friends in high places. But yeah, that beast packs a punch."

Miya's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of intrigue in her gaze. "I'd like to see it in action someday."

Anthony's lips curled into a faint smile. "Maybe you will."

As the formal discussion wound down, Miya and Anthony found themselves standing near the large map on the wall, their respective teams engaged in quieter conversations.

"You don't strike me as the type to flaunt a victory," Miya said, glancing at Anthony.

"I'm not," Anthony replied. "Tankery's about more than winning. It's about respect-for your team, your opponents, and the sport itself."

Miya nodded slowly. "I used to think that way. Before... Pravda."

Anthony didn't press her for details, but his expression softened slightly. "I've read about what happened. You and your crew went through hell, and you came out stronger for it."

Miya's jaw tightened, but she met his gaze. "We did. But it changes you. Makes you see things differently."

Anthony nodded. "I get that. Responsibility changes you. But it also gives you the chance to make things better-for yourself and the people who trust you."

Miya studied him for a moment before nodding. "Perhaps you're right."

As the meeting concluded, Miya and Anastasia escorted Anthony and Tyrone back to their transport. The snow had begun to fall again, blanketing the campus in a soft white layer.

"This has been enlightening," Miya said as they reached the vehicle. "I appreciate your openness, Commander Grant."

"Likewise," Anthony replied, extending a hand. "I look forward to seeing what UFTA brings to the table in the future."

Miya shook his hand firmly, her grip strong. "You won't be disappointed."

Anastasia smirked at Tyrone. "Next time, Vice-Commander, perhaps you'll show us what that 'chaos' of yours looks like in action."

Tyrone grinned, hopping into the vehicle. "Oh, you'll see. And trust me, it's worth the wait."

As the transport pulled away, Anthony glanced back at the towering gates of UFTA. The meeting had been productive, but he knew this was just the beginning. The next time they met, it wouldn't be in a conference room-it would be on the battlefield. And neither side would hold anything back.

Chapter Text

The sleek black sedan rolled to a stop outside the gates of Deutscher Panzer-Akademie (DPA), the prestigious German Tankery school located in the Bavarian Alps. The crisp mountain air carried the faint scent of pine and snow, and the imposing stone architecture of the academy loomed against the breathtaking backdrop of towering peaks. The school was renowned not only for its formidable tank crews but also for its strict discipline and rich tradition.

Inside the car, Anthony adjusted his Woodland BDU, his 5-star Overall Commander insignia gleaming under the faint sunlight. Next to him, Tyrone Williams was unusually focused, adjusting his own uniform with a level of care Anthony rarely saw.

Anthony raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're actually fixing your uniform? Who are you, and what have you done with Tyrone?"

Tyrone grinned, straightening his collar in the reflection of the car window. "Look, man, German girls are no joke. Gotta make a good impression, you know? Plus, they love guys with confidence—and let's be real, I'm overflowing with it."

Anthony shook his head, chuckling. "As long as you're focused when it matters."

"Oh, I'm focused," Tyrone said, his grin widening. "Just maybe not on the same things you are."

The gates opened with a quiet hum, and the sedan drove into the academy grounds, where a group of students and officers waited to greet them. Leading the group was Klara Wagner, DPA's Overall Commander.

At 5'11" with platinum blonde hair tied neatly into a braid, Klara exuded the precision and poise that German Tankery was famous for. Her ice-blue eyes swept over the arriving guests, and she stepped forward with a confident stride as the sedan came to a stop.

Anthony and Tyrone exited the car, and Klara greeted them with a slight bow. "Commander Grant, Vice-Commander Villiams. Willkommen. It is an honor to host you here at Deutscher Panzer-Akademie."

Anthony returned the bow, his expression calm. "Thank you, Commander Wagner. It's a privilege to be here. Your academy's reputation precedes you."

Tyrone, for once, managed to keep his grin in check as he offered Klara a handshake. "Commander Wagner, nice to meet you. Your place is incredible."

Klara's handshake was firm, and her gaze lingered on Tyrone for a moment. "Thank you. We take great pride in our school."

As the group began walking toward the main building, Anthony noticed Tyrone glancing around, his usual laid-back demeanor replaced with an almost childlike curiosity.

"You're scoping out the place already?" Anthony muttered under his breath.

"Hey, just appreciating the culture," Tyrone whispered back, though his grin gave away his true intentions.

Klara led the two commanders through the academy, giving them a detailed tour of the facilities. The motor pool was a highlight, with rows of meticulously maintained Panther, Tiger I, and modernized Leopard 2A7+ tanks gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The students and crews moved with a level of discipline that bordered on military precision.

Tyrone leaned toward Anthony as they passed a group of students in spotless uniforms. "I think I just fell in love, man. Did you see that girl by the Panther? She looked like a Valkyrie."

Anthony sighed, shaking his head. "Focus, Tyrone."

"I am focused," Tyrone insisted. "I'm just saying, German engineering isn't the only thing impressive here."

Klara, who had clearly overheard the exchange, glanced back with a raised eyebrow but said nothing. Anthony offered her an apologetic look, but she merely smirked faintly and continued the tour.

After the tour, Klara escorted Anthony and Tyrone to the strategy room. The walls were lined with maps, blueprints, and historical records of past matches. A large table in the center displayed a detailed model of a battlefield, complete with miniature tanks representing different strategies and formations.

Klara gestured for them to take a seat before speaking. "Deutscher Panzer-Akademie has always valued precision and tradition. However, the rise of unconventional schools like Liberty Prime University Academy has challenged us to adapt. Your victory against Red Banner Academy was... enlightening."

Anthony nodded, leaning forward slightly. "Unconventional tactics can disrupt even the most disciplined teams. But precision and adaptability together are a powerful combination. That's why we're here—to learn from each other."

Tyrone, who had been quiet for a change, finally spoke up. "I gotta say, your Leopard tanks are insane. Sleek, fast, powerful—it's like the Ferrari of tanks."

Klara's lips twitched into a small smile. "An apt comparison. The Leopard represents the pinnacle of modern Tankery technology. But tell me, Vice-Commander Williams, how does Liberty Prime counter such machines?"

Tyrone's grin returned. "Easy—hit 'em where it hurts and keep moving. A fast tank's only as good as its crew's ability to react under pressure. That's where we thrive—chaos."

Klara tilted her head, intrigued. "Chaos... an interesting approach. Perhaps we should test it someday."

Tyrone leaned back, his grin widening. "Name the time and place."

As the day drew to a close, Klara hosted a small dinner in honor of their visit. The atmosphere was relaxed, with students and officers mingling over traditional German dishes. Tyrone, as expected, charmed his way into conversations with several students, his confidence and humor breaking through the usual stoic demeanor of the Germans.

Anthony, meanwhile, found himself in a deep discussion with Klara about Tankery philosophy and the balance between tradition and innovation.

"You've built something remarkable here," Anthony said. "Your crews are some of the best I've seen."

"And yet, we must continue to evolve," Klara replied, her tone thoughtful. "The world of Tankery is changing, and schools like yours are leading that change. It's both inspiring and... challenging."

Anthony nodded. "That's the beauty of Tankery. It pushes us to be better—not just as commanders, but as people."

Klara raised her glass in a toast. "To growth, camaraderie, and the spirit of Tankery."

Anthony raised his own glass, meeting her gaze. "To the future."

As the room echoed with the clinking of glasses, Tyrone leaned over to Anthony, whispering, "I think I found my new favorite country."

Anthony chuckled, shaking his head. "Let's just hope you don't embarrass us before we leave."

Tyrone grinned. "No promises, boss."

The night ended on a high note, with mutual respect established between the two schools. As Anthony and Tyrone prepared to depart, they knew this meeting had strengthened not only their knowledge of Tankery but also their connections to the global community. The next time Liberty Prime and Deutscher Panzer-Akademie met, it would be as allies—or worthy adversaries.

Chapter Text

The cobblestone streets leading to Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia (Italian Tankery Academy) were bathed in golden sunlight as Anthony and Tyrone's car approached the entrance. The Italian Tankery school, located in the heart of Tuscany, was renowned for its flair, creativity, and a touch of theatrical drama in its matches. The academy's sprawling grounds boasted elegant Renaissance-style architecture, blending history with the modern machinery of Tankery.

Anthony, seated comfortably in the back seat, glanced at Tyrone, who was adjusting the straps of his Improved Outer Tactical Vest (IOTV) over his Woodland BDU uniform.

The bulky Kevlar gear stood out against the polished leather seats of the car, and Anthony couldn't help but smirk.

"You look ridiculous," Anthony said, raising an eyebrow.

Tyrone shot him a look, tugging the vest tighter. "Man, you can laugh all you want, but I'm not taking any chances. Last time, that girl nearly tackled me into a trench."

Anthony chuckled. "You mean Serafina Rossi? Lorenzo's Vice-Commander?"

Author's Note: Lorenzo if you're reading this, it'll change after 30 chapters.

"The one and only," Tyrone muttered, shaking his head. "I swear, she's like a homing missile. And she's chubby! How does she move so fast?"

Anthony smirked, turning to glance out the window. "At least she keeps you on your toes. Look on the bright side—you're memorable."

"Yeah, memorable like a bad rash," Tyrone muttered, adjusting the vest one last time. "I just hope Lorenzo keeps her on a leash this time."

The car pulled into the academy's main courtyard, where a crowd of students and officers awaited. At the forefront was Lorenzo Ferrari, the 16-year-old Overall Commander of the Italian Tankery school.

Standing at 6'1" with neatly combed blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and a pair of thin glasses perched on his nose, Lorenzo was the epitome of calm confidence. His olive-green uniform was pristine, and his demeanor radiated a mix of charm and intelligence.

"Anthony!" Lorenzo greeted warmly, extending his hand as the two commanders stepped out of the car. "It's been too long, my friend!"

Anthony shook his hand firmly, a genuine smile on his face. "Lorenzo. It's good to see you again. Thanks for having us."

Lorenzo turned to Tyrone, his grin widening. "Vice-Commander Williams. You're looking... prepared."

Tyrone gave him a sheepish grin, patting his vest. "Gotta stay ready, man. You know how it is."

Before Lorenzo could reply, a high-pitched voice cut through the crowd. "TYRONE!"

Tyrone froze, his eyes widening as a short, chubby figure barreled through the group of students like a wrecking ball. Serafina Rossi, clad in the same olive-green uniform as Lorenzo but with a slightly more disheveled look, made a beeline for Tyrone, her face lighting up with pure excitement.

"Oh, hell no," Tyrone muttered, taking a step back.

Anthony folded his arms, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle as Serafina threw herself at Tyrone, arms outstretched. Tyrone braced himself, his IOTV taking the brunt of the impact as she hugged him tightly, her head barely reaching his chest.

"Tyrone!" Serafina squealed, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes. "You're here! I knew you'd come back to me!"

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something in rapid Italian. "Serafina, for the love of God, give the man some space."

"But he's my amore!" Serafina protested, clinging to Tyrone like a lifeline.

Tyrone, clearly used to this by now, gently pried her arms off and took a careful step back. "Serafina, it's, uh, great to see you too. How've you been?"

"I've been waiting for you," she said dreamily, clasping her hands together. "Every day since our last match, I've dreamed of this moment."

Lorenzo sighed heavily, muttering, "How does she even pass the physical exams?"

Anthony leaned over, smirking. "She's got spirit, I'll give her that."

As the group made their way through the academy, Lorenzo led the tour with his usual charm, gesturing to the various facilities. The Italian Tankery school, much like its reputation, was full of flair—ornate murals depicting historical battles adorned the walls, and the motor pool was as much an art gallery as a garage, with tanks painted in vibrant colors and intricate designs.

"This is the heart of Italian Tankery," Lorenzo said proudly, gesturing to a row of modified P26/40s and modern Ariete tanks. "Speed, creativity, and a touch of drama—that's how we do things here."

Tyrone nodded appreciatively. "I'll admit, your tanks are flashy. I like it."

Serafina, walking far too close to Tyrone for comfort, chimed in. "Tyrone, you should come drive one with me! We'd make a perfect team."

Tyrone gave her a polite smile. "Maybe next time."

Anthony and Lorenzo exchanged amused glances as they continued the tour. Despite the antics, the Italian school's focus on innovation and adaptability was impressive, and Anthony couldn't help but admire Lorenzo's leadership.

Later, the group gathered in the academy's outdoor dining area, where a feast of traditional Italian dishes awaited. The atmosphere was relaxed, with laughter and conversation filling the air. Lorenzo and Anthony sat at one end of the table, deep in discussion about Tankery tactics.

"Your approach is fascinating," Lorenzo said, twirling his fork in a plate of spaghetti. "The way you blend modern technology with traditional strategies—it's unconventional, but it works."

Anthony nodded. "It's all about balance. You can't rely too heavily on one or the other. And your school's focus on speed and precision is impressive. It's something we're trying to incorporate more into our own strategies."

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Tyrone was trying to navigate his conversation with Serafina, who was perched on the edge of her seat, hanging on his every word.

"You know," she said, her voice sugary sweet, "I've been working on my driving skills. Maybe next time we could have a match and I'll show you how much I've improved—for you."

Tyrone chuckled nervously, glancing at Anthony for backup. "Yeah, uh, that sounds great."

Anthony smirked, raising his glass in a silent toast to Tyrone's predicament.

As the evening came to a close, Lorenzo walked Anthony and Tyrone back to their car. The stars above cast a soft glow over the academy, and the air was filled with the faint sounds of laughter and music from the dining area.

"Anthony," Lorenzo said, clasping his friend's hand. "Thank you for visiting. It's always a pleasure to exchange ideas with someone who truly understands the spirit of Tankery."

"The pleasure's mine," Anthony replied. "Your school has a lot to teach us, and I hope we can continue learning from each other."

Lorenzo turned to Tyrone, a sly grin on his face. "And you, my friend, have made quite the impression—again."

Tyrone groaned, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Serafina wasn't lurking nearby. "Yeah, thanks for that."

As the car pulled away, Anthony leaned back in his seat, a faint smile on his lips. "Well, that was... eventful."

Tyrone, slumped against the door, muttered, "Next time, I'm bringing riot gear."

Anthony laughed, shaking his head. "You wouldn't survive Tankery without me, man."

Tyrone grinned despite himself. "You're not wrong."

Chapter Text

The cold air of Québec enveloped Anthony and Tyrone as they stepped out of the armored transport into the snow-covered grounds of Léo Major Academy (L.M.A.). The academy, an imposing fortress-like facility, still carried the haunting echoes of its past as a juvenile detention center. Its high stone walls, iron gates, and looming guard towers were stark reminders of the place's origins. The students milling about the courtyard were no less intimidating, many of them adorned with tattoos that marked their rank and criminal history.

Anthony, dressed impeccably in his Woodland BDU, surveyed the scene with his usual calm demeanor. Next to him, Tyrone adjusted the straps of his IOTV, the faint crunch of his boots on the snow punctuated by his muttering.

"Man, I thought Serafina was intense," Tyrone said, glancing at the heavily tattooed students. "These guys look like they eat tanks for breakfast."

"Stay focused," Anthony replied, his eyes scanning the courtyard. "This isn't just about their reputation. L.M.A. is one of the most dangerous schools in Tankery for a reason."

As they approached the main building, the towering doors creaked open, revealing Logan Roy, the infamous Overall Commander of L.M.A.

Logan, at 6'2" with piercing green eyes and an imposing build, was a figure who seemed to embody the spirit of the school. His cold expression softened slightly as he extended a hand to Anthony.

"Commander Grant," Logan said, his voice steady and authoritative. "Welcome to Léo Major Academy. It's good to finally meet you in person."

"Logan," Anthony replied, shaking his hand firmly. "Thanks for having us. I've heard a lot about this place."

"I'm sure you have," Logan said with a faint smirk, turning to Tyrone. "Vice-Commander Williams. You've got guts coming here with that vest."

Tyrone grinned, patting his chest. "Gotta be prepared, man. Your reputation precedes you."

Logan chuckled softly, motioning for them to follow. "Come inside. It's warmer, and I'm sure we have a lot to talk about."

As Logan led them through the halls of L.M.A., Tyrone couldn't help but notice the numerous students with intricate tattoos-full sleeves, chest pieces, even face tattoos-each one telling a story of survival and dominance. The air was thick with a sense of controlled chaos, as if the entire academy was on the brink of violence at all times.

"This place is... intense," Tyrone said under his breath.

"L.M.A. isn't for the faint of heart," Logan said without looking back. "Most of these students came here because they had nowhere else to go. Tankery gave them purpose, discipline. It's not pretty, but it works."

Anthony nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You've built something impressive here. Your match against Romania was... unforgettable."

Logan stopped, turning to face Anthony with a cold smile. "We don't just fight to win, Commander Grant. We fight to dominate. There's no room for mercy in our matches."

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I noticed. War crime tactics, POWs, psychological warfare-you guys don't hold back."

"We can't afford to," Logan said simply. "In a place like this, weakness gets you killed."

Logan led them to the motor pool, where rows of tanks stood in chilling silence. At the far end of the hangar, a group of students surrounded a massive Centurion Mk. 5/2, its hull painted with demonic imagery. The students, members of the infamous Léo Major Academy Devil's Tank Division (L.M.A.D.T.D.), exuded an air of menace, their tattoos and scars telling stories of battles both on and off the battlefield.

"L.M.A.D.T.D.," Logan said, gesturing to the group. "The best and the worst of Léo Major Academy. These are the ones who've been through hell and come out stronger."

One of the members, a girl with a full-sleeve tattoo of a wolf and fire covering her arm, turned and nodded respectfully at Logan. "Commander," she said, her voice low but firm.

Anthony stepped closer, inspecting the Centurion. "Your crews are impressive. But how do you control them?"

Logan's smile turned grim. "I don't. They control themselves. Discipline here isn't about orders-it's about respect. Everyone here knows their place, and they fight like their lives depend on it. Because, for most of them, it does."

Tyrone whistled softly. "Man, remind me not to piss these guys off."

Later, the group convened in L.M.A.'s strategy room, a dimly lit space lined with maps, blueprints, and tactical plans. Logan stood at the head of the table, his commanding presence filling the room.

"L.M.A. has always been about survival," Logan began, his voice steady. "But survival alone isn't enough. We've built a reputation as the most dangerous school in Tankery, but that comes with its own challenges. The world watches us, judges us, and we need to prove that we're more than just thugs with tanks."

Anthony nodded. "Your methods are unconventional, but they work. The question is, how do you evolve without losing what makes L.M.A. unique?"

Logan's eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward. "That's what I want to discuss with you. Liberty Prime and Léo Major Academy are polar opposites, but we share one thing: the will to win. I want to learn from your tactics, your discipline. In return, I'll show you how to wield fear as a weapon."

Anthony exchanged a glance with Tyrone, who gave a small nod. "I think we can both learn a lot from each other," Anthony said. "But let me be clear-we don't condone war crimes. Respect and honor come first."

Logan smirked faintly. "Respect, huh? That's a luxury most of us here can't afford. But I'll listen."

As the meeting concluded, Logan walked Anthony and Tyrone back to their transport. The snow had begun to fall again, blanketing the grounds in a soft white layer.

"Commander Grant," Logan said, extending a hand. "You've given me a lot to think about. I hope this isn't the last time we meet."

"Neither do I," Anthony replied, shaking his hand. "You've built something remarkable here. Just don't lose sight of what really matters."

As they climbed into the car, Tyrone glanced back at the imposing gates of L.M.A. "Man, this place is something else. Crazy, but... kinda inspiring, you know?"

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. Logan's got potential. Let's hope he uses it wisely."

The car pulled away, leaving the academy behind. But Anthony and Tyrone knew that this visit was just the beginning. The next time they faced L.M.A., it wouldn't be a meeting-it would be a battle. And neither side would hold back.

Some info:

The Early Years

Born and raised in Toronto, Canada, Logan Roy wasn't like most kids. Even at a young age, his sharp wit and intense focus set him apart. His childhood wasn't easy. Growing up in a rough neighborhood, he had to fight his way through life-literally. But none of those challenges fazed him; they only hardened his resolve. By the time he was 7 years old, he had developed a love for speed, competition, and, most importantly, Tankery.

Logan's first exposure to the sport came when his parents sent him to Japan for a summer trip. There, in Yokohama City, Kanagawa Prefecture, he witnessed a Sensha-Dō match that ignited something fierce inside him. The sheer power, strategy, and elegance of the tanks moving across the battlefield mesmerized him. During this trip, Logan met several young girls, including Darjeeling, Assam, Orange Pekoe, and Rosehip-future stars of St. Gloriana Girls College. The Canadian boy charmed them with his kind words and encouraged them to pursue Tankery, leaving a lasting impression on them all.

When Logan returned to Canada, he was met with harsh reality. Tankery was a "girls-only" sport, and his passion for it became a point of ridicule. The other boys taunted him mercilessly, mocking his interest in a sport they deemed unmanly. Logan responded the only way he knew how-he beat the living shit out of anyone who crossed him. It was then that the authorities decided he was more of a threat than a troubled youth.

At 12 years old, Logan was sentenced to Léo Major Center for Youths, a juvenile detention center known for housing the most dangerous and insane youths in Canada. The center, known for being rough and co-ed (78% girls, 22% boys), was a place where only the toughest survived. For Logan, it was just another battlefield. Over the next few years, he fought his way to the top, earning the title of "The Boss" by the age of 13.

The school is celebrating after a match against Romania's Tankery school... most of the match was L.M.A doing War Crime tactics. Or L.M.A.D.T.D. (Léo Major Academy Devil's Tank Division) doings.

The Léo Major Academy Devil's Tank Division (L.M.A.D.T.D.) is the most feared and brutal force within the school. These aren't just regular tank crews-they're the most dangerous, ruthless, and insane individuals that Canada's juvenile justice system had to offer. They were the very delinquents who once inhabited the Léo Major Center for Youths, and when the facility was transformed into a Tankery academy, these individuals embraced their new roles as warriors. Under Logan Roy's leadership, the L.M.A.D.T.D. became a ruthless, fast-response tank force, specializing in shock tactics, psychological warfare, and lightning-fast ambushes.

The division functions more like an elite unit or even a tank-based hit squad. They don't just fight for victory-they fight for complete domination. Logan personally handpicked each member for their ferocity, tank handling skills, and willingness to use any means necessary to win, even if it meant crossing moral or ethical lines. These aren't your typical Tankery players, and that's what makes them so dangerous.

At Léo Major Academy (L.M.A.), the students' criminal backgrounds and tattoos serve as a visual representation of their rank, experience, and reputation both within the school and in Tankery matches. This system has evolved over time, stemming from the school's origins as a juvenile detention center. The students wear their past like a badge of honor, with their criminal records and ink telling a story of survival, danger, and badassery. These tattoos are not only a mark of their personal history but also a way for other students and opponents to instantly gauge their experience and skill level, both in life and in Tankery.

Here's how the tattoos and criminal record system works for determining rank and skill:

---

Tattoo and Criminal Record Hierarchy at L.M.A.

1. Freshman (Boot)

- Tattoo Type: Basic, minimalistic designs, often on less visible areas like the wrist or ankle.

- Criminal Record: Petty crimes-these students have been in the system for small offenses, like shoplifting, vandalism, or minor assaults. They are typically first-time offenders.

- Tankery Experience: These students are referred to as Boots in Tankery matches. They are fresh to the sport and have little to no real combat experience. Boots usually stay in the rear lines or handle non-critical roles in battle.

Tattoos for freshmen are minimal, sometimes just one small piece representing their entry into Léo Major Academy. Some tattoos are mandatory to show that they're just starting their journey. In tank matches, their lack of ink gives them away as easy targets. They might have a single stripe or symbol denoting their newness, usually on the inside of the arm, shoulder, or wrist.

- Tattoo Style: Basic geometric shapes, a single line, or small symbolic tattoos that represent their entry into the school.

- Criminal Significance: These tattoos signify minor infractions-students with minimal street cred or jail time, often looking to prove themselves.

---

2. Sophomore (One or Two)

- Tattoo Type: A bit more detailed than freshmen, with designs that might extend up the arm or across the shoulder.

- Criminal Record: These students have escalated from petty crimes to more serious offenses, such as grand theft, aggravated assault, or more elaborate criminal operations like carjacking or hacking.

- Tankery Experience: In Tankery matches, they are referred to as One or Two (based on the number of major Tankery matches they've been in or significant victories they've contributed to). They have gained a bit more respect on the battlefield and can operate tanks with more confidence.

Sophomores start expanding their ink, often receiving one or two more visible tattoos, such as on the upper arm or chest. The designs become more personal and intricate, often depicting the crime they were involved in or a symbol of their victory in their first Tankery match.

- Tattoo Style: More detailed tattoos that might include skulls, weapons, or animals, symbolizing their rising status in the academy and as a Tankery competitor.

- Criminal Significance: These tattoos show that the student has committed crimes serious enough to have made an impact within the criminal underworld or gained a reputation at Léo Major Academy.

---

3. Junior (Experienced)

- Tattoo Type: Full arm or half-sleeve tattoos, often with complex and aggressive designs.

- Criminal Record: These students have been involved in organized crime, large-scale drug operations, or violent offenses like armed robbery, arson, or gang activity. They are repeat offenders and have a reputation for being extremely dangerous.

- Tankery Experience: In Tankery matches, they are classified as Experienced players. They've been through multiple battles, earned victories, and contributed to strategic wins. They have learned dirty tricks, war crime tactics, and have no qualms about using them.

Juniors wear their tattoos like armor-full sleeves, chest pieces, and elaborate designs that cover large portions of their body. These tattoos often reflect their criminal past, with intricate skulls, flames, barbed wire, or war-related imagery like tanks or artillery. They also may have symbols of their rank in the Devil's Tank Division (L.M.A.D.T.D.).

- Tattoo Style: Full-sleeve or half-sleeve tattoos with intricate detail, often depicting violence, chaos, or military-inspired themes. Skulls, flames, and large animals like wolves or bears are common symbols.

- Criminal Significance: Tattoos at this level show that the student has committed multiple serious crimes, is well-known within the school, and commands respect both in the academy and the criminal world.

---

4. Senior (Skilled)

- Tattoo Type: Full-body tattoos or large, intricate pieces that dominate their body-often back tattoos, chest tattoos, and both arms covered.

- Criminal Record: These students are considered hardened criminals, having committed violent crimes such as murder, kidnapping, large-scale organized crime, or other high-profile offenses. They are seen as top-tier delinquents, with records that include multiple incarcerations or leadership roles in gangs or syndicates.

- Tankery Experience: Referred to as Skilled in Tankery matches, seniors are the top-tier players in L.M.A.'s ranks. They have been in countless matches and have extensive knowledge of war crime tactics, psychological warfare, and Tankery strategy. They are leaders on the battlefield, often commanding their own crews or multiple tanks.

Seniors' tattoos are awe-inspiring, not just for their size but for their level of detail. Full back pieces, chest tattoos, and full-sleeve tattoos are common, with intricate designs that often tell the story of their life of crime or their rise in Tankery. These tattoos command respect and fear, both within the academy and during matches. They might depict their criminal achievements, their tank victories, or symbols of the power they hold within the school.

- Tattoo Style: Large, full-body tattoos with hyper-realistic detail. Often featuring grim reapers, death imagery, or battle scenes. Some have tank-related tattoos to symbolize their top-tier status in Tankery.

- Criminal Significance: Tattoos at this level show that the student is among the most feared and respected within the criminal world and at L.M.A. These students are seen as untouchable and are the natural-born leaders of the academy.

---

Tankery Tattoos and Battle Recognition

In Tankery matches, L.M.A. students are ranked based on their experience, skill, and accomplishments. Tattoos play a role here as well, as they can symbolize the student's progress and skill level in the sport. Outside schools and opponents in matches can instantly identify an L.M.A. student's level of experience by their tattoos.

1. Boot - Freshman: Small, basic tattoos on less visible areas. Indicate little to no experience.

2. One or Two - Sophomore: Larger, more detailed tattoos, often denoting one or two significant matches or wins.

3. Experienced - Junior: Full sleeves or half-sleeves, symbolizing multiple matches and extensive Tankery experience. Known for using dirty tactics.

4. Skilled - Senior: Full-body tattoos or large, intricate pieces, signifying mastery of Tankery and extensive battlefield experience. These are the true warriors of L.M.A., known for their psychological warfare and brutal tactics.

---

Special Tattoos for L.M.A.D.T.D. Members

Members of the Devil's Tank Division (L.M.A.D.T.D.) have their own distinct tattoos that mark them as the elite of Léo Major Academy. These tattoos are usually highly detailed and fearsome, often incorporating demonic or warlike imagery. Each member's tattoo typically includes a devil motif (horns, skulls, flames) to signify their elite status.

- L.M.A.D.T.D. Commanders: Have large, intricate devil or warlord tattoos that stretch across their backs or chests, signifying their role as enforcers and elite tankers.

- L.M.A.D.T.D. Members: Often have half-sleeve or full-sleeve tattoos with aggressive, violent imagery, showing their willingness to go to any lengths to win.

These tattoos act as a visual warning to anyone who faces L.M.A.D.T.D. in a Tankery match: they are up against the most ruthless and dangerous competitors.

Chapter Text

The sprawling campus of Liberty Prime University Academy glittered with Christmas lights, the soft hum of carols playing over the loudspeakers mingling with the excited chatter of students. The main hall, a massive space usually reserved for strategic briefings and assemblies, had been transformed into a winter wonderland. A towering Christmas tree stood in the center, adorned with ornaments, ribbons, and twinkling lights, while tables laden with food, drinks, and festive decorations lined the walls.

Anthony stood near the entrance, dressed casually in a dark sweater and jeans, his 5-star Overall Commander pin still clipped to his chest. Despite his usually calm demeanor, he couldn't help but smile as he watched his sisters, Tyrone, and the rest of the L.P.U.A. students mingling and laughing.

Leah, Imani, Ann, and Harriet, dressed in matching Christmas sweaters that Anthony had begrudgingly bought for them, were busy setting up a karaoke machine in the corner.

Ann:

Harriet, as usual, was bossing everyone around, while Imani balanced a plate of cookies precariously on one hand.

Tyrone, standing off to the side, adjusted his hoodie nervously. "Man, this is nice and all, but I've got a bad feeling about tonight."

Anthony smirked, handing him a cup of nonalcoholic eggnog. "Relax. It's Christmas. What could possibly go wrong?"

Before Tyrone could reply, the doors opened, and the guests of honor arrived. The Overall Commanders and Vice-Commanders of the Chinese, Russian, Italian, German, and Canadian Tankery schools stepped into the hall, each accompanied by a few of their students. The room fell silent for a moment as everyone turned to greet them.

Miya Oktyabrskaya of Russia, dressed sharply in a black coat with a fur-lined collar, nodded politely as her piercing blue eyes scanned the room. Beside her was Anastasia Volkov, who smirked faintly as she whispered something to Miya.

Lorenzo Ferrari of Italy strode in with his usual charm, his blonde hair slicked back, and a bright grin on his face. Following him was the infamous Serafina Rossi, her eyes already scanning the crowd for one person in particular.

Klara Wagner of Germany entered with her usual poise, accompanied by several of her students, while Liu Meixian of China walked in with her chin held high, her expression unreadable.

Last but not least was Logan Roy of Canada, whose imposing presence and sharp gaze seemed to draw everyone's attention. He gave Anthony a curt nod as he entered.

The party quickly came to life as the guests settled in. The L.P.U.A. students mingled with their international counterparts, exchanging stories, jokes, and even a few friendly challenges. The karaoke machine became an instant hit, with Imani and Harriet leading the charge with an overly enthusiastic rendition of Jingle Bell Rock.

Anthony found himself chatting with Miya and Logan near the snack table, discussing recent matches and future plans.

"This is a good idea," Miya admitted, sipping a cup of hot cocoa. "Tankery may be competitive, but moments like this remind us we're all part of something bigger."

Logan smirked, leaning against the table. "Yeah, but don't think this means I'll go easy on you next time."

Anthony chuckled. "Wouldn't expect you to."

Meanwhile, Tyrone had found a quiet corner of the room, happily munching on a candy cane and avoiding anything that might involve Serafina. But his reprieve didn't last long.

"Tyrone!" Serafina's high-pitched voice rang out as she appeared seemingly out of nowhere, grabbing his arm with surprising strength. "Come with me! I have a surprise!"

"Uh, Serafina, I'm good right here—" Tyrone protested, but it was too late. She dragged him across the room with a determination that left no room for argument.

Anthony, noticing the commotion, raised an eyebrow and whispered to Miya, "Here we go."

Serafina came to a stop under a large mistletoe hanging near the tree, pulling Tyrone beside her. The room went silent as every student, both L.P.U.A. and international, turned to watch. Phones were raised, cameras pointed, and shit-eating grins spread across the faces of everyone present.

Tyrone's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape route, but there was none. Even Lorenzo had a wide grin as he casually recorded the scene.

"Serafina," Tyrone said, his voice laced with nervous laughter, "you're not serious, right?"

"Oh, I'm very serious," Serafina replied, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "It's tradition, Tyrone! You wouldn't break tradition, would you?"

The room erupted into cheers and chants of "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Anthony crossed his arms, a bemused smirk on his face. "Looks like you're in the spotlight, Ty."

Tyrone sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, alright! Fine. Let's get this over with."

Serafina's eyes lit up as Tyrone leaned down and gave her a quick, polite peck on the cheek. The room burst into applause and laughter, with several students jeering good-naturedly.

"That's all you're getting!" Tyrone said, stepping back quickly.

Serafina clasped her hands together, looking up at him with adoration. "It's perfect."

As the night went on, the party became a celebration of camaraderie and shared passion. Anthony and his sisters led a round of Tankery trivia, with Klara and Lorenzo proving to be formidable opponents. Miya and Anastasia reluctantly joined in on karaoke, their reserved demeanor giving way to laughter as they sang a hilariously off-key rendition of Silent Night. Even Logan cracked a rare smile as he watched the chaos unfold.

By the end of the night, the hall was filled with exhausted but happy students. Anthony stood near the tree, watching the scene with a satisfied expression. Tyrone walked up beside him, his IOTV slightly askew.

"You know," Tyrone said, taking a sip of hot cocoa, "this turned out alright. Even with the whole mistletoe thing."

Anthony chuckled. "Told you Christmas at L.P.U.A. would be worth it."

"Yeah, yeah," Tyrone muttered, though a small grin tugged at his lips. "Merry Christmas, Ant."

"Merry Christmas, Ty."

And with that, the two friends joined the rest of the students, basking in the warmth and joy of the season.

The Christmas tree stood tall in the center of the hall, glittering with lights and ornaments as the students gathered around for the much-anticipated gift exchange. Each person clutched a wrapped gift, ranging from expertly wrapped boxes with neat bows to hastily taped bundles that looked like they'd barely survived the trip. The energy in the room was infectious, laughter and chatter echoing off the walls as everyone prepared for their turn.

Anthony stood off to the side, his hands in his pockets as he watched the scene unfold. His sisters—Leah, Imani, Ann, and Harriet—had taken charge of organizing the exchange, making sure everyone's name was included in the random draw.

"All right, listen up!" Harriet called out, her voice cutting through the noise. "We're starting the gift exchange. If you don't have your gift, too bad! You're getting whatever's left over from the emergency pile."

Tyrone, standing next to Anthony, nudged him with a grin. "You know she's not joking, right? I saw the emergency pile—it's just socks, year old MREs, and beef jerky."

Anthony chuckled. "Well, let's hope everyone came prepared."

Harriet pulled the first name from the hat, holding it up dramatically. "First up, Logan Roy!"

Logan, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow as he made his way to the center of the circle. He was handed a small, neatly wrapped box by one of the middle schoolers, who looked nervous under Logan's sharp gaze.

Logan unwrapped the gift with surprising care, revealing a leather-bound notebook embossed with the Léo Major Academy logo. His expression softened just slightly as he nodded to the student. "Good choice. Thank you."

Next, Harriet called out, "Serafina Rossi!"

Tyrone visibly tensed as Serafina bounced forward, her gift in hand. The small package was wrapped in glittery pink paper with a lopsided bow. She handed it to Lorenzo with an exaggerated flourish.

Lorenzo unwrapped it, revealing a custom-made model of his favorite tank, the P26/40, complete with his name painted on the side.

"Serafina, ti sei superata," Lorenzo said, smiling warmly. "This is fantastico."

Tyrone whispered to Anthony, "She can be nice... just not when she's sprinting at you."

Anthony smirked. "She's got range, I'll give her that."

As the exchange continued, there were moments of hilarity and genuine surprise.

Klara Wagner unwrapped a box of imported chocolates from Switzerland, nodding in approval as she popped one into her mouth.

Miya Oktyabrskaya received a detailed map of famous Russian/Soviet Tank battlefields, her eyes lighting up as she studied it. "Тот, кто это дал, провел свое исследование," she said with a faint smile.

Tyrone, meanwhile, received a package wrapped in duct tape that took him a solid five minutes to open. Inside, he found a T-shirt emblazoned with the words: "Chaos Coordinator".

"Fitting," Anthony said, grinning.

"Hey, I'll wear it," Tyrone replied, holding it up proudly.

When it was Serafina's turn to receive a gift, she eagerly unwrapped a large, colorful box. Inside was a handcrafted scrapbook filled with pictures, notes, and drawings from her Italian Tankery team. Her eyes glistened as she flipped through the pages. "Voi ragazzi," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "This is... strabiliante."

When Anthony's name was called, the room went quiet, all eyes on the L.P.U.A. Overall Commander. Harriet handed him a large, neatly wrapped gift, and he unwrapped it with steady hands. Inside was a custom-made replica of his favorite tank, the M1A2 Abrams SEPv3, complete with his call sign, Ironclad, painted on the turret.

Anthony held the model up, his usually reserved expression softening. "This is incredible. Thank you."

Imani grinned. "We all chipped in for that one. Merry Christmas, big bro."

As the exchange drew to a close, one final name was called: Tyrone Williams. Harriet handed him a suspiciously small package wrapped in bright red paper. Tyrone shot Anthony a wary look before opening it.

Inside was a single sprig of mistletoe tied with a ribbon. The room erupted into laughter as Serafina bolted forward, her eyes gleaming.

"Nope!" Tyrone shouted, holding up his hands. "Not happening again!"

Anthony laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall for support. "Merry Christmas, Ty!"

As the gift exchange wrapped up, the students of L.P.U.A. and their international guests settled into a relaxed atmosphere. The sounds of laughter, Christmas carols, and the occasional burst of chatter filled the hall.

Anthony stood by the tree, sipping a cup of hot cocoa as he watched his friends and peers enjoying the evening. His sisters were playfully teasing Lorenzo, Miya and Klara were engaged in a spirited discussion about Tankery strategy, and Logan stood quietly with a small smile as he watched his students laughing together.

Tyrone walked up, still holding the mistletoe sprig. "This is going in the trash," he muttered, tossing it into a nearby bin.

"Come on, Ty," Anthony said, smirking. "It's Christmas. Have some fun."

"Oh, I'm having fun," Tyrone replied, grinning. "Just not that kind of fun."

Anthony clinked his cocoa mug against Tyrone's cup. "Merry Christmas, Ty."

"Merry Christmas, Ant."

And with that, the celebration continued long into the night, a reminder of the bonds forged not just on the battlefield, but in moments of shared joy and camaraderie.

Merry Christmas!

Chapter Text

The clock ticked steadily toward midnight at Liberty Prime University Academy, the cold night air charged with anticipation. The campus was alive with energy as students from every division gathered on the parade grounds, their excitement palpable. Floodlights lit up the vast open space, where rows of tanks and IFVs stood ready, their crews eagerly making final preparations for the night's grand event.

Anthony stood near the front of the gathered crowd, his sisters flanking him, each armed with their own firearms. Imani held a polished pump-action shotgun, while Harriet checked the sights on her AR-15, her usual bossy demeanor replaced by the spark of mischief. Leah and Ann had opted for pistols, their grins widening with every passing second.

Tyrone, standing next to Anthony, was adjusting his tactical headset while cradling a modified M16A4. "Man, who needs fireworks when you've got this kind of firepower?" he said, grinning.

Anthony smirked, his M9 Beretta holstered at his side. "Just make sure you're shooting blanks. I don't want to explain to the brass why we need a new roof on the dorms."

"I got it under control, boss," Tyrone replied, though his grin didn't exactly inspire confidence.

The clock on the main building displayed 11:50 PM, and the students began to gather in tighter groups, their excitement growing louder. Some had brought loudspeakers, blasting music ranging from Ride of the Valkyries to classic American rock. The international guests—Miya, Logan, Lorenzo, Klara, and Liu—stood nearby, each with their own teams, joining in the revelry.

Miya stood stoically, her arms crossed, but Anthony caught the faintest hint of a smile on her lips as she watched her crew preparing their tanks with blank rounds. Lorenzo, ever the charmer, was chatting animatedly with Leah and Ann, while Klara and Logan exchanged quiet words about the tactical precision of L.P.U.A.'s operations, even during celebrations.

Serafina, predictably, hovered near Tyrone, holding what looked like an M1911 pistol. "Tyrone," she said sweetly, "you'll fire with me, won't you?"

Tyrone groaned, rubbing his temple. "Yeah, sure, why not? Just don't aim at me."

At 11:55 PM, the parade grounds were a symphony of controlled chaos. Tank crews climbed into their vehicles, loading blanks into the massive barrels. IFVs lined up on one side, their machine guns angled toward the sky. Students not operating vehicles formed loose firing lines, their firearms ranging from pistols to fully automatic rifles.

Anthony climbed onto the turret of an Abrams, surveying the scene like a battlefield. He held a megaphone in one hand, his voice cutting through the noise.

"Alright, listen up!" he called out. "This is L.P.U.A.'s New Year tradition, and you all know the rules. Keep your aim high, your safeties off, and for the love of God, don't shoot at the tanks!"

A ripple of laughter and cheers followed, and Anthony smirked, his sisters shaking their heads at his mix of humor and command.

As the final minute approached, the excitement reached a fever pitch. The clock on the main building began its countdown, and the students joined in, their voices growing louder with every second.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

Anthony glanced at Tyrone, who was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "You ready?"

"Born ready," Tyrone replied, raising his M16A4.

"Seven! Six! Five!"

Miya, Klara, and Logan exchanged amused glances, their usually composed expressions giving way to the infectious excitement of the moment.

"Four! Three! Two!"

Anthony pulled his Beretta from its holster, raising it into the air. Around him, the roar of engines and the clanking of tank treads filled the night.

"One! Happy New Year!"

The first shots rang out like cannon fire, a deafening symphony of celebration as students pulled their triggers, unleashing a storm of blanks into the sky. The tanks roared to life, their turrets firing blank rounds that lit up the night with flashes of flame and thunder. IFVs added to the cacophony, their machine guns rattling in controlled bursts.

Anthony fired his Beretta into the air, the sharp cracks lost in the symphony of chaos. Around him, his sisters whooped and hollered, their laughter mingling with the shouts of the students. Harriet fired off a quick burst with her AR-15, while Imani's shotgun blasts punctuated the celebration with satisfying booms.

Tyrone, true to form, let loose with his M16A4, his grin as wide as ever. "This is better than fireworks!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the noise.

Serafina, standing beside him, emptied her M1911 with a look of pure joy. "Tyrone! We're bringing in the new year together!"

Tyrone groaned but couldn't help laughing. "Yeah, sure, Serafina. Whatever makes you happy."

The celebration continued for several minutes, the sounds of gunfire and tank blasts echoing across the campus. Finally, as the ammunition ran low and the barrels cooled, the noise began to die down, replaced by cheers and laughter.

Anthony climbed down from the Abrams, holstering his Beretta as he joined his sisters and Tyrone. Around them, students hugged, high-fived, and shared wishes for the new year. The international guests approached, their expressions ranging from amused to impressed.

Miya nodded at Anthony. "You know, most schools would settle for fireworks."

"Where's the fun in that?" Anthony replied, smirking.

Lorenzo laughed, clapping Anthony on the shoulder. "You Americans always find a way to make everything bigger."

Logan crossed his arms, a faint smirk on his face. "I'll admit, this was... unique."

Klara raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised no one got hurt."

Anthony chuckled. "That's L.P.U.A. for you—controlled chaos."

As the students began to disperse, Anthony stood with Tyrone, watching the smoke and sparks lingering in the air. "Another year, another adventure," Anthony said, his voice quiet but content.

Tyrone nodded, his grin softening. "Here's to more chaos, more victories, and no more mistletoe."

Anthony laughed, clinking his fist against Tyrone's. "Happy New Year, Ty."

"Happy New Year, Ant."

And with that, Liberty Prime University Academy welcomed the new year with a bang—literally.

Chapter Text

The halls of Liberty Prime University Academy buzzed with activity. Pink and red decorations hung from the walls, students exchanged cards, flowers, and chocolates, and laughter echoed through the air. It was Valentine's Day, and as usual, the school was alive with a mix of excitement, nervous energy, and the occasional teasing.

Anthony walked the halls in his school uniform—gray pants, a crisp white shirt, and his signature gray hoodie pulled up over his head. His expression was calm, though the faint tug at the corner of his mouth hinted at mild irritation as he passed by clusters of students giggling and blushing over Valentine's surprises.

"Morning, Commander!" a cheerful middle schooler called out, holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

"Morning," Anthony replied with a nod, keeping his pace steady. He had a goal in mind: his locker.

As he approached, he noticed his sister Ann standing next to her locker, smirking at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Well, look who finally showed up. Valentine's Day repeat number... what? Three?"

Anthony sighed as he reached his locker. "You're enjoying this way too much."

Ann laughed. "You make it easy. You should've just skipped opening it this year. Save yourself the hassle."

Ignoring her, Anthony unlocked his locker. The moment the door swung open, a cascade of cards and letters spilled out, a chocolate bar tumbling to the floor last. He stared at the pile for a moment, letting out a long, tired breath.

"Every year," he muttered, crouching to pick up the chocolate bar.

Ann leaned against her locker, arms crossed, her grin widening. "You're like a magnet, Ant. The whole school's crushing on you, and what do you do? Nothing. Seriously, when are you gonna get a girlfriend?"

Anthony gave her a sidelong glance, tossing the chocolate bar onto the pile of cards. "When I find someone who doesn't leave anonymous notes and cheap chocolate in my locker."

Ann snorted, shaking her head. "You're hopeless. Maybe if you stopped acting like such a brooding, mysterious commander all the time, you'd figure it out."

Anthony smirked faintly. "And maybe if you didn't spend so much time teasing me, you'd figure out your own love life."

Ann gasped in mock offense, clutching her chest. "How dare you! I'll have you know I turned down two Valentine's Day confessions this morning."

"Yeah, sure," Anthony replied, smirking as he began gathering the pile of cards into a bag he'd brought for this very purpose.

As Anthony finished clearing out his locker, Harriet and Imani approached, both carrying their own small stacks of cards and chocolates. Harriet's were neatly organized, while Imani seemed to be juggling hers haphazardly.

"Let me guess," Harriet said, glancing at Anthony's bag. "Another year, another haul?"

"You act like I want this," Anthony replied dryly.

"Maybe if you smiled more, it'd scare off fewer people," Imani quipped, trying to balance a bouquet of flowers on top of her pile.

Anthony shot her a look. "Thanks for the advice, Oprah."

Harriet chuckled. "What are you going to do with all that, anyway?"

"Same thing as last year—give the chocolates to the younger kids and recycle the cards," Anthony said matter-of-factly.

Ann groaned. "You're such a buzzkill."

Before Anthony could respond, Tyrone came strolling down the hall, munching on a chocolate bar. His uniform was slightly disheveled, as usual, but his grin was as wide as ever.

"Yo, Commander," Tyrone said, giving Anthony a nod. "What's the damage this year?"

Anthony held up the bag. "You tell me."

Tyrone whistled. "Man, if I got even half of that, I'd be set for life."

Harriet smirked. "Maybe if you weren't such a clown, you'd get more."

Tyrone shrugged, unbothered. "Clowns are memorable. Besides, quality over quantity, you know?"

"Speaking of quality," Ann said, her smirk returning. "Tyrone, isn't Serafina looking for you?"

Tyrone's grin faltered. "What? No. She's not here, right? Tell me she's not here."

As if on cue, Serafina's voice rang out from down the hall. "Tyrone!"

Tyrone groaned, stuffing the rest of the chocolate bar into his mouth. "I'm out. Later, y'all!"

He bolted down the hall, weaving through the crowd as Serafina chased after him, holding a heart-shaped box and calling his name.

Ann doubled over laughing, while Anthony shook his head, muttering, "Every year."

After the morning chaos settled, Anthony found himself sitting on a bench outside the main building, the cool February air brushing against his face. The bag of cards and chocolates sat at his feet, and for the first time all day, he felt a moment of peace.

As he leaned back, his phone buzzed with a message from Harriet.

Harriet: You should at least keep one of the cards this year. You know, for sentiment or something.

Anthony smirked, typing a quick reply.

Anthony: I'll keep the chocolate. That's more practical.

He pocketed his phone, his gaze drifting toward the students still milling around, laughing and sharing gifts. Despite his usual indifference toward Valentine's Day, Anthony couldn't help but feel a small sense of contentment watching everyone else enjoy themselves.

Maybe Ann was right—maybe he was hopeless. But for now, he was okay with that.

Chapter Text

Scotland: Highlanders Academy

The next day, Tyrone stepped off the transport vehicle onto the grounds of Highlanders Academy (H.L.A.), his boots crunching against the gravel. The brisk Scottish air hit him immediately, carrying the scent of pine and the faint tang of distant seawater. Highlanders Academy was perched atop a rugged hill, its buildings blending seamlessly with the ancient stone architecture of Scotland. Battle-worn British WWII tanks lined the motor pool, their gleaming surfaces adorned with traditional Scottish designs—clan crests, Celtic knots, and the occasional thistle motif.

In the center of the parade ground stood Isla Alisa Loughty, the fiery 4'7" commander of H.L.A.

Her signature ginger curls bounced wildly as she barked orders at a group of students. Clad in the academy's dark green and black uniform with a tartan sash thrown over her shoulder, Isla was a commanding presence despite her diminutive stature. Her emerald eyes glimmered with excitement as Tyrone approached.

"Well, if it isn't the Vice-Commander o' Liberty Prime!" Isla called out, her Scottish brogue as thick as the morning mist. "Welcome tae Highlanders Academy, lad!"

Tyrone grinned, offering a casual salute. "Thanks for having me, Commander Loughty. Gotta say, your place looks straight out of a medieval war movie. Nice touch."

"'Course it does! We Scots know how tae mix history with a bit o' chaos," Isla replied, her voice carrying an unmistakable pride. "Now come on, we've got tanks tae show off."

Isla led Tyrone through the academy grounds, rattling off tank specs and strategies with unbridled enthusiasm. The H.L.A. tanks were a mix of restored British WWII models like the Churchill, Cromwell, and Matilda II, as well as modern additions like the Challenger 2. What caught Tyrone's attention, however, was the Vikings Tank Division (H.L.A.V.T.D.)—a group of students donning war paint, Viking helmets, and carrying swords and axes. They were loud, intimidating, and looked like they were ready to storm a battlefield at any moment.

"Your Viking crew," Tyrone said, nodding toward the rowdy group, "looks like they'd fit right in with the Léo Major Academy Devil's Tank Division."

Isla laughed heartily. "Aye, they're a wee bit wild, but that's what makes 'em so effective. They don't just fight tae win—they fight tae conquer."

Tyrone smirked. "I respect that."

As they continued the tour, Isla couldn't help but steer the conversation toward Anthony. "So, how's yer Overall Commander doing these days? Still brooding an' mysterious, is he?"

Tyrone chuckled, catching the faint blush creeping up Isla's cheeks. "Oh, you know Ant. He's either saving the day or stuck under a mountain of paperwork. Why?"

Isla quickly shook her head, her curls bouncing. "No reason! Just curious, that's all."

Tyrone smirked, deciding to let her off the hook. "Sure, Commander. Whatever you say."

Meanwhile at L.P.U.A.

Back in Virginia, Anthony was not having a good day. Sitting at his desk in the administrative building, he stared at the stack of paperwork in front of him, rubbing his temples in frustration. To his left was a report from the U.S. Navy, apologizing for the "accidental deployment" of Liberty Prime's school aircraft carrier. Apparently, the ship had been commandeered for a training exercise, leaving L.P.U.A. students confused and scrambling to adjust their schedules.

To his right was an even more aggravating report: four M1A2 Abrams SEPv3 tanks had been damaged during a training exercise. Specifically, someone had bent the turret barrels—bent them. Anthony didn't even want to know how that was possible.

The worst part? His sisters—Leah, Imani, Ann, and Harriet—had already read the reports and were not taking it well.

"WHO BENDS FOUR TURRET BARRELS?!" Harriet's voice boomed through the office as she paced back and forth, her fists clenched.

"Honestly, how does the Navy just take an aircraft carrier?" Ann added, throwing her hands up in disbelief.

Imani, sitting on the couch with her arms crossed, shook her head. "It's incompetence at the highest level."

Leah, leaning against the doorframe, simply sighed. "Anthony, you're the Overall Commander. What's the plan?"

Anthony leaned back in his chair, his expression calm despite the chaos around him. "First, we get the tanks fixed. Second, we find out who's responsible for the barrels and make sure it doesn't happen again. And third, we remind the Navy that they don't just get to 'borrow' our stuff."

Harriet snorted. "You're way too calm about this."

Anthony smirked faintly. "I have to be. Otherwise, I'd lose it."

As the day wore on, Anthony managed to work through most of the paperwork, though the frustration lingered. Sitting in his office, he glanced at the framed photo on his desk—a picture of him and his sisters during their first Tankery match. It was a reminder of why he put up with the headaches and chaos that came with being the Overall Commander.Back in Scotland

As the sun set over Highlanders Academy, Tyrone and Isla stood on the observation deck overlooking the motor pool. The sound of tanks rumbling below created a comforting hum as Isla leaned on the railing, her emerald eyes sparkling.

"You've got a good thing going here, Isla," Tyrone said, breaking the silence. "Your team's tough, your tactics are solid, and you've got the passion to back it up."

Isla smiled, her cheeks tinged with pink. "Thanks, Tyrone. That means a lot, especially coming from someone on Liberty Prime's team."

Tyrone chuckled. "Hey, credit where it's due. You've earned it."

For a moment, Isla hesitated, then asked, "Do you think Anthony knows... you know... about me?"

Tyrone raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Knows what?"

Isla huffed, crossing her arms. "You know exactly what I mean, Tyrone!"

Tyrone grinned, shrugging. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

Isla groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Why do I even bother?"

As the evening came to a close, Tyrone joined the H.L.A. students for a celebratory dinner, complete with traditional Scottish dishes and music. Though he missed the chaos back at L.P.U.A., he couldn't deny that the fiery spirit of Highlanders Academy left a lasting impression.

Before he left, Isla handed him a small box. "For Anthony," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "Just... don't make a big deal out of it."

Tyrone smirked, slipping the box into his bag. "You got it, Commander."

As the transport pulled away from the academy, Tyrone leaned back in his seat, already anticipating Anthony's reaction when he handed over Isla's gift. One thing was certain—life at Liberty Prime was never boring.

Additional info

Isla Alisa Loughty, a spirited and proud 17-year-old Scottish girl from Edinburgh, leads Highlanders Academy (H.L.A), Scotland's top Tankery school. With a passion for tanks sparked by a visit to Japan at the age of 9, she returned to Scotland determined to bring the art of Sensha-Dō to her homeland. Thanks to her government connections and fierce national pride, she played a vital role in establishing the school, which incorporates a blend of modern and World War II tactics. Isla's larger-than-life personality, love for her Scottish heritage, and absolute obsession with tanks make her a force to be reckoned with. Despite her tomboyish nature, Isla is secretly a romantic, harboring a massive crush on Anthony Grant, the Overall Commander of L.P.U.A.

Highlanders Academy uses British WWII tanks but isn't constrained by Japanese Tankery Federation rules, allowing them to mix old-school tank warfare with modern-day tactics. Isla became the Overall Commander of H.L.A at just 14, thanks to her extraordinary leadership skills. H.L.A's Vikings Tank Division (H.L.A.V.T.D) is known for their brutality, fighting with war paint, Viking helmets, and real weapons (swords and axes), taking POWs during matches, which pushes their reputation for being extreme.

Throughout intense battles with top schools like Liberty Prime University Academy (USA), United Federation Tankery Academy (Russia), Häyhä Academy (Finland), and Illustrados Union Academy (Philippines), Isla leads her team with pride, never backing down even when they lose. Her loud and spirited personality shines in every battle, and her affection for Anthony Grant—runs deep, though she hides her feelings behind her fierce attitude.

Isla Alisa Loughty was the pride of Highlanders Academy—its Overall Commander and a walking tank encyclopedia. With her curly ginger hair flying wildly behind her, her emerald eyes gleaming with excitement, and her short, curvy frame standing no taller than 4'7", Isla was impossible to miss. Tank nerd by nature, warrior by heart, she ruled the battlefield, roaring in victory and never holding back, not even during practice.

Isla's obsession with tanks began when she was just 9. A summer visit to Japan introduced her to the world of Sensha-Dō, and she watched in awe as tanks rolled across the battlefield in perfect coordination. The thunder of cannons, the screech of tracks grinding against the earth—each moment etched into her memory. She had found her calling, and it was in the driver's seat of a tank.

It was during that trip she met Yukari Akiyama, a fellow tank nerd. The two of them hit it off immediately, bonding over their love of WWII tank specs, the mechanics of armoring, and war history. But when Isla returned to Scotland, she was hit with a hard reality. Sensha-Dō was mostly a Japanese thing. That didn't sit well with her Scottish pride. She wasn't about to let Japan have all the fun while Scotland remained on the sidelines.

'Scotland's got history! We've got tanks, damn it!'

She wasn't going to take it lying down, not a chance in hell. She approached her uncle, a high-ranking official in the Scottish government, and with her fiery determination, convinced him to support her vision of bringing Tankery to Scotland. By the time she was 14, Highlanders Academy, or H.L.A, opened its doors, funded by the British government, its education system, and the British Armed Forces. Isla, of course, was named Overall Commander on day one. Her leadership style was loud, intense, and unapologetically Scottish.

Chapter Text

The next day, the biting cold of the Finnish countryside was a stark contrast to the rugged yet serene beauty that surrounded Häyhä Academy. Named after the legendary sniper Simo Häyhä, the school was situated on a sprawling, snow-covered military base. The atmosphere was as unforgiving as its reputation—a place where both the tanks and the students were pushed beyond their limits. Tyrone stepped out of his transport vehicle, his breath visible in the freezing air.

Standing at the gate to greet him was Lumi Törni, Häyhä Academy's Overall Commander.

At 16 years old, Lumi was already a legend in the Tankery world. Her long blonde hair, tied into a simple ponytail, swayed in the icy wind. Her striking emerald eyes, one artificial due to the burns she'd suffered in an ambush years ago, carried a sharp intensity. The burn scars on her face and hands were a grim testament to Häyhä Academy's brutal training environment.

Lumi stood with her two half-sisters—Aada Törni, her German half-sister, and Aino Törni, her American half-sister.

All three bore scars, but their commanding presences made it clear they were survivors, not victims.

Lumi extended her hand to Tyrone. "Vice-Commander Williams. Welcome to Häyhä Academy."

Tyrone shook her hand, his usual grin subdued by the sheer weight of the academy's reputation. "Thanks for having me, Commander Törni. Heard a lot about this place—none of it sounded like a vacation."

Lumi smirked faintly. "Häyhä isn't for the faint of heart. I hope you brought thick skin."

Aada, standing slightly behind Lumi, crossed her arms. "Or a strong stomach," she added, her German accent sharp.

Aino, the most easygoing of the trio, chuckled. "Don't scare him off just yet. He hasn't even seen the motor pool."

As Lumi led Tyrone through the academy, the sheer intensity of the place was impossible to ignore. The sound of tank treads grinding through snow, the sharp reports of blanks being fired, and the occasional shouts of instructors echoed through the air. The motor pool was packed with WWII-era tanks—KV-1s, T-34s, and even a rare KV-85—parked alongside modern Finnish armored vehicles.

"This," Lumi said, gesturing to a group of students repairing a tank, "is where the real work happens. If a tank isn't battle-ready by sunrise, the crew doesn't eat breakfast."

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "Harsh."

"Necessary," Lumi replied bluntly. "Discipline and self-reliance are key here. If you can't handle the pressure, you don't belong."

Aada chimed in, her tone as sharp as the icy wind. "Most schools pamper their students. Häyhä doesn't."

Tyrone nodded, impressed despite himself. "I respect that. But what's the deal with all the injuries? I heard this place is nicknamed 'The Tank School of Injuries.'"

Aino gave a dry laugh. "Because it's true. Broken bones, burns, concussions—they're part of life here. You learn to push through the pain."

Lumi's gaze hardened. "Pain is temporary. Weakness is forever."

As they continued, Tyrone witnessed firsthand the toll Häyhä Academy took on its students. In the training grounds, a crew was evacuating their tank after a simulated ammo rack explosion. The students emerged coughing and covered in soot, one of them clutching a hand with burn marks already forming. Despite the severity, they didn't complain—they simply saluted their instructor and marched off for medical attention.

Tyrone shook his head. "Damn. You guys don't mess around."

Lumi turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Tankery isn't a game here. It's war. Häyhä prepares its students for the worst because, on the battlefield, hesitation gets you killed."

Aada added, "And if you're not strong enough, the academy will break you."

Later, Tyrone sat in Häyhä Academy's dining hall with Lumi and her sisters. The hall was surprisingly warm, filled with the scent of hearty Finnish stew and fresh bread. The students, many of them bearing visible scars, ate in silence, their focus on their meals rather than idle chatter.

"You've got one hell of a team," Tyrone said, breaking the quiet. "But what keeps them going? I mean, with everything they go through, how do they stay motivated?"

Lumi leaned back in her chair, her one good eye locking onto Tyrone's. "Pride. Honor. Legacy. Häyhä students aren't just tankers—they're warriors. They know that every scar, every injury, is a mark of their dedication."

Aino nodded. "It's not for everyone, but for those who stay, it's worth it."

Tyrone glanced at Aada, who was silent but watching him closely. "And you? What's your take?"

Aada's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "You either survive, or you don't. Simple as that."

As the day wound down, Lumi escorted Tyrone to the academy's observation tower, where they could see the entire campus. The snow-covered grounds stretched out below, tanks moving like shadows in the fading light.

"You think Liberty Prime could handle a match against Häyhä?" Lumi asked, her tone almost challenging.

Tyrone chuckled. "Oh, we'd handle it. But I'll admit, your crew would give us a run for our money."

Lumi smiled faintly, the scarred side of her face catching the light. "Good. I like a challenge."

There was a brief pause before Lumi added, "You should bring Anthony next time. I'd like to see what makes him such a legend."

Tyrone smirked. "Oh, he's not that special. Just a guy who knows how to lead."

Lumi's expression softened slightly. "Leadership isn't easy. You both seem to understand that."

Tyrone nodded, his respect for Lumi growing. "You're a hell of a leader yourself, Lumi. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

For the first time that day, Lumi's stern demeanor cracked, revealing a genuine smile. "Thanks, Tyrone. That means a lot."

The Next Morning

As Tyrone prepared to leave Häyhä Academy, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just experienced something unique. Häyhä wasn't like any other Tankery school—its brutal training, its scarred students, and its relentless pursuit of excellence set it apart.

Before he boarded his transport, Lumi approached him with a small box wrapped in plain paper. "For Anthony," she said simply. "Tell him... tell him I'm looking forward to meeting him."

Tyrone smirked, taking the box. "Will do, Commander."

As the transport pulled away, Tyrone leaned back in his seat, already planning how he'd mess with Anthony when he handed over Lumi's gift. One thing was for sure—Häyhä Academy had left an impression he wouldn't soon forget.

Additional info

At Häyhä Academy, where the training is notoriously rigorous and matches—even practice ones—are highly intense, injuries are not just common but are almost a grim expectation. The academy's reputation as "The Tank School of Injuries" is well-earned due to the brutal physical demands and unforgiving nature of its Tankery program. Here are some of the most common and brutal injuries that students sustain during their training:

1. Severe Burns

How it Happens: Häyhä Academy's tanks, many of which are WWII-era vehicles, often overheat or catch fire during high-intensity matches and training exercises, especially when they are pushed beyond their mechanical limits. Explosions, particularly when the tank is hit in sensitive areas like the engine or ammo rack, can also lead to fires inside the crew compartment.

Common Injuries: Students often suffer first- to third-degree burns on their hands, arms, and faces. The most brutal burns occur when fire erupts inside the tank, leaving lasting scars, like those seen on Lumi and her sisters after their ambush.

Brutality: These injuries are particularly brutal because the confined space of the tank often means there's little chance to escape before the flames spread, and burn scars can be permanent. The emotional toll of living with such injuries adds to the physical pain.

2. Crushed Limbs

How it Happens: Tanks are massive and heavy vehicles, and in close-quarters training or rough terrain, it's not uncommon for accidents to happen. Limbs can be crushed when a student is pinned between two tanks during maneuvers or if a tank rolls over unexpectedly on uneven ground.

Common Injuries: Broken or crushed bones, particularly in the arms and legs. These injuries often require surgical intervention, and in the worst cases, amputations are necessary if the damage is too severe.

Brutality: These injuries can be life-altering, forcing students to leave Tankery or requiring long recovery periods. The force of a tank pinning a limb can cause such severe damage that bone fragments, nerve damage, and tissue death are frequent complications.

3. Concussions and Head Trauma

How it Happens: The jarring impacts from tank collisions, sudden stops, or rough landings often throw the crew around inside the tank, even with safety harnesses in place. When practicing high-speed maneuvers or during training matches where tanks collide or fire near each other, students often hit their heads on the hard interior of the tank.

Common Injuries: Concussions are frequent, as are more serious forms of head trauma. These can range from mild to severe, with students sometimes being knocked unconscious or suffering from prolonged symptoms like headaches, dizziness, and cognitive impairment.

Brutality: Head trauma is one of the more dangerous injuries because it can have lasting effects on memory, focus, and physical coordination. In extreme cases, students may experience long-term effects like migraines or require extended medical leave to recover.

4. Spinal Injuries

How it Happens: The jerky, high-speed maneuvers and harsh terrain that Häyhä Academy tanks frequently encounter put a lot of strain on the body. Hard landings, sudden stops, and rapid turns all contribute to a significant risk of spinal damage, especially when the tank's suspension struggles to absorb the shock.

Common Injuries: Herniated discs, fractures in the vertebrae, and neck strains are common. In the worst cases, students can suffer from more debilitating injuries like nerve damage or partial paralysis if the spine is severely impacted.

Brutality: Spinal injuries can be debilitating and often require months of rehabilitation. Even when the injury isn't severe, pain and mobility issues can plague a student long after they've returned to training.

5. Broken Ribs and Internal Bleeding

How it Happens: Tank crews are packed into a confined space, and even with harnesses, the violent movements during combat simulations can slam students into hard surfaces, like the turret or tank walls. Collisions with other tanks or getting rammed by opponents often result in serious impacts that break ribs.

Common Injuries: Broken ribs are very common and can lead to internal bleeding if a sharp edge of the rib punctures an organ. These injuries are painful and can limit the crew's ability to function during practice or matches, with students often pushing through the pain until it becomes life-threatening.

Brutality: The danger with broken ribs is that the pain is constant and worsens with breathing. If internal bleeding goes unnoticed, it can lead to severe medical emergencies, putting the student's life at risk.

6. Eye Injuries

How it Happens: Häyhä's reliance on older vehicles means that shattered glass, shrapnel, or even flying debris from explosions are constant threats to the crew inside the tank. Periscopes, scopes, and viewports can shatter under fire, sending fragments toward the crew's eyes.

Common Injuries: Eye lacerations, burns, and loss of vision are frequent among students, especially those working as gunners or commanders who need to use optics for targeting. Lumi and her sisters each lost at least one eye due to the explosion in their KV-85.

Brutality: Losing an eye or suffering severe burns on the face is devastating not just physically but emotionally. Many students require eye patches, prosthetic eyes, or surgery to repair their vision, and the disfigurement can be difficult to cope with mentally.

7. Hearing Loss and Ear Injuries

How it Happens: Tanks are incredibly loud, and with the firing of heavy weapons like cannons and machine guns inside a confined space, the noise can cause permanent hearing damage. Even with modern hearing protection, the vibrations and concussive forces from tank rounds can rupture eardrums or cause long-term hearing loss.

Common Injuries: Tinnitus, ruptured eardrums, and partial or full hearing loss. Prolonged exposure to the loud sounds of tank combat can result in students needing hearing aids or other medical interventions to restore partial hearing.

Brutality: Losing hearing is not only frustrating but dangerous in Tankery, where communication between crew members is crucial. Students who suffer hearing loss often struggle to adapt, and tinnitus can cause constant discomfort, making it difficult to focus.

8. Shrapnel Wounds

How it Happens: Explosions from near hits or impacts from enemy rounds often send shrapnel flying around inside the tank, especially if armor is penetrated or internal equipment is damaged.

Common Injuries: Shrapnel can cause deep lacerations, puncture wounds, and embedded fragments, which can require surgery to remove. Students often suffer from blood loss and infections as a result of these injuries.

Brutality: Shrapnel wounds are brutal not only because of the initial injury but also due to the risk of infection if the metal isn't removed promptly. These wounds also tend to leave jagged scars, which can be painful and unsightly.

9. Fractures from Tank Rollovers

How it Happens: During practice or rough terrain maneuvers, tank rollovers can occur if the vehicle is driven too fast or misjudges a slope. When a tank rolls, the crew is often tossed around inside, leading to fractures.

Common Injuries: Broken arms, legs, and collarbones are typical when students are thrown inside the tank during a rollover. The crushing weight of the tank as it rolls can pin crew members inside, leading to more severe injuries.

Brutality: Rollover accidents are particularly dangerous because they often happen suddenly and with little warning. Students caught in a tank rollover often require long recovery periods, as the fractures can be complex and painful.

10. Mental Trauma and PTSD

How it Happens: Beyond the physical injuries, the intensity of Häyhä Academy's training and the constant threat of injury can take a psychological toll. Students are pushed to their limits in scenarios that feel like real warfare, complete with explosions, fires, and the risk of severe injury or death.

Common Injuries: Anxiety, depression, PTSD, and emotional numbness are common among students who have faced repeated injuries or witnessed their teammates getting hurt.

Brutality: The mental and emotional toll of enduring constant physical injuries, seeing friends get hurt, and living with permanent scars can lead to long-lasting psychological trauma. Some students may develop survivor's guilt, nightmares, or panic attacks, which can affect their performance and daily life.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile across the world in East Asia.

The tropical heat of Indonesia enveloped Anthony and Harriet Grant as they stepped off their transport and onto the grounds of Nusantara Armored Academy, Indonesia's premier Tankery school. The lush green landscape surrounding the campus stood in stark contrast to the militaristic feel of the school itself. Rows of tanks—ranging from vintage WWII-era Shermans and Stuarts to modern Leopard 2A6s—stood proudly on display under the blazing sun. Students bustled about, wearing crisp uniforms adorned with the school's insignia: a Garuda bird gripping a shield.

Anthony adjusted the collar of his white shirt, his gray hoodie tied around his waist, while Harriet marched beside him, her expression a mix of excitement and curiosity.

"You ready for this?" Harriet asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Anthony smirked faintly. "Always."

Waiting for them at the front of the motor pool was Ambar Anak, the 17-year-old Overall Commander of Nusantara Armored Academy. His tall, lean frame and sharp, intelligent eyes radiated confidence as he approached.

Beside him stood his Vice-Commander, Raya Kartini, a 19-year-old girl so short she barely reached Ambar's waist.

Despite her stature, Raya exuded an aura of authority that demanded respect—or, at the very least, fear.

Ambar greeted them warmly, his Indonesian accent thick but his English fluent. "Commander Grant, welcome to Nusantara Armored Academy. It's an honor to host you and your sister."

"Thank you, Commander Anak," Anthony replied, shaking his hand firmly. "Your reputation precedes you."

"And yours," Ambar said with a smile. "Shall we begin the tour?"

Before Anthony could respond, Raya stepped forward, her piercing eyes narrowing as she looked up at the towering Americans. "You didn't tell me they'd be this tall, Ambar."

Harriet raised an eyebrow, amused. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Raya crossed her arms, her tone icy. "It's always a problem when I have to crane my neck to look at someone. Americans are the worst."

Anthony chuckled softly, unfazed. "I'll make a note to slouch more."

Raya huffed, clearly unimpressed, while Ambar pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's move on, shall we?"

Ambar led the Grants through the academy, showcasing its impressive facilities. Despite its location in a tropical climate, Nusantara Armored Academy operated with precision and discipline rivaling any of the world's top Tankery schools. The motor pool was a blend of restored WWII tanks and modern vehicles, each one meticulously maintained by teams of students.

"Our philosophy," Ambar explained, gesturing to the tanks, "is to blend the old with the new. We train our students to understand the history of Tankery while preparing them for the future."

Anthony nodded, impressed. "A solid approach. It's clear your team takes pride in their work."

"Pride is everything," Ambar replied. "Especially for a nation like ours, with a history of resilience."

As they walked, Raya trailed slightly behind, muttering to herself in Indonesian. Harriet leaned over to Anthony. "I think she hates us."

"She hates you," Anthony whispered back. "I'm just tall by association."

The group arrived at the training grounds, where a simulated match was underway. The roar of engines, the screech of treads on dirt, and the echo of blank rounds firing filled the air. Nusantara's students operated their tanks with precision, their movements coordinated and efficient.

Harriet watched as a Stuart tank darted between cover, narrowly avoiding a shot from a Leopard. "Not bad," she remarked. "They've got good instincts."

Ambar smiled. "We focus on adaptability. In real combat, the terrain often dictates the tactics."

Raya, who had been silent for a while, suddenly spoke up. "Of course, you Americans wouldn't understand that. You rely on brute force, not strategy."

Harriet turned to Raya, her expression amused rather than offended. "You know, for someone so small, you've got a big attitude."

Raya bristled, stepping closer to Harriet. "Size doesn't matter. I could take you down in five seconds."

Harriet smirked. "I'd like to see you try."

Ambar quickly stepped between them, raising his hands. "Ladies, let's keep it civil. We're all allies here."

Anthony shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Everywhere we go."

After the training match concluded, the group moved to the academy's main hall for a debrief. Anthony and Ambar discussed strategies while Harriet and Raya sat silently, the tension between them palpable. Finally, Raya broke the silence.

"Do you even know what it's like to fight for something real?" she asked, her tone sharp.

Harriet raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"In America, you have everything handed to you. Here, we have to fight for every inch of progress. Every victory means something."

Harriet leaned forward, her voice calm but firm. "You think we don't know struggle? My family's been through wars, disasters, and worse. Don't mistake confidence for complacency."

Raya glared at her, but Ambar intervened again, his tone diplomatic. "Raya, enough. The Grants are our guests. Show some respect."

Raya grumbled but fell silent, her arms crossed.

As the day wound down, Ambar invited Anthony and Harriet to observe an evening training session. The tanks moved like shadows under the moonlight, their crews working tirelessly to perfect their maneuvers. Despite her earlier outburst, Raya was among the most impressive, commanding her tank with precision and authority.

Anthony leaned toward Ambar. "She's tough, I'll give her that."

Ambar nodded. "Raya's small, but she's got the heart of a giant. Just... don't mention her height. Ever."

"Noted," Anthony said with a smirk.

Harriet, meanwhile, watched Raya with a newfound respect. Despite their earlier clash, she couldn't deny the girl's skill and determination.

The next morning, as Anthony and Harriet prepared to leave, Ambar and Raya met them at the transport. Ambar extended his hand. "Commander Grant, it's been an honor. I hope we can face each other in a match soon."

"Looking forward to it," Anthony replied, shaking his hand firmly.

Raya, standing beside Ambar, hesitated before speaking. "Harriet."

Harriet turned to her, surprised by the change in tone. "Yeah?"

Raya looked up, her expression serious. "You're not as bad as I thought."

Harriet smirked. "You're not too bad yourself, shorty."

Raya's eye twitched, but she managed a faint smile. "Safe travels."

As the transport pulled away, Harriet leaned back in her seat, grinning. "Well, that was fun."

Anthony chuckled. "You made a friend."

"Or a rival," Harriet replied. "Either way, I'll take it."

The tropical landscape of Indonesia faded into the distance, but the lessons learned—and the rivalries formed—at Nusantara Armored Academy would stay with them for a long time.

Chapter Text

Anthony sat on the edge of his dorm room bed, his laptop resting on the small desk in front of him. The screen displayed a live stream of the latest Sensha-Dō match—Ooarai Girls Academy vs. Kuromorimine Girls High School. It was a fierce battle, with Ooarai narrowly pulling off an incredible victory. Anthony smiled as the stream showed Miho and Maho Nishizumi embracing after the match, a rare moment of warmth between the two competitive sisters.

"Still the best," he muttered, shaking his head. He leaned back, stretching his tall frame, but his eyes flicked to the envelope lying next to him on the desk. The bold red letters PRIORITY screamed for his attention, but he'd been avoiding it all evening.

The envelope bore the insignia of the Japanese Tankery Federation, and Anthony knew it wasn't just for him. Tyrone and the other Overall Commanders and Vice-Commanders from schools worldwide had received similar letters. The weight of it felt heavier than paper should, and Anthony had a sinking feeling in his gut.

He sighed, finally reaching for the letter and breaking the seal. Unfolding the crisp paper inside, he began to read.

The Letter's Contents:

To the Esteemed Overall Commanders and Vice-Commanders,

The Japanese Tankery Federation, in partnership with several international Tankery organizations, is pleased to announce the creation of a World Sensha-Dō League. This league will bring together the best Tankery schools from across the globe for a series of matches that will culminate in a championship to determine the ultimate Tankery team.

Your school has been selected to participate in this inaugural event. Preparations are already underway, and the first set of matches will begin in three months.

As leaders of your respective schools, your participation is not only expected but mandatory. This event will showcase the pinnacle of Tankery skill, strategy, and sportsmanship. It is a historic opportunity to elevate the sport to new heights.

Further details will be provided in the coming weeks.

Sincerely,
Japanese Tankery Federation
International Division

Anthony stared at the letter, his jaw tightening. "Mandatory," he muttered. The word lingered in his mind, carrying a weight that irritated him more than it should. It wasn't the idea of competing—L.P.U.A. could hold its own against anyone—but being told to participate without question rubbed him the wrong way.

He set the letter down and leaned back, his fingers steepled as he processed the news. A World Sensha-Dō League was ambitious, to say the least. It wasn't just a competition—it was a declaration. The Federation wanted to cement their control over Tankery on a global scale, and schools like L.P.U.A., which operated outside their jurisdiction, were being pulled into the fold.

Anthony's phone buzzed on the desk, the caller ID showing Tyrone's name. He picked it up, already expecting the same frustration he felt.

"Let me guess," Anthony said as he answered, "you got the letter too."

"Yup," Tyrone replied, his tone somewhere between annoyed and amused. "World Sensha-Dō League. Sounds like a big deal."

"Sounds like a trap," Anthony countered. "You know the Federation's been itching to bring us under their umbrella. This feels more like a power play than a celebration of Tankery."

"Probably," Tyrone admitted. "But let's be real—it's not like we're gonna say no. L.P.U.A. thrives on taking down the big dogs."

Anthony smirked faintly. "You're not wrong. Still, this isn't going to be a regular match. We're walking into their territory, playing by their rules."

Tyrone laughed. "So? Rules are meant to be bent. Besides, isn't that what we're good at?"

Anthony chuckled despite himself. "Fair point. But we're not going in blind. I want every detail about this league—who's competing, what the format is, everything."

"I'm on it," Tyrone said. "Guess we're about to make some international headlines."

"Guess so," Anthony replied, his smirk fading as he glanced back at the letter. "Let's just hope it's worth the hassle."

After the call ended, Anthony sat in silence for a while, staring at the screen as the match replayed highlights from Ooarai's victory. His thoughts drifted to Miho and Maho, their journey from rivalry to mutual respect. The Nishizumi sisters had their own battles to fight, but they always managed to rise above the challenges.

Anthony glanced back at the letter, his resolve hardening. If the Japanese Tankery Federation wanted to test L.P.U.A., they'd get their chance. But Anthony wasn't about to let anyone dictate how he led his team.

He stood, grabbing his hoodie and heading for the door. Harriet would want to see this, and knowing her, she'd have a lot to say about the Federation's bold move. As he left the room, the letter sat on the desk, a silent reminder of the storm that was about to unfold.

Chapter Text

The tension in the basketball stadium was palpable. The chatter of hundreds of students, commanders, and vice-commanders from Tankery schools around the world echoed through the space, creating a cacophony of languages and emotions. At the center of it all, Anthony stood tall, his dark brown eyes scanning the room as he waited for the uproar to settle. Beside him, Tyrone leaned casually against a folding table, but even his usual laid-back demeanor was tinged with a grim edge.

The large screen at the far end of the court flickered to life, displaying a series of confidential documents, reports, and memos provided by intelligence agencies like the CIA, FSB, and others. Anthony had called this meeting for one reason: transparency. Every school had a right to know what they were truly walking into with the World Sensha-Dō League.

Harriet, standing off to the side, tapped the microphone connected to the stadium's sound system. "Alright, settle down!" she barked, her commanding voice cutting through the noise. "Anthony's got something to say."

The room quieted, though the tension remained thick. Anthony stepped forward, his expression grim but composed. "Thanks for coming, everyone. I'm not going to waste your time with pleasantries. You all know why we're here."

He gestured to the screen, where the first document appeared—a memo from the Japanese Tankery Federation. The text outlined the stakes of the league in stark terms:

Losing teams will be required to:

Remove all male participants from Tankery programs.

Adopt Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation rules, including restrictions on modern tactics.

Surrender all modified WWII-era tanks and vehicles for disassembly or analysis.

A murmur spread through the crowd, disbelief and anger rippling like a wave.

"It gets worse," Anthony said, his tone sharp. "The Federation's long-term plan is to centralize Tankery under their control. If we lose, they want us to follow their rules, their regulations, and their philosophy. No exceptions."

The next slide appeared, showing a list of schools that had already been strong-armed into compliance, their male students barred from participating and their WWII tanks stripped from their motor pools. The names included smaller schools that didn't have the resources or influence to resist.

"This isn't just a competition," Anthony continued. "It's a takeover. They're not trying to elevate Tankery—they're trying to rewrite it."

The murmurs grew louder, boiling into shouts as the gravity of the situation sank in. Students and commanders from every corner of the globe began voicing their anger, some in English, others in their native languages. The Russian contingent, led by Miya Oktyabrskaya, spoke heatedly in their corner, while Logan Roy of Léo Major Academy muttered curses under his breath, his fists clenched.

Lorenzo Ferrari, the charismatic Italian commander, stood and shouted, "This is madness! They want us to dismantle our traditions, our history, for their control?"

Klara Wagner of Germany nodded sharply. "And they're using this 'league' as a pretext. This isn't competition—it's coercion."

Before Anthony could continue, a loud thwack!! echoed through the room. A tomahawk flew through the air, embedding itself in the screen with a resounding crack. The display shattered, fragments raining down as the crowd fell silent, stunned.

At the back of the room, a student from Léo Major Academy stood with a defiant glare, his hand still outstretched from the throw. "Enough talk!" he shouted in heavily accented English. "They think they can dictate terms to us? Let them try!"

The broken screen seemed to ignite the room. Voices erupted in a dozen languages, anger spilling over in every corner. Students and commanders shouted their frustrations, some pacing furiously while others slammed their fists on tables or chairs.

"This is an insult to everything Tankery stands for!" Miya growled, her voice carrying over the din. "They're trying to erase our identities."

Isla Alisa Loughty of Highlanders Academy stood on a chair, her wild ginger hair seeming to glow in the fluorescent lights. "We don't bend tae anyone, least of all tae some bloated bureaucracy!"

Tyrone whistled sharply, drawing attention as he stepped forward. "Alright, alright! Everyone take a damn breath! I get it—you're pissed. Hell, I'm pissed. But we can't just throw tomahawks at the problem." He glanced at the Léo Major student who had thrown the weapon. "Nice throw, though."

Anthony raised his hand, and the room slowly quieted, though the simmering anger remained. "We're not here to complain. We're here to figure out how to fight back. The Federation thinks they can control us, but they're wrong. We don't answer to them, and we're not giving up without a fight."

Logan stepped forward, his cold gaze scanning the crowd. "So what's the plan, Grant? How do we push back?"

Anthony looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every commander and vice-commander. "First, we show up. If they want a fight, we give them one. But we do it on our terms. We play their game, but we don't let them dictate the rules. Second, we document everything—every shady move, every questionable call. If they're trying to manipulate the matches, we'll expose them."

"And third?" Klara asked, her arms crossed.

Anthony's expression hardened. "We win. We beat them at their own game, and we make it clear that Tankery belongs to all of us—not just the Japanese Federation."

As the meeting continued, the initial chaos gave way to resolve. The commanders and students began strategizing, sharing information and forming alliances. For the first time, rival schools stood united against a common enemy.

By the end of the night, the mood in the stadium had shifted. The anger was still there, but it had been channeled into determination. As the students filed out, their voices carried a single message: they would not go down without a fight.

Anthony stood with Tyrone and Harriet, watching the crowd disperse. "Think they'll follow through?" Harriet asked.

"They will," Anthony said firmly. "Because this isn't just about Tankery anymore. It's about standing up for what's right."

Tyrone smirked. "Well, Commander, looks like we've got a war on our hands."

Anthony nodded, his gaze steady. "Good. Let's give them hell."

Chapter Text

The stadium was bustling with activity as the students and commanders from Tankery schools worldwide returned for another meeting. The air was tense, yet focused, with everyone ready to coordinate their next moves against the Japanese Tankery Federation. At the center of the stadium, the Spanish Tankery school's Overall Commander and Vice-Commander—Catalina and Carmen Rodriguez, 18-year-old twins with fiery determination—stood confidently by the projector screen.

"Before we begin," Catalina announced in her accented English, her voice clear and sharp, "we have something to share. Something... important."

Carmen stepped forward, clicking through a slideshow of photographs on the massive screen. "These are the names and faces of the Japanese Sensha-Dō school club members. These students are known spies. They have infiltrated other schools before and reported directly to the Federation."

The first few slides showed blurry, distant shots of students from prominent Japanese Tankery schools—Kuromorimine, Pravda, St. Gloriana, and Ooarai. Each face was accompanied by their name, position, and a short description of their suspected activities.

The Russian and Finnish contingents immediately stiffened. Among the photos were several familiar faces from Pravda Girls High School, and their presence reignited old rivalries. Miya Oktyabrskaya of Russia leaned forward, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she exchanged murmurs with her crew. Lumi Törni and her Häyhä Academy team were no less tense, their jaws clenched as they glared at the screen.

As the slides continued, Anthony leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. He watched each photo pass by with sharp, analytical focus, noting every name and detail. When the next photo appeared, his posture shifted slightly—a subtle but noticeable change.

The screen now displayed a picture of Yukari Akiyama, a known Tankery enthusiast from Ooarai Girls Academy. The caption described her as a dedicated tank nerd with an unusual habit of infiltrating other schools to document their tanks, tactics, and team compositions. Her ever-present camera and excitable demeanor were well-documented in the Tankery community.

Anthony's dark brown eyes narrowed as his gaze swept across the seated crowd. Something in the way he scanned the audience caused the usual hum of murmured conversation to fade. The stadium grew quieter as people began to notice Anthony's sudden shift in demeanor.

Anthony's sharp eyes locked onto a familiar figure sitting inconspicuously near the back of the crowd. There she was—Yukari Akiyama, camera in hand, filming the slideshow with wide-eyed excitement.

She hadn't even tried to hide her intent, her lens focused entirely on the sensitive material being presented.

The air in the stadium turned icy as Anthony's gaze darkened, his expression hard and unyielding. His glare was like a thundercloud ready to strike, and it didn't take long for others to follow his line of sight.

Tyrone, sitting beside Anthony, leaned over and whispered, "Ant... who are you glaring at?"

"Look at the back," Anthony said, his voice calm yet cold.

Tyrone turned his head, and it didn't take him long to spot Yukari, her camera now pointed directly at the Rodriguez twins on stage. Tyrone's relaxed demeanor vanished, his usual grin replaced with a grim scowl.

Harriet, sitting a few seats down, followed the tension. "No way," she muttered. "She really thought she could waltz in here?"

By now, the silence had spread across the entire stadium. The air was heavy with unspoken anger as every set of eyes turned toward the oblivious Yukari. Students from Russia, Finland, Canada, Italy, Germany, and beyond were now glaring daggers in her direction. The Chinese students whispered among themselves, some clearly distancing themselves from the situation, knowing what was coming.

It wasn't until the silence became suffocating that Yukari finally noticed something was off. She looked up from her camera, her cheerful expression faltering as she met the sea of furious glares directed squarely at her. Confused, she scanned the room, her smile disappearing entirely when she realized what was happening.

Anthony stood slowly, his imposing 6'2" frame casting a long shadow as he pointed directly at Yukari. His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Put the camera down. Now."

Yukari froze, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the camera to her chest. "I-I was just—"

"Now," Anthony repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The room erupted. Shouts in multiple languages filled the air as students and commanders voiced their outrage.

"Spy!"

"She's been recording everything!"

"Get her the fuck out of here!"

Yukari's face turned pale as she realized the severity of the situation. Her usual cheer was gone, replaced by panic as she glanced around, looking for an escape route. But there was none—the crowd had boxed her in.

Before the chaos could spiral further, Miya Oktyabrskaya and Lumi Törni stood simultaneously. Miya, her tone icy, addressed Anthony. "What do you want us to do with her?"

Lumi cracked her knuckles, her emerald eye glinting with cold fury. "She won't get far."

Anthony raised a hand, silencing the offers of immediate action. "She's Ooarai's problem first. Get her principal or commander on the line. Let them explain why she's here."

Harriet and Tyrone exchanged glances, then moved toward Yukari, effectively blocking her escape. Tyrone crossed his arms, towering over her. "Care to explain yourself, Akiyama?"

"I-I was just researching!" Yukari stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean any harm! I swear!"

Harriet leaned in, her voice low and dangerous. "Spying on an international meeting doesn't exactly scream 'harmless.'"

The Rodriguez twins called for order, and the crowd slowly began to calm. Yukari was escorted out of the stadium under heavy guard, her camera confiscated for review. The room remained tense, the incident sparking a deeper distrust of the Japanese Tankery Federation's schools.

As the meeting resumed, Anthony stood at the front of the room, his voice steady but firm. "This is exactly what we're up against. They don't just want control—they'll use any means necessary to get it. If we're going to fight back, we need to be just as united, just as determined. This isn't just about winning matches anymore—it's about protecting everything Tankery stands for."

The crowd erupted in applause, the unity among the schools solidified further by their shared anger. As the meeting continued, one thing became clear: the Federation had underestimated the resolve of the international Tankery community—and they were about to learn the hard way.

The makeshift holding cell in the stadium's lower levels was a dimly lit, cold room hastily repurposed from a storage area. It was small, barely larger than a closet, with a single steel bench bolted to the wall. Yukari Akiyama sat on the bench, her hands cuffed tightly in front of her, her usually bright and cheerful demeanor reduced to a pale, tear-streaked mask of fear.

The room's only other occupant was an L.P.U.A.M.C. guard, a tall, imposing woman in her early twenties with dark skin and sharp, calculating eyes. Her Marine Corps uniform bore the school's insignia, and strapped to her thigh was a Desert Eagle that gleamed ominously in the flickering fluorescent light.

Yukari fidgeted, glancing nervously at the guard, who stood silently by the door. The air was oppressive, the weight of her actions pressing down on her. She bit her lip, her mind racing. 'Maybe I can explain,' she thought. 'Maybe they'll understand...'

Summoning what little courage she had left, Yukari cleared her throat. "U-Um... excuse me, miss?"

The guard's sharp eyes flicked toward her but remained silent, her stoic expression unchanged.

"I... I didn't mean for things to get so out of hand," Yukari continued, her voice trembling. "I just love tanks, you know? I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. I just—"

Click.

The sound of the guard unholstering her Desert Eagle silenced Yukari mid-sentence. The massive handgun gleamed in the light as the guard calmly raised it, pressing the cold barrel firmly against Yukari's forehead. The weight of the weapon and its proximity froze Yukari in place, her breath hitching.

The guard's voice was low and deadly. "Shut. Up."

Yukari's eyes widened, tears welling up as the reality of her situation sank in. Her voice broke as she stammered, "I-I didn't mean—"

The guard applied a fraction more pressure with the barrel, her tone cutting like a knife. "I said. Shut. Up."

Yukari finally broke, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed quietly, her shoulders trembling. The guard pulled back the Desert Eagle, her gaze unyielding as she holstered the weapon. She crossed her arms, her stance unchanging as she resumed her watch by the door.

The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by Yukari's quiet cries. The guard didn't say another word, her presence a constant reminder of the consequences Yukari now faced.

The tense stillness was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. The door opened, and Anthony Grant stepped inside, his towering frame filling the small space. Behind him was Tyrone Williams, his expression a mix of curiosity and irritation.

Anthony's gaze swept the room, lingering on Yukari for a moment before turning to the guard. "Stand down," he said firmly. "I'll take it from here."

The guard nodded, her expression neutral as she stepped aside. Anthony turned to Yukari, his eyes narrowing as he studied her tear-streaked face. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, Akiyama."

Yukari looked up at Anthony, her voice trembling. "I-I didn't mean—"

"Save it," Anthony interrupted, his voice cold. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You infiltrated an international meeting, recorded classified information, and jeopardized the trust between schools. This isn't a game."

Tyrone leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You're lucky we haven't turned you over to the Russians or the Finns. They're not exactly known for their patience with spies."

Yukari's sobs grew louder. "I wasn't trying to spy! I just wanted to learn about the tanks, that's all! I swear!"

Anthony's expression didn't waver. "And you thought sneaking in with a camera was the best way to do that? You're smarter than this, Yukari. Or maybe you're not."

After a long moment of silence, Anthony straightened, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Here's what's going to happen. We're confiscating your footage. You're going to sit here until Ooarai's principal or commander shows up to explain why you're here. Until then, you don't speak, you don't move, and you definitely don't pull another stunt like this."

Tyrone smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Hope you like sitting still. You're gonna be here a while."

Anthony turned to the guard. "Keep an eye on her. No unnecessary force."

The guard nodded, though her icy glare at Yukari suggested she'd need no encouragement to maintain discipline. Anthony and Tyrone left the room, the heavy door closing behind them with a loud clang.

Yukari sat alone in the cold, unwelcoming cell, her sobs the only sound in the oppressive silence. The guard remained unmoving by the door, her presence a constant reminder of Yukari's predicament.

For the first time, Yukari truly understood the gravity of her actions. This wasn't just a misstep—it was a betrayal. And she had a long way to go before she could even begin to make amends.

The courtyard of Ooarai Girls Academy was filled with the usual buzz of activity. Tanks rumbled as crews practiced maneuvers, students shouted commands, and the ocean breeze carried the scent of saltwater through the air. But the usual cheerfulness was tinged with unease—Yukari Akiyama, their bubbly, fluffy-haired tank nerd, had been missing for four days after her "research mission."

Miho Nishizumi stood near the Panzer IV, her arms crossed and a worried look on her face. Her crew members gathered around her, exchanging nervous glances.

"She's never been gone this long," Hana remarked, her tone calm but laced with concern.

"She probably got caught," Saori added, biting her lip. "But... this is Yukari. She's usually careful, right?"

Mako, half-asleep as usual, leaned against the Panzer IV. "Careful and Yukari aren't words I'd put together."

Miho sighed, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "I just hope she's okay."

Their conversation was interrupted by the distant roar of a jet engine. The students looked up to see a massive B-52 bomber soaring across the sky, its silhouette unmistakable against the clear blue backdrop.

"Is that... a bomber?" Saori asked, squinting up at the aircraft.

The plane passed over the school, and from its belly, something dropped. A small figure attached to a parachute floated toward the ground, swaying gently in the breeze.

"Wait... is that—" Hana began, but her words trailed off as the realization hit them.

As the parachute descended closer, the figure became unmistakable. It was Yukari—her signature fluffy hair somehow still intact despite her ordeal. But something was off. She was bound in chains, her arms pinned to her sides, and a bright yellow note was taped to her chest.

"Is that a note?" Saori asked, dumbfounded.

The students ran to the landing site, catching Yukari as she came down. The parachute crumpled around them, and Miho ripped the note off Yukari's chest. Written in crayon, in large, messy Japanese characters, was a single phrase:

"Fuck you, Japs!"

Miho's face turned crimson as she read it aloud, her voice a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. "Who... who would write this?!"

"Americans," Mako muttered dryly, yawning as she leaned against the Panzer IV.

They untangled the chains binding Yukari, and the fluffy-haired tank nerd collapsed onto the ground, trembling. Her wide eyes darted around as she mumbled incoherently.

"Yukari, are you okay?" Miho asked, kneeling beside her.

"Th-they... they had a Desert Eagle," Yukari whispered, her voice trembling. "It was so big... and cold..."

"What happened to you?!" Saori exclaimed, shaking her lightly. "Start from the beginning!"

Yukari took a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she clutched her knees. "I was... I was caught during the meeting. They... they knew I was filming. Grant-sama—he's terrifying. He stared at me like he could see my soul."

Saori gasped. "What did they do to you?"

"They... they tied me up," Yukari continued, her voice quivering. "They locked me in a room with a Marine guard who pressed a Desert Eagle to my head and told me to shut up. And then... and then..."

"Then what?!" Saori asked, gripping Yukari's shoulders.

Yukari couldn't say the WHAT the Chinese did to her after the two Americans left her cell... but it was mentally scary. "They dropped me out of a bomber," Yukari wailed, tears streaming down her face. "In chains! With this stupid note!"

Miho sighed, rubbing her temples. "This is bad. Really bad. If they're this angry at us, what's going to happen during the league?"

"They're sending a message," Hana said quietly. "And it's loud and clear."

As Yukari was helped to her feet and escorted to the infirmary, Miho couldn't shake the sinking feeling in her stomach. The International Tankery schools had made their stance clear—they weren't going to tolerate the Federation's underhanded tactics, and they weren't afraid to fight dirty if necessary.

Miho looked at the crayon note again, her hands shaking slightly. "This league is going to be a war."

"And we're not ready for it," Hana added solemnly.

For the first time, Miho wondered if the Japanese Tankery Federation had made a mistake—one that could cost them everything.

Chapter Text

The auditorium at Ooarai was buzzing again as the students from Saunders and Pravda joined the ongoing meeting. The atmosphere was tense, with everyone anticipating another intense session of match footage analysis. This time, the room was even more crowded, with Saunders' boisterous crew led by Kay, and Pravda's stoic delegation headed by Katyusha and Nonna. Despite the mix of personalities, a shared sense of unease hung over the gathering.

Unbeknownst to everyone, a certain guest had infiltrated the meeting. Klara Wagner, the sharp-eyed and resourceful Overall Commander of Deutscher Panzer-Akademie (DPA), sat near the back, her posture rigid yet unassuming. Dressed in a borrowed Kuromorimine uniform, Klara blended in flawlessly, her calm demeanor masking the audacity of her presence. Thanks to German Special Forces, she'd been smuggled aboard Ooarai's school ship with the precision and stealth her nation was renowned for.

As the meeting began, Miho and Maho took their places at the front, ready to continue the review of footage. The projector flickered to life, displaying the title screen of a video file.

"This footage," Maho began, her tone firm, "is from another match involving Liberty Prime University Academy and Highlanders Academy. It showcases their coordination and ability to adapt to unexpected—"

The screen abruptly cut to black, followed by the cheerful sound of a comedic jingle.

"Wait, what's going on?" Miho asked, frowning.

Before anyone could answer, the screen lit up again, but instead of tactical match footage, a bold title appeared: "Fails, Memes, and Chaos: L.P.U.A., H.L.A., and DPA Edition!"

The room went silent for a moment as everyone tried to process what they were seeing. Then the first clip played.

The video began with footage of an L.P.U.A. M1 Abrams crashing into a tree during a practice session, followed by a dramatic slow-motion replay set to the tune of "Yakety Sax." Tyrone's voice could be heard over the helmet camera audio shouting, "Who the hell let Jenkins drive?!"

The room erupted into laughter, with even Maho and Katyusha stifling chuckles.

The next clip showed a Challenger 2 from Highlanders Academy attempting to cross a narrow bridge, only to slip and tumble into a shallow river. The tank crew's Scottish accents filled the audio, with someone yelling, "Bloody hell, Isla, I told ye tae slow down!"

More laughter followed, with Kay from Saunders nearly falling out of her seat. "Oh my gosh, this is gold!" she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes.

The compilation continued, showcasing a series of hilarious blunders:

A DPA Leopard 2A5 firing its main gun at a dummy target and missing spectacularly, followed by someone yelling in German, "Who calibrated this thing?!"

H.L.A. crew members engaging in a heated argument over who ate the last of the rations mid-match.

Tyrone accidentally walking into a live firing range, realizing it, and shouting, "Nope, I ain't dying today!" before running off-screen.

The room was in chaos, with students laughing uncontrollably at the unexpected comedy. Even Nonna cracked a faint smile, while Katyusha struggled to maintain her usual stoic demeanor but failed miserably.

"Who made this?" Saori asked between fits of laughter. "This is the best thing I've ever seen!"

Miho glanced at Maho, who looked equally bewildered. "This wasn't the footage we were supposed to show," Miho said, her voice filled with confusion.

Meanwhile, Klara sat in the back, hiding a sly smirk as she watched the chaos unfold. She had orchestrated the entire switch, slipping the meme compilation into the presentation files during the commotion of the previous day.

As the laughter finally began to die down, Maho stepped forward, her arms crossed. "Who tampered with the footage?"

The room fell silent, students exchanging nervous glances. Klara remained calm, her face betraying nothing as she adjusted her borrowed Kuromorimine jacket.

But then Kay stood up, grinning. "Okay, I'll admit, this is amazing, but who had the guts to pull this off? I want to shake their hand!"

Klara finally stood, her movement drawing attention as the students turned toward her. She removed her Kuromorimine jacket, revealing her true identity as the Overall Commander of DPA.

"Ich bin es!" she declared, her voice clear and confident. "It was me."

Maho's eyes narrowed. "Wagner."

"Klara Wagner," Miho said, stunned. "What are you doing here?"

Klara shrugged nonchalantly. "I wanted to see what you were up to. And," she added with a smirk, "I thought everyone could use a laugh. You're all too serious."

Though initially tense, the atmosphere in the room shifted as the students realized Klara's prank had lightened the mood. Even Maho, though clearly irritated, couldn't deny that the video had brought a sense of camaraderie to the meeting.

"You know," Kay said, grinning at Klara, "you're alright. We could use more of this."

Katyusha, still recovering from laughter, pointed at Klara. "You Germans... always so sneaky. Next time, tell us first so we can join in!"

As the students began mingling, the tension of the previous days seemed to lift. For a moment, they were just students enjoying the absurdities of their sport, united by laughter rather than competition.

But as Klara left the room with a victorious smirk, Maho leaned toward Miho. "Keep an eye on her. She didn't come here just for laughs."

Miho nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "Something tells me this is just the beginning."

The auditorium was packed once again, the atmosphere tense but buzzing with curiosity. This session promised to delve into the key players of the World Sensha-Dō League—the Overall Commanders and Vice-Commanders of the participating schools. Miho and Maho Nishizumi stood at the front, the projector screen ready to showcase the leaders of the international Tankery schools.

Miho cleared her throat. "Today, we'll be reviewing the commanders and vice-commanders of the schools we'll be competing against. Knowing our opponents is just as important as knowing ourselves."

Maho nodded, her voice steady. "Let's begin."

The first slide displayed the Overall Commander and Vice-Commander of Highlanders Academy Isla Alisa Loughty and her Vice-Commander, Callum MacGregor. The photo showed Isla, the fiery redhead with a proud grin, standing beside Callum, a tall, stoic boy with jet-black hair and sharp eyes.

St. Gloriana's delegation reacted first. Darjeeling tilted her head, her trademark teacup in hand. "Quite the spirited leader, isn't she?"

Orange Pekoe nodded thoughtfully. "But unconventional, no doubt. War paint and Viking helmets hardly align with our traditions."

Anzio's Anchovy, however, seemed more focused on Callum. "Handsome guy," she muttered under her breath, earning a few chuckles from her crew.

The next slide showed Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia, featuring Lorenzo Ferrari and Serafina Rossi. Lorenzo's blonde hair and blue eyes gave him an almost regal appearance, while Serafina's mischievous smirk hinted at her wild personality.

"Lorenzo certainly lives up to his name," Anchovy remarked, her cheeks pink. "Elegant and commanding."

"Maybe too commanding," one of her crewmates teased, causing Anchovy to playfully swat at her.

When the slide for Häyhä Academy appeared, the room's mood shifted. The photos of Lumi Törni, her German half-sister Aada Törni, and American half-sister Aino Törni displayed their burned scars, disfigured features, and icy determination. Despite their injuries, their fierce gazes commanded respect—and fear.

The next slide, showing Miya Oktyabrskaya of the United Federation Tankery Academy, only added to the tension. Her photo, dark and brooding, portrayed her as a battle-hardened leader, with her Vice-Commander, Anastasia Orlova, standing stoically beside her.

The Pravda delegation went silent. Katyusha avoided looking at the screen entirely, her usual bravado conspicuously absent. Nonna glanced at her leader, her expression unreadable but her hand resting reassuringly on Katyusha's shoulder.

"Something wrong, Katyusha?" Darjeeling asked, her voice polite but curious.

Katyusha waved it off with a nervous laugh. "N-nothing! Just... old rivals, that's all."

But the way her eyes flickered toward the Törni sisters' photo suggested there was more to the story.

When the slide switched to Léo Major Academy, the room collectively tensed. The photos weren't the polished yearbook-style headshots everyone expected—they were police mugshots. Logan Roy, the Overall Commander, stared coldly at the camera, his sharp features and rugged beard giving him the appearance of a seasoned outlaw. His Vice-Commander, Amara "The Reaper" Cross, looked no less intimidating, her tattoos visible even in the dim mugshot lighting.

Maple High School, another Canadian Tankery school, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Their Overall Commander, Trout MacAllister, sweat nervously as she whispered to his Vice-Commander. "I told you they'd use those photos."

"Better those than the ones of them holding shotguns," her Vice-Commander replied grimly.

The tension was broken by a nervous laugh from Kay of Saunders. "Well, at least they're honest about their reputations."

The final slide brought the room to life as photos of Anthony Grant and Tyrone Williams from Liberty Prime University Academy appeared. Unlike the polished images of other commanders, their photos showed both sneezing mid-shot. Anthony's face was scrunched up, his eyes closed, while Tyrone looked utterly bewildered, his mouth agape mid-sneeze.

The room exploded with laughter.

"Are these real?" Saori howled, clutching her sides. "They couldn't have picked better photos?"

Kay from Saunders was practically in tears. "Oh my gosh, this is the best thing I've ever seen!"

Even the stoic members of Kuromorimine cracked smiles. Nonna smirked, while Katyusha giggled, her earlier tension momentarily forgotten.

Miho and Maho, however, didn't laugh. Their expressions softened as they stared at the screen, memories of their childhood with the Grants surfacing. Miho smiled faintly. "They haven't changed much, have they?"

"No," Maho agreed, her tone uncharacteristically warm. "Still the same boys we grew up with."

As the slideshow ended, the room slowly returned to order, though the lingering laughter from Anthony and Tyrone's photos kept the atmosphere light.

Maho stepped forward. "While it's good to know who we're up against, don't underestimate anyone. These commanders and their teams are some of the best in the world. Stay focused."

Miho nodded, adding, "And remember, they're just as human as we are. Even the strongest teams make mistakes—sometimes funny ones."

As the meeting adjourned, the students left with a mix of determination and amusement. But for Miho and Maho, the sight of Anthony and Tyrone's photos reminded them of the bonds that went beyond rivalry—bonds forged in childhood, tested in competition, and destined to endure no matter the outcome.

Three days after her harrowing return, Yukari Akiyama walked into Ooarai's auditorium, her steps tentative but steady. Though the haunted look in her eyes hadn't entirely disappeared, there was a quiet determination about her now. Therapy and time in the hospital had helped, but she still clung to a nervous energy, her fluffy hair slightly disheveled as she took her seat near Miho.

"Good to have you back," Miho said softly, offering a warm smile.

Yukari nodded, though her voice was a whisper. "Thanks, Miho-sama. I'm ready to help."

Maho stood at the front of the room, her usual stern demeanor commanding silence as the students filed in. The massive projector screen behind her displayed a detailed map of the world, with pins marking the locations of the international Tankery schools participating in the World Sensha-Dō League.

"Let's get started," Maho began, her voice crisp. "Understanding the geography of our opponents is just as important as understanding their tactics. Today, we'll be reviewing the locations of each school, along with some insights into their environments and training conditions."

The first pin appeared on Hampton, Virginia, at Old Point Comfort on the southern tip of the Virginia Peninsula.

"This is Liberty Prime University Academy," Miho said, stepping forward. "L.P.U.A. is located on a former military base and operates with direct support from the U.S. Armed Forces. Their training grounds include urban combat zones, open plains, and dense forests, giving them experience in nearly every terrain."

Yukari raised her hand hesitantly. "Isn't that also where they keep their... aircraft carrier?"

The room murmured in disbelief. Maho nodded. "Yes. L.P.U.A. has access to naval equipment for amphibious operations. Their versatility is unmatched."

The screen switched to a photo of the school's massive tank arsenal, including modified Abrams MBTs, Bradley IFVs, LAV-25s, M10 Brookers, and T30 heavy tanks. The sight alone was intimidating, and many students exchanged uneasy glances.

"They're not just a Tankery school," Maho added. "They're a military force."

The next pin landed on Novosibirsk, Russia, deep in Siberia.

"United Federation Tankery Academy," Maho announced. "Located in one of the harshest environments on Earth, UFTA's students are trained to endure extreme cold, limited visibility, and rugged terrain."

The screen displayed footage of UFTA tanks, including T-72s, T-90s, T-80s, and Armata MBTs, plowing through snow-covered fields. The sheer resilience of their crews was evident.

"They thrive in conditions most of us would consider impossible," Miho said. "Their endurance is their greatest weapon."

Katyusha squirmed in her seat, avoiding eye contact with the screen. Yukari noticed and whispered to Saori, "Do you think Katyusha's okay?"

Saori shrugged. "I think she's avoiding someone."

The next pin marked Rovaniemi, Finland, just south of the Arctic Circle.

"Häyhä Academy," Maho said, her tone somber. "Named after Simo Häyhä, the famous Finnish sniper, this school trains under conditions almost as harsh as UFTA's. Their students are known for their precision and stealth."

The screen showed tanks navigating dense forests and snowy tundras, their crews dressed in winter camouflage. The Törni sisters appeared next, their burned faces and icy stares sending chills through the room.

"They specialize in ambush tactics and psychological warfare," Miho explained. "Facing them is like fighting ghosts."

The Pravda students sat stiffly, clearly uneasy. Katyusha shifted uncomfortably, her eyes darting toward the exit.

The next pin landed on Edinburgh, Scotland.

"Highlanders Academy," Miho said, her voice brightening slightly. "H.L.A. is as bold as its leader, Isla Loughty. Their training grounds include rugged highlands, bogs, and steep cliffs."

The screen displayed footage of Challenger 2 tanks painted in tartan patterns, their crews wearing war paint and Viking helmets. The Vikings Tank Division (H.L.A.V.T.D.) appeared next, their aggressive tactics on full display.

"They're fearless," Maho said, "and their knowledge of terrain gives them a significant advantage."

Darjeeling raised an eyebrow. "Unconventional, but effective."

The next pin appeared in Rome, Italy.

"Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia," Miho announced. "Their commander, Lorenzo Ferrari, is as strategic as he is charismatic. Their training emphasizes speed, precision, and coordination."

The screen showed Ariete MBTs and modified WWII-era tanks navigating tight urban streets and open countryside. Serafina Rossi appeared briefly, her fiery personality evident even in still photos.

"They blend old and new tactics seamlessly," Maho said. "And their charm can be just as disarming as their tanks."

Anchovy blushed, muttering, "Lorenzo really is something..."

The next pin landed on the Bavarian Alps, Germany.

"Deutscher Panzer-Akademie," Maho said. "Located in one of the most picturesque regions of Europe, DPA's training grounds are as challenging as they are beautiful."

The screen displayed footage of Leopard 2A7s and WWII Panzers maneuvering through mountain passes and dense forests. Klara Wagner's sharp gaze and confident smirk appeared next, her reputation as a cunning strategist well-earned.

"They're disciplined, methodical, and dangerous," Miho said. "Never underestimate a DPA crew."

The final pin marked Toronto, Canada.

"Léo Major Academy," Maho said, her tone serious. "What began as a juvenile detention center has become one of the most feared Tankery schools in the world."

The screen displayed L.M.A.'s infamous Devil's Tank Division (L.M.A.D.T.D.), their tanks adorned with skull insignias and their crews wearing combat gear that wouldn't look out of place in a war zone. The mugshots of Logan Roy and Amara Cross appeared next, their intense gazes unsettling the room.

"They play dirty," Maho said bluntly. "And they don't care about the rules."

The room fell silent, the weight of L.M.A.'s reputation sinking in.

As the presentation ended, Miho looked out at the crowd, her expression a mix of determination and concern. "These schools represent the best in the world. But that doesn't mean we can't win. We'll learn from their strengths, adapt to their tactics, and fight with everything we've got."

Maho nodded. "This isn't just about winning matches. It's about proving that Tankery belongs to everyone."

The room erupted in applause, the students united in their resolve. As the meeting ended, Yukari approached Miho, her voice soft but steady. "Commander, I'm ready to do whatever it takes to help."

Miho smiled warmly. "We'll do it together, Yukari. One step at a time."

Chapter Text

The auditorium was filled with anticipation the next morning as Miho and Maho Nishizumi stood before the gathered students of Ooarai, Kuromorimine, Saunders, and Pravda. The plan for the day was to analyze a series of L.P.U.A. YouTube videos, a move meant to glean insights into their practice methods, culture, and team dynamics.

However, Miho had her reservations. "From what I've seen," she whispered to Maho before the presentation began, "L.P.U.A. isn't exactly... conventional."

Maho's expression was unreadable. "Conventional or not, we need to understand them. Even if that means sorting through whatever chaos their videos show."

The first video began with what seemed to be a routine tank practice session. An M1 Abrams rolled onto the field, its engine roaring as it lined up for a firing drill. But instead of precision and discipline, the footage showed the tank skidding sideways in an attempt to drift.

"What... are they doing?" Saori asked, blinking in disbelief.

The tank fired a blank round mid-drift, missing the target entirely, and the crew erupted into laughter. The video ended with one of the students climbing out of the turret and yelling, "That was awesome! Jenkins, you're driving next!"

The room burst into laughter. Even Maho, usually composed, sighed and shook her head. "That's... not how you practice."

The next video showed a group of L.P.U.A. Marines, their uniforms modified with everything from bandanas to patches resembling heavy metal logos. They were supposed to be practicing urban combat tactics, but the footage quickly devolved into a chaotic water balloon fight.

"That doesn't look like training," Hana observed, her tone dry.

"It looks like a party," Mako muttered, yawning.

The following clips showed more of the same—students goofing off, pulling pranks, and generally acting like a mix of soldiers and rowdy teenagers. There were a few moments of genuine practice, such as coordinated ambush drills and firing exercises, but these were often interrupted by sudden outbursts of laughter or unexpected shenanigans.

The room stilled as the next video began. The footage opened in what appeared to be a parking lot on L.P.U.A.'s campus. A student, clearly preoccupied, knelt to tie their shoes near an LAV-25, unaware of the approaching storm.

Suddenly, a figure burst into frame—a girl dressed like the love child of Harley Quinn and punk rock. Her L.P.U.A. uniform was barely recognizable, customized with ripped sleeves, a plaid skirt over the usual black pants, combat boots, and fingerless gloves. Her hair was dyed in streaks of red and black, and her eyes gleamed with a manic intensity.

"Oh no," Miho muttered, recognizing the look of impending chaos.

The girl—identified by the subtitles as Hailey "Harley Quinn" Jenkins—rushed toward the unsuspecting student, her boots stomping loudly on the pavement. She leaned down and screamed in a gruff voice that reverberated through the auditorium:

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, PRIVATE?! WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR TIED SHOES IN COMBAT!"

The student fell backward, their face pale with terror as Hailey loomed over them, a wild grin on her face.

"YOU THINK THE ENEMY CARES ABOUT YOUR SHOES?!" she continued, her voice a mix of drill sergeant and gleeful madness. "TUCK 'EM IN AND GET YOUR ASS MOVING!"

The video cut to the terrified student scrambling to their feet, their laces still untied, as Hailey cackled and marched away like a punk general leading an invisible army.

The auditorium was in chaos. Students from every school erupted into laughter, some doubling over in their seats.

"Is she... serious?!" Saori gasped, tears streaming down her face. "Who even is that?"

Darjeeling from St. Gloriana took a sip of her tea, her lips twitching into a smile. "She's certainly... unique."

Nonna raised an eyebrow, glancing at Katyusha, who looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or be horrified. "That's one way to motivate someone."

Maho, however, was less amused. "Is this how they run their program? By scaring their own students?"

"It's... effective, in a way," Miho said hesitantly, though she couldn't hide her small smile.

The next few clips featured Hailey in more chaotic moments:

Duct-Taping a Student to a Tank: Hailey gleefully taped a student to the side of an M1 Abrams, yelling, "CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'RE PART OF THE ARMOR NOW!"

Interrupting a Strategy Meeting: Hailey burst into a tactical briefing, shouted "BOO!" at Tyrone, and fled before he could react.

Leading a Mock Charge: Dressed in full punk regalia, Hailey ran across a field with a broomstick, shouting, "CHARGE!" while her crew followed, laughing hysterically.

"She's... something," Anchovy said, struggling to find the words.

"She's insane," Katyusha muttered, crossing her arms.

As the laughter died down, Miho and Maho introduced a final clip, one that provided a stark contrast to the previous chaos. The footage showed Anthony Grant and Tyrone Williams overseeing a live-fire exercise. Their expressions were calm but focused, their voices steady as they directed their crews.

"This is what makes them dangerous," Maho said, her tone serious. "They may look chaotic, but when it matters, they're disciplined, coordinated, and effective."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in.

As the meeting ended, Yukari approached Miho, her voice quiet but steady. "Commander, do you think we can compete with them?"

Miho smiled, placing a reassuring hand on Yukari's shoulder. "We're not them, Yukari. But we have our own strengths. And as long as we work together, I know we can hold our own."

Maho, standing nearby, nodded. "They may have Hailey, but we have something they don't—our own sense of discipline and unity. And that will make all the difference."

The following day, the atmosphere in the auditorium was heavy with curiosity as students from Ooarai, Kuromorimine, Saunders, Pravda, and the other attending schools gathered. Miho and Maho Nishizumi stood at the front, prepared to present a video that promised to shed light on the mindset of L.P.U.A. students regarding their competition.

Miho addressed the room, her tone calm but firm. "Today's video is a compilation of interviews with students from Liberty Prime University Academy. In this footage, they share their opinions about Japanese Sensha-Dō schools, including their thoughts on our tactics, leadership, and what they perceive as our strengths and weaknesses."

Maho added, "Be prepared. They don't hold back."

The video opened with a montage of L.P.U.A. students being interviewed in various locations across their sprawling campus. Some stood near tanks, others lounged by picnic tables, and a few were caught mid-training. The students' demeanor ranged from casual to intense, but one thing was consistent: their blunt honesty.

The interviewer, an unseen figure with a calm American accent, began with a simple question: "What's your opinion of the Japanese Sensha-Dō schools?"

The first student, a young woman with braided hair and an L.P.U.A. uniform adorned with patches, shrugged casually. "They're... traditional. I guess that's the polite way to say they're stuck in the past. They've got good discipline, but their tactics are predictable."

A group of male students standing near an Abrams chimed in, laughing. "Man, if they tried that parade-line crap against us, they wouldn't last five minutes. We'd punch through their formation before they even realized what hit 'em."

"They're disciplined, though," another added. "Gotta give 'em that. But discipline doesn't mean shit if your strategy is outdated."

When the interviews shifted to the L.P.U.A. Marine Corps (L.P.U.A.M.C.), the tone became even more direct. A group of Marines sat on a row of LAV-25s, their uniforms modified with personal touches—bandanas, patches, and the occasional punk-inspired accessory.

One of the Marines, a muscular girl with a buzz cut, leaned forward, her voice gruff. "Look, I respect their dedication to their craft, but Sensha-Dō isn't a fucking tea party. If they want to survive on a modern battlefield, they need to adapt. Otherwise, they're just cannon fodder."

Another Marine, adjusting the sling on her rifle, nodded. "Their tanks are museum pieces. Beautiful, sure, but beauty doesn't win battles. We're out here modifying our gear, pushing the limits of what our machines can do. Meanwhile, they're still pretending it's 1944."

The screen cut to Tyrone Williams, who was lounging in the back of a Blackhawk helicopter as it idled on the tarmac.

He had his arms crossed, his posture relaxed, and his signature "lazy genius" smirk on his face.

"Japanese Sensha-Dō schools?" Tyrone began, tilting his head thoughtfully. "They're not bad. I mean, if this were purely a game, they'd be solid competitors. But this isn't a game anymore. Not at this level."

The interviewer asked, "What do you think their biggest flaw is?"

Tyrone's smirk widened. "Predictability. They're so locked into their traditions that they're blind to their own weaknesses. Every time I watch one of their matches, it's like déjà vu. Same formations, same tactics, same results. It's like watching a rerun of a show you've already seen."

He paused, his expression growing more serious. "If I were in their shoes, I'd start thinking outside the box. Surprise us. Hell, surprise themselves. Because right now, they're an open book—and we've already read it."

The final segment of the video focused on Anthony Grant, who stood near his T30 Heavy Tank, his arms crossed as he spoke directly to the camera.

His demeanor was calm and composed, but his words carried weight.

"The Japanese Sensha-Dō schools are impressive in their own right," Anthony began. "They've mastered the art of discipline and teamwork, and their students are incredibly skilled. But skill and tradition can only take you so far."

He glanced at the tank behind him before continuing. "Their biggest strength is their commitment to their craft. But their biggest weakness? Their inability to adapt. They're so focused on preserving tradition that they're blind to the fact that the battlefield has changed. The world has moved on, but they're still living in the past."

The interviewer asked, "Do you respect their leadership?"

Anthony nodded. "I respect anyone who leads from the front and earns their position. Miho and Maho Nishizumi are capable leaders. But leadership isn't just about maintaining the status quo. It's about innovation. It's about taking risks and pushing boundaries. And that's where they fall short."

The camera zoomed in slightly as Anthony's expression hardened. "If they don't evolve, they're going to lose. And not just in the league—they'll lose the respect of the Tankery community. Tradition is important, but it's not a shield. It won't protect them from the reality of modern warfare."

The video ended, and the auditorium was silent. The blunt honesty of the L.P.U.A. students—and especially Anthony—had struck a nerve.

Katyusha was the first to break the silence, crossing her arms and scowling. "Who do they think they are, calling us predictable?!"

Nonna placed a calming hand on Katyusha's shoulder. "They're not entirely wrong."

Darjeeling sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Blunt, but insightful. They see the cracks in our armor—and they're not afraid to point them out."

Miho sat quietly, her expression a mix of concern and determination. Maho, meanwhile, stood with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze fixed on the now-blank screen.

"They're right," Maho said finally, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "We are predictable. And if we don't change, we'll fall behind."

Miho nodded, her voice steady. "Then we'll change. We'll adapt. And we'll show them that tradition and innovation can coexist."

As the meeting adjourned, the students left the auditorium with a renewed sense of purpose. The words of L.P.U.A.'s students, though harsh, had ignited a fire within them. For Miho and Maho, it was a turning point—a reminder that even the strongest traditions must evolve to survive.

In the weeks to come, the Nishizumi sisters would lead their teams through a transformation, blending the discipline of the past with the innovation of the present. And when they faced L.P.U.A. on the battlefield, they would be ready.

Chapter Text

Two days later, the auditorium buzzed with a mix of curiosity and unease as students from Ooarai, Kuromorimine, Saunders, Pravda, and other schools gathered for another video session. This time, the spotlight was on the United Federation Tankery Academy (UFTA), the Russian powerhouse that had earned a reputation for its brutal efficiency and ruthless tactics.

Miho stood at the front with Maho and Erika by her side, their expressions more serious than usual. Miho addressed the room, her tone calm but measured. "Today, we'll be reviewing a video featuring interviews with UFTA students. Their opinions about Sensha-Dō, including Japanese schools and their competitors, will give us insight into their mindset and motivations."

Maho added, her gaze scanning the room, "Be prepared for blunt answers. UFTA doesn't sugarcoat anything."

Erika smirked, crossing her arms. "This should be interesting."

The video opened with a stark, snowy backdrop—a tank training field in Siberia. The interviewer, a Russian-speaking individual with a calm but firm voice, began with a standard question: "What are your thoughts on Japanese Sensha-Dō schools?"

The first student, a burly young man in a heavy winter coat, glared at the camera.

"No comment," he muttered before walking away, his boots crunching in the snow.

The next student, a blonde girl with piercing blue eyes, flipped off the camera.

"Отъебись," she said coldly, which the subtitles translated bluntly as "Fuck off."

A series of similar responses followed. Some students ignored the interviewer entirely, while others muttered curses or simply walked away.

The interviewer shifted focus, asking about specific schools, including Pravda Girls High School. The responses took a darker turn.

A lean, dark-haired boy sneered at the mention of Pravda.

"Those cowards? They hide behind outdated tactics and propaganda. They're nothing."

Another student, a tall girl with a scar across her cheek, spat on the ground.

"Pravda is a disgrace. They're not real tankers—they're opportunists."

The camera moved to a group of students gathered near a T-90, their expressions cold. One of them spoke with venom. "Pravda are betrayers. They deserve to burn."

The Pravda students in the auditorium shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Katyusha, who had been sitting confidently at the start of the session, now looked pale, her usual bravado completely gone.

The screen cut to Anastasia Orlova, UFTA's Vice-Commander. Her sharp features and steely gaze gave her an air of unshakable confidence. She answered the interviewer's questions in perfect Russian, her voice calm but filled with conviction.

"What do you think of Pravda Girls High School?" the interviewer asked.

Anastasia's expression darkened. "We hope to destroy them."

The room went silent. The bluntness of her statement left no room for doubt—it wasn't just competition; it was personal.

The video shifted to Miya Oktyabrskaya, UFTA's Overall Commander. Standing beside a T-72, she exuded an aura of quiet menace. Her expression was calm, almost detached, as she held up a 75mm AP shell with Katyusha's name written on it in Russian.

The interviewer's voice broke the tension. "What message would you like to send to Pravda?"

Miya looked directly into the camera, her eyes cold. "This shell is for Katyusha. Tell her we haven't forgotten."

The room erupted into murmurs, with students whispering to each other in shock and disbelief. Even the usually stoic Nonna looked unsettled, her eyes flicking toward Katyusha, who now seemed to shrink in her seat.

As the video ended, the silence in the auditorium was deafening. Miho turned to address the crowd, but before she could speak, one of the Saunders students broke the silence.

"What the hell did Pravda do to piss them off that much?"

The Pravda students remained silent, their discomfort palpable. Katyusha's usual confidence was completely gone, replaced by a nervous energy as she avoided eye contact with anyone.

Darjeeling sipped her tea thoughtfully. "This isn't just rivalry. This is hatred."

Anchovy nodded. "I mean, I've seen competitive grudges before, but this? This feels... personal."

Miho and Maho exchanged a glance, their expressions serious. Maho stepped forward, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "Miya Oktyabrskaya and Anastasia Orlova aren't just UFTA students. They're former Pravda students."

The room fell silent again as the weight of her statement sank in.

Erika crossed her arms, her smirk replaced by a frown. "I thought they looked familiar. They were part of Pravda's team a few years ago, weren't they?"

Maho nodded. "Yes. And whatever happened during their time at Pravda clearly left scars—both physical and emotional."

Miho looked toward Katyusha, her tone gentle but firm. "Katyusha, is there something you'd like to tell us?"

All eyes turned to the diminutive commander, who fidgeted nervously. She avoided the question, muttering something under her breath.

Nonna finally spoke, her voice low and steady. "It's not my place to explain, but... it's clear we need to address this before it escalates further."

As the meeting adjourned, the tension in the room was palpable. The video had raised more questions than answers, leaving the students grappling with the implications of UFTA's animosity toward Pravda.

Miho and Maho lingered in the auditorium, their minds racing. "We need to get to the bottom of this," Miho said quietly. "If we don't, this grudge could turn into something far worse."

Maho nodded. "Agreed. But whatever happened between Pravda and UFTA, it's clear we're dealing with more than just a competition. This is war—and not the kind we're used to."

The next day, the tension in the auditorium was nearly palpable as students from Ooarai, Kuromorimine, Saunders, Pravda, and other schools gathered once again. The previous revelations about the United Federation Tankery Academy (UFTA) and their animosity toward Pravda still lingered in the air. Now, Miho and Maho stood ready to present another video—this time focusing on Häyhä Academy, the Finnish Tankery school notorious for its ruthless tactics and unapologetic attitude.

Miho stepped forward, her tone serious. "Today's video features interviews with Häyhä Academy students. Like UFTA, their responses are blunt and unfiltered, so prepare yourselves."

Maho added, her arms crossed, "This video also gives us a closer look at the Törni sisters, who have their own history with Pravda. What you're about to see may raise more questions than answers."

The video opened with the snowy forests of Finland, Häyhä Academy's harsh training grounds. The camera panned over students practicing ambush drills with their tanks, their winter camouflage blending seamlessly with the surroundings. The interviewer's voice, speaking in Finnish, asked the same question as before: "What are your thoughts on the Japanese Sensha-Dō schools?"The first student, a tall, wiry boy with a scar running across his cheek, sneered at the camera.

"Japanese schools? Overrated. They cling to their traditions like they're sacred, but traditions don't win battles."

Another student, a girl with piercing gray eyes, added, "They're soft. Too focused on appearances and ceremony. Out here, survival matters more than style."

The comments grew harsher as more students were interviewed.

"They'd freeze to death in our training grounds," one boy said with a smirk.

"They wouldn't last five minutes in a real fight," a girl chimed in, her tone dripping with disdain.

When the interviewer mentioned Pravda, the responses turned venomous. A broad-shouldered boy slammed his fist into the side of a tank. "Pravda? Cowards. Traitors. They don't deserve to be called tankers."

Another student spat on the ground, muttering something in Finnish that the subtitles translated as, "I hope they rot."

The intensity of the hatred was unsettling, and the Pravda delegation in the auditorium shifted uncomfortably. Katyusha, in particular, looked like she wanted to disappear.

The screen cut to the Törni sisters—Lumi, Aada, and Aino—standing together near a KV-85 tank. Their burned scars and missing eyes gave them a haunting presence, but their expressions were cold and composed.

When asked about their thoughts on Pravda, Lumi, the eldest, spoke first. Her voice was calm, but her words were chilling. "We don't just want to defeat them. We want them to feel what we felt."

Aada, the middle sister, held up her hand, revealing the burn scars on her palm. "We hope to give them the same wounds they gave us."

Finally, Aino, the youngest, leaned closer to the camera, her remaining eye burning with fury. "Pravda left us to die. We'll make sure they never forget it."

As the video ended, the room erupted into murmurs. The Finnish students' blunt threats and the Törni sisters' chilling words had left everyone shaken.

"What the hell did Pravda do to them?" Mako whispered, her voice filled with disbelief.

Even Mika, usually composed, looked unsettled. "Such hatred doesn't come out of nowhere. There's clearly more to this story."

Several Kuromorimine and Saunders students exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern. Erika, frowning, muttered, "I recognize those sisters. They used to be with Pravda."

Maho nodded, her gaze fixed on Katyusha. "So do I. Something didn't feel right during the 61st National Sensha-Dō Tournament. Now I know why."

The room's attention turned to the Pravda delegation, where Nonna sat stiffly beside a visibly pale Katyusha. The murmurs grew louder as the questions mounted.

"Nonna," Miho said gently but firmly, "do you know the Törni sisters?"

Nonna hesitated, her usually calm demeanor cracking under the weight of the room's scrutiny. Finally, she sighed and stood, her voice quiet but steady.

"Yes," she admitted. "We know them."

The room fell silent, all eyes on Nonna as she continued. "During the 61st National Sensha-Dō Tournament, the Törni sisters were part of our team. They were assigned to a KV-85 as part of our flanking strategy."

She paused, her gaze lowering. "But what they didn't know was that they were being used as decoys. The plan was to lure the enemy tanks—Kuromorimine's tanks—into an ambush. Their job was to draw fire and hold the line."

The room erupted into shocked gasps and whispers. Even Miho and Maho looked stunned.

"You used them as bait?" Erika demanded, her voice sharp.

Nonna nodded, her face grim. "Yes. But they didn't know. We didn't tell them."

Nonna's voice wavered as she recounted the events. "The ambush worked, but at a cost. The Törni sisters' tank was hit multiple times. It caught fire, and they were left to fend for themselves. By the time we reached them, it was too late. They were severely injured—burned, blinded, scarred. After the tournament, they left Pravda and cut all ties with us."

The room was silent, the weight of Nonna's confession hanging heavily in the air.

Hana, her voice barely above a whisper, asked, "Why didn't you tell them? Why didn't you warn them about the plan?"

Nonna looked down, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "Because we needed them to believe it was just another maneuver. If they'd known, they might not have gone through with it."

The room erupted into chaos as the students reacted to the revelation.

"That's horrible!" Momo exclaimed, her voice shaking. "How could you do that to your own teammates?!"

Darjeeling's usual poise was replaced with visible anger. "Decoys without consent? That's not strategy—that's betrayal."

Even the usually carefree Kay looked somber. "No wonder they hate you. I would too."

Katyusha, who had been silent throughout, finally spoke, her voice trembling. "It wasn't my decision. I didn't even know until after it happened."

"That doesn't make it any better," Maho said coldly. "You were their commander. Their lives were your responsibility."

As the meeting ended, the room was filled with a mix of shock, anger, and unease. The truth about Pravda's past had cast a shadow over the gathering, and the animosity from UFTA and Häyhä Academy now made perfect sense.

Miho and Maho stayed behind, their minds racing with questions. "This changes everything," Miho said quietly. "We need to figure out how to handle this."

Maho nodded, her expression grim. "If we don't, this league is going to turn into a war. And I'm not sure anyone will come out of it unscathed."

The next day, the tension in Ooarai's student council office was thick enough to cut with a knife. Miho, Maho, Erika, Yuzu, Momo, and Anzu sat around the long table, their expressions serious as they waited for their guests. Seated across from them were Katyusha and Nonna, the usually composed Pravda representatives. Today, however, they looked uneasy, their stiff posture betraying their discomfort.

The silence was broken by Anzu Kadotani, the head of Ooarai's student council. Her usually relaxed demeanor was replaced with a cold stare. "We've brought you here for one reason: to explain what the hell happened between you, the Törni sisters, and Miya Oktyabrskaya."

Yuzu and Momo flanked her, both visibly tense. Yuzu's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, while Momo's lips were pressed into a thin line.

Miho folded her arms, her voice calm but firm. "We've heard their side of the story. Now we want to hear yours."

Katyusha shifted uncomfortably, her usual bravado nowhere to be seen. She glanced at Nonna, who gave her a small nod. Taking a deep breath, Katyusha began.

"Miya Oktyabrskaya was... my best friend," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "We grew up together in Abashiri city, Hokkaido when she immigrated from Novosibirsk. Even as kids, we dreamed of leading Pravda to victory. She was a natural leader, brave, and—at the time—I thought she'd always have my back."

Katyusha paused, her gaze dropping to the table. "When we joined Pravda, Miya quickly became one of our top commanders. By the time she was 15, she was leading a T-34/85 with unmatched skill. She was... everything a Sensha-Dō leader should be."

"So what happened?" Erika asked bluntly, her eyes narrowing.

Katyusha's hands clenched into fists. "The 61st National High School Sensha-Dō Tournament happened. I was nominated as Pravda's Overall Commander, and Miya wasn't happy about it. She thought she deserved the position—and maybe she did."

Katyusha hesitated before continuing, her voice shaking. "During our match against Kuromorimine, I... I made a decision. I led Miya's tank and her crew into a trap, knowing they'd be surrounded."

The room erupted in gasps, but Katyusha kept going, her eyes brimming with tears. "I thought they could handle it. I thought they'd hold the line long enough for us to counterattack. But I didn't tell them about the ambush. They were left exposed, and Kuromorimine's tanks destroyed them. Miya and her crew barely survived."

Nonna, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "Miya's injuries were severe. Burns, broken bones... she was unrecognizable when we pulled her from the wreckage."

Katyusha's voice cracked. "She never forgave me. She left Pravda after that, and we haven't spoken since."

Before anyone could respond, Nonna continued, her tone somber. "And then there's the Törni sisters. Lumi, Aada, and Aino."

Nonna's voice grew heavier with each word. "They were some of the youngest members of our team. Lumi was 14, serving as the gunner in a KV-85 alongside her half-sisters. They trusted us—trusted me and Katyusha. And we betrayed them."

Maho's voice was cold as ice. "Explain."

Nonna took a deep breath. "In the same match against Kuromorimine, we used their tank as a decoy. We sent them into an exposed position, knowing Kuromorimine would target them. Their job was to draw fire so we could flank the enemy."

"And did you tell them that?" Miho asked sharply.

"No," Nonna admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "We didn't."

Katyusha buried her face in her hands as Nonna continued. "Kuromorimine's tanks hit their ammo rack. The explosion was... catastrophic. The Törni sisters survived, but just barely. Lumi lost her left eye and suffered severe burns. Aada and Aino weren't much better off."

The room fell into a stunned silence as Nonna finished. "After that match, they left Pravda. I don't blame them."

The silence was broken by the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Maho stood, her hands clenched into fists. Her usual composure was gone, replaced by visible anger.

Without warning, she stepped forward and punched Katyusha on the top of her head—not hard enough to injure her, but enough to make her yelp in surprise.

"You used them as pawns," Maho said, her voice trembling with rage. "Your friends. Your teammates. How could you?"

Before Katyusha could respond, Miho stood as well. Though her demeanor was usually calm, her expression now mirrored her sister's anger. She delivered a similar blow to Nonna, who winced but didn't protest.

"You betrayed them," Miho said, her voice shaking. "You betrayed the people who trusted you. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

As Miho and Maho stepped outside to cool off, the room remained tense. Erika, who had been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I understand betrayal," she began, her voice cold. "During the 61st National High School Sensha-Dō Tournament, one of our own betrayed us. Not only did they shoot Maho's tank after the match was over, but they also sabotaged our tank garage—destroyed everything."

She leaned forward, glaring at Katyusha and Nonna. "We know what betrayal feels like. But doing that to your childhood friends? To people who trusted you with their lives? That's unforgivable."

The room remained silent as Miho and Maho returned, their anger still evident. Yuzu, Momo, and Anzu sat quietly, clearly shocked by what they'd heard.

Miho took a deep breath, her voice steady but firm. "This isn't over. We need to find a way to move forward. But make no mistake—what you did will never be forgotten."

As the Pravda representatives left the office, their heads hung low, the tension in the room lingered. The Nishizumi sisters exchanged a glance, silently vowing to ensure that such betrayals would never happen again.

The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: the scars of the past would not heal easily.

Chapter Text

Highlanders Academy's Viking-themed training ground bustled with activity as the midday sun cast its golden rays across the rugged terrain. Students clad in the academy's mix of traditional British military uniforms and Viking-inspired modifications milled about, preparing for the announcement that would mark a significant change in their leadership.

In the center of the academy's ceremonial grounds stood Callum MacGregor, the academy's respected Vice-Commander. At 18 years old, Callum had earned the admiration of his peers with his steady leadership and unwavering loyalty. Today, however, he stood tall for a different reason: his retirement from Highlanders Academy and the passing of his mantle to his successor, Tom Oswald Macnamara, the Commander of the Viking Tank Division (H.L.A.V.T.D.).

The students gathered in a semi-circle, their tanks forming a backdrop of formidable steel and tradition. Callum, dressed in full ceremonial uniform, stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the chatter.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his Scottish brogue filled with pride and a tinge of sadness. "Today marks the end of my journey here at Highlanders Academy. For the past three years, it has been my honor to serve as your Vice-Commander, to fight alongside you, and to lead you in battle."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the students, many of whom looked on with respect and admiration. "But it's time for me to move on. My path now leads me to the British Armed Forces, where I hope to serve our nation as I've served this academy."

The students broke into applause, the sound echoing across the grounds. Callum raised a hand to silence them, a small smile playing on his lips.

"But before I go, it's my duty to introduce you to your new Vice-Commander, someone who has earned this position through hard work, skill, and unwavering dedication to our academy's ideals. Please welcome Tom Oswald Macnamara."

The applause grew louder as Tom stepped forward, his imposing figure immediately commanding attention. At 6'3½", with long blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail and his left eye covered by a small patch, Tom was the embodiment of Viking stoicism and strength. His uniform, while impeccably worn, bore subtle personal touches—Nordic runes embroidered on the cuffs and a Gungnir pendant resting against his chest.

He raised a hand to quiet the crowd, his voice calm but firm. "Thank you, Callum, for your service and for trusting me to carry on your legacy."

Tom turned to the gathered students, his single, piercing blue eye sweeping across the crowd. "I won't stand here and give you flowery words or false promises. Leadership isn't about speeches—it's about action. And I intend to lead you, not just as your Vice-Commander, but as one of you. A tanker. A fighter. A Highlander."

The students cheered, their respect for Tom evident in their enthusiasm. Isla Alisa Loughty, the Overall Commander of Highlanders Academy, stood at the back of the group, a proud smile lighting up her face.

As the ceremony concluded, Tom led his Viking Tank Division to a smaller, more secluded part of the grounds for a private ritual—a tradition unique to their division. Stripped to the waist despite the chill in the air, Tom's torso revealed his intricate tattoos: Jormungandr coiling around his left arm, Mjolnir on his right hand, and Nordic runes scattered across his chest and back.

With practiced ease, Tom mixed pigments for the war paint, his hands steady as he applied intricate designs to his body and his men. Each pattern was unique, symbolizing blessings, strength, and protection from the gods.

"This isn't just paint," Tom explained to a new recruit, his voice calm but passionate. "It's a prayer. A promise to the gods that we'll honor them in battle."

When the paint was complete, Tom stood before his division, his calm demeanor giving way to a fierce intensity. "We are Vikings," he declared, his voice rising. "And every battle we fight is a saga waiting to be written. Together, we will carve our names into history."

Later that evening, as the celebrations wound down, Tom found himself standing alone near the academy's towering flagpole, which flew the flags of Scotland, Britain, and the Viking Raven Banner. He stared up at the stars, his mind a whirl of thoughts about his new responsibilities.

"Penny for your thoughts?" came Isla's voice, her thick Scottish accent breaking his reverie.

Tom turned to see the fiery-haired commander approaching, her emerald eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Just thinking about what's ahead," he admitted, his tone light but sincere.

Isla stepped closer, her gaze softening. "You'll do fine, Tom. You've earned this."

Tom gave a small smile, his usual calm composure returning. "Thanks, Isla. That means a lot coming from you."

The two stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared responsibilities hanging in the air. Finally, Isla broke the silence with a teasing grin. "Just don't let all that Viking war paint go to your head, eh?"

Tom chuckled, the sound low and warm. "No promises."

As the night deepened, Tom returned to his dorm room, his thoughts turning to his parents. He sat at his desk, pulling out a small notebook filled with letters he'd written to his mother over the years. Though he never sent most of them, writing had always been his way of coping with the pain of her illness.

Flipping to a fresh page, he began to write:

Dear Mum,
Today, I became Vice-Commander of Highlanders Academy. I hope I've made you and Dad proud. I'll keep fighting—both for my team and for you. I promise.
Love, Tom.

Setting the pen down, Tom gazed out the window at the moonlit landscape, a quiet resolve settling over him. He knew the road ahead would be challenging, but he was ready to face it, armed with his faith, his friends, and the unshakable determination that defined a Highlander.

The bright Italian sun bathed the lush grounds of the Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia in golden light as the academy's students gathered for a monumental announcement. The student tank field, usually filled with the rumble of engines and the clank of treads, was now a makeshift stage for the farewell of their respected Vice-Commander, Serafina Rossi. Dressed immaculately in her ceremonial uniform, Serafina stood at the podium, her olive complexion and sharp brown eyes reflecting a mixture of pride and emotion.

The students, dressed in their traditional Italian tankery uniforms—a mix of crisp white shirts, green and red accents, and military-style berets—stood at attention. Among them were members of the Command Group, including the charismatic Capitano Lorenzo Ferrari, who stood tall and composed, his presence commanding respect.

Serafina adjusted the microphone, her voice steady but tinged with sentimentality. "Buongiorno, miei compagni," she began, her Italian accent lilting. "Today marks the end of my journey with Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia. Serving as your Vice-Commander has been one of the greatest honors of my life."

She paused, scanning the sea of faces before her. "But as much as I love this academy, it's time for me to take the next step. I will be joining the Italian Armed Forces, where I hope to serve our country and make you all proud."

The students broke into applause, their admiration for Serafina evident in their cheers and claps. She raised a hand to silence them, a small smile on her lips.

"Before I leave, it is my duty—and my great privilege—to introduce your new Vice-Commander: Tenente Pietro Bertoloni."

The applause swelled as Pietro Bertoloni stepped forward. At 6'1", with a lean, muscular build and striking blue eyes, Pietro was a figure of quiet confidence. His short black hair was neatly combed, and his ceremonial uniform bore the polished insignia of his new rank. Despite his calm demeanor, there was a spark of determination in his gaze.

"Grazie, Serafina," Pietro began, his deep voice resonating across the field. "And thank you all for your trust. I know I have big shoes to fill, but I promise to give this role everything I've got."

He turned to the assembled students, his tone growing more resolute. "Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia is more than a school—it's a legacy. A legacy of honor, skill, and teamwork. Together, we'll continue to uphold that legacy and carve our place in Tankery history."

The students erupted into cheers, their enthusiasm reflecting their confidence in Pietro's leadership.

After the ceremony, Lorenzo Ferrari gathered the Command Group for an important meeting. They convened in the academy's strategy room, a grand space adorned with maps, models of tanks, and Italian and German flags—a nod to their newfound collaboration with Deutscher Panzer-Akademie (DPA).

"Thanks to our partnership with DPA," Lorenzo began, his tone authoritative but warm, "we now have access to some of the finest World War II tanks, licensed to us for the purpose of advancing our capabilities."

He gestured to a projection screen, where images of their new fleet were displayed:

Lorenzo Ferrari – Panzer IV G

A reliable medium tank, its Italian-licensed design was enhanced for precision and versatility. Lorenzo's pride in his new command vehicle was evident as he spoke. "This tank is not just a machine—it's a symbol of our academy's commitment to excellence."

Pietro Bertoloni – Panzer VI Tiger I

The Tiger I's formidable firepower and heavy armor made it a force to be reckoned with. Pietro's calm but confident smile hinted at his excitement to command this legendary vehicle.

Tommaso Meini & Andrea Tengattini – Panzer V B Panther IIs

The Panther IIs, designed for long-range precision, were perfect for their roles as dedicated snipers. Tommaso and Andrea exchanged a knowing nod, their competitive spirits already evident.

Attack Group – Led by Giacomo and Sofia Angoscini, commanding Panzer IV Gs, supported by Laetitia Marelli and her Panzer III H, along with four other Panzer III Hs.

This group was designed for aggressive maneuvers and spearheading assaults. Sofia smirked at her brother, her confidence radiating. "Try to keep up, fratello."

Francesco Vesentini – StuG III

As the academy's ambush expert, Francesco's StuG III was a natural choice for stealth and surprise attacks.

The meeting concluded with Lorenzo raising a glass of sparkling water, a nod to the academy's tradition of discipline. "To new opportunities, new allies, and new victories!" he declared.

The room erupted into cheers, with Pietro adding, "And to making the Germans proud they lent us their tanks."

As the day wound down, Pietro returned to the Viking Tank Division's training grounds, where he addressed his new responsibilities. Standing beside his Tiger I, freshly painted in Italian green and red, he addressed the assembled tank crews.

"Today marks a new chapter for this academy and for me," Pietro began. "This isn't just about tanks or tactics. It's about trust. Trust in each other, trust in our machines, and trust in the legacy we're building together."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "We're not just tankers. We're warriors. And together, we'll show the world what Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia is capable of."

The crews erupted into cheers, their faith in Pietro evident. As the sun set over the Italian countryside, the academy stood united, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. For Pietro, this was just the beginning of his journey—a journey that would test his resolve, his leadership, and his loyalty to the academy he now called home.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in Liberty Prime University Academy's (L.P.U.A.) command briefing room was heavy with tension as Anthony Grant and Tyrone Williams poured over the list of schools that had already succumbed to the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation's demands. The long sheet of names was pinned to a tactical map, their respective regions marked in red to signify their compliance.

Seated across from them were Logan Roy, the brooding Overall Commander of Léo Major Academy (L.M.A.), his Vice-Commander, and the charismatic leaders of Mexico's Tankery school, Alejandro Cortés and his sharp-eyed Vice-Commander.

Anthony leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished table as he scanned the list. His dark eyes burned with quiet fury as the names of schools from around the globe stared back at him:

Middle East: Several smaller schools with limited funding and no military backing, unable to resist the Federation's demands.
South America: A handful of schools, including some in rural Argentina and Colombia, stripped of their WWII tanks and barred from allowing male students to participate.
Africa: A few fledgling programs, mostly in nations without the resources to sustain independent Tankery programs.
Europe: Smaller schools in the Balkans, particularly in Albania and Serbia, which lacked the political and financial clout to resist.

Anthony's fist clenched as he muttered, "They're targeting the ones who can't fight back. Picking off the weaker schools first, hoping the bigger ones will fall in line when they see resistance is futile."

Tyrone, sprawled lazily in his chair but with his sharp mind fully engaged, glanced at Logan. "What about you guys up north? Any pressure?"

Logan's stern expression didn't waver. "They tried," he said in his deep, gravelly voice. "Sent some bureaucrats to strong-arm us into compliance. They left with a broken arm and a formal complaint to the Canadian government. Léo Major doesn't bow."

Alejandro leaned forward, his voice tinged with anger. "In Mexico, they're using more subtle tactics. Promising funding and sponsorships to schools that comply, while cutting off resources to those who resist. So far, we've held out, but it's only a matter of time before they try something more aggressive."

Anthony nodded grimly. "They're using every trick in the book. Bribes, threats, coercion. And the worst part? Some schools are too desperate to say no."

The group turned their attention to a secondary list pinned beside the first: Schools That Refuse to Comply. These names were marked in green, a beacon of defiance in an increasingly bleak situation.

Liberty Prime University Academy (USA)
Léo Major Academy (Canada)
Highlanders Academy (Scotland)
Accademia di Carri Armati d'Italia (Italy)
United Federation Tankery Academy (Russia)
Häyhä Academy (Finland)

"These are the ones we can count on," Logan said, his tone even but resolute. "The ones with enough resources or backbone to stand their ground."

Alejandro pointed to the map. "We need more allies. If we let them keep picking off the smaller schools, it's only a matter of time before they turn their full attention to us."

Tyrone leaned back, his arms crossed. "True. But we can't just sit back and wait for them to come to us. We need to hit back—strategically."

Anthony nodded, his gaze steely. "Exactly. We need to unify these schools into a coalition. Show the Federation that we won't be divided."

The group spent hours brainstorming strategies, their ideas flowing freely as they worked together to counter the Federation's influence.

Public Awareness Campaign
Alejandro suggested leveraging social media to expose the Federation's strong-arm tactics. "If the world sees what they're doing—especially to the smaller schools—they'll lose credibility."

Resource Sharing
Logan proposed creating a network to pool resources, ensuring that schools under threat wouldn't be left vulnerable. "We have the tanks, the manpower, and the experience. Let's use them."

Diplomatic Pressure
Anthony emphasized the importance of involving sympathetic governments and international organizations. "The Federation thinks they can do whatever they want because no one's challenging them on a political level. We need to change that."

Unified Matches
Tyrone suggested hosting an independent Tankery tournament outside the Federation's jurisdiction. "If we show the world a better way to play, we'll undermine their authority."

As the meeting wound down, Logan voiced a grim reality. "Defying them won't be without consequences. They'll come after us—hard. Are we ready for that?"

Anthony met his gaze, his expression unyielding. "We've been ready since day one. If they think they can break us, they've got another thing coming."

Alejandro smirked, his confident demeanor returning. "Let them come. We'll be waiting."

Tyrone chuckled, his relaxed tone a stark contrast to the tension in the room. "And when they do, we'll send them packing with their tails between their legs."

As the group stood to leave, Anthony extended his hand. "Let's make this official. From this moment on, we're not just individual schools—we're a united front."

Logan was the first to clasp Anthony's hand, followed by Alejandro and the others. The weight of their collective resolve was palpable, a silent promise to stand together against the growing tide of injustice.

"United we stand," Logan said, his voice like a battle cry.

Anthony nodded, a determined smile breaking through his serious demeanor. "And divided, we'll make damn sure they fall."

The room fell silent as the leaders of four of the world's strongest Tankery schools cemented their alliance. The fight ahead would be brutal, but together, they were ready to take on the Federation and defend the integrity of the sport they loved.

The next day, Anthony stepped off the Blackhawk helicopter, the thrum of its blades fading as the tropical breeze of the Caribbean greeted him. The scent of the sea and distant sounds of steel tanks clinking echoed over the sprawling grounds of Jumbie Mass Union University (J.M.U.U.), where Tankery wasn't just a sport—it was a movement rooted in the shared pride of thirteen nations.

Beside him, Tyrone adjusted his sunglasses, already taking in the colorful surroundings. "Man, I can get used to this vibe," he said, his usual laid-back tone tinged with genuine admiration. "Beats the cold-ass meetings back home."

Anthony, dressed in his usual L.P.U.A. uniform, nodded but stayed focused. Their task here was more than diplomacy—it was about solidarity against the encroaching influence of the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation.

Unlike other Tankery schools, J.M.U.U didn't have a single Overall Commander. Instead, its thirteen regional commanders, each representing a Caribbean nation, worked together, embodying the unity that defined the school. They stood in a semi-circle near the landing pad, their diverse uniforms blending elements of traditional Caribbean wear with modern Tankery gear.

Olivia "Liv" Marshall, representing Antigua and Barbuda, stepped forward first.

Her bright copper-red hair caught the sunlight, and her hazel-green eyes sparkled with warmth as she extended a hand. "Welcome to Jumbie Mass Union University, Commander Grant. It's an honor to finally meet you."

Anthony shook her hand firmly. "The honor's mine. You've built something remarkable here."

Next to her, Rashad "Rash" Thompson from The Bahamas, sporting a relaxed grin and aviator sunglasses, chimed in, "Hope you're ready for some island-style Tankery, mon. We do things a little... different."

Tyrone chuckled. "I'd expect nothing less."

The commanders led Anthony and Tyrone through the training grounds, a sprawling complex where the vibrant energy of the Caribbean was on full display. Tanks painted with island motifs—vivid blues, greens, and yellows—rolled across the terrain, their crews calling out commands in a mix of English, Creole, and Spanish.

One group caught Anthony's eye: Marie-Claire Desroches from Haiti, her crew practicing precision maneuvers with an M4 Sherman adorned with the Haitian flag and intricate Vodou-inspired designs.

Her voice, calm but commanding, carried across the field.

"She's one of our best," said Ezra Jean-Baptiste of Dominica, his deep voice matching his solid frame. "Keeps her cool under pressure—something you can't teach."

Further along, they encountered Kiera "Key" Johnson from Barbados, her fiery demeanor evident as she directed her team in a fast-paced drill.

"Let's move like a hurricane, not a drizzle!" she barked, her words punctuated by the rumble of her Cromwell tank's engine.

After the tour, Anthony, Tyrone, and the J.M.U.U commanders gathered in a makeshift command tent, the air thick with a mix of camaraderie and purpose. A large map of the Caribbean spread across the central table, marked with the locations of key Tankery events and schools under threat.

Anthony leaned forward, his gaze sweeping the room. "You've seen the list. Smaller schools, much like yours, are being picked apart by the Federation. They think you're easy targets."

Valentina Ortiz from Cuba, her expression steely, replied, "Let them try. We've faced worse."

"Still," Anthony said, his tone firm, "resilience alone won't be enough. That's why I'm here—to help unify our efforts. We need to stand together, not just as individual schools but as a coalition."

The room buzzed with agreement, but it was Shaka McLean from Trinidad and Tobago who raised a key question.

"What's the plan, then? Unity sounds great, but how do we put it into action?"

Over the next few hours, Anthony, Tyrone, and the J.M.U.U commanders hammered out a plan. The strategy focused on three pillars:

Resource Sharing

J.M.U.U's unique challenge was its lack of modern tanks and equipment. Anthony proposed a loan program, where schools like L.P.U.A. and Léo Major Academy could provide surplus gear and training support.

Cultural Strength

Tyrone highlighted the importance of showcasing J.M.U.U's identity on the global stage. "Your culture is your greatest weapon. Infuse it into your Tankery—make them see the Caribbean spirit every time you roll onto the field."

Defensive Alliances

The coalition would establish a rapid response network, ensuring that any school under threat could count on immediate support from its allies.

As the meeting wrapped up, a messenger burst into the tent, breathless. "Commander Liv! We've got a situation—Brazil's Tankery school has issued a direct challenge to J.M.U.U!"

The room fell silent, the weight of the news sinking in. Liv exchanged glances with her fellow commanders before turning to Anthony. "Looks like we'll need to put this alliance to the test sooner than we thought."

Anthony's lips curled into a determined smile. "Good. Let's show them what the Caribbean is made of."

That evening, the J.M.U.U students hosted a cultural night to celebrate their newfound alliance. The air was alive with the sounds of steel drums, reggae, and salsa. Tables overflowed with Caribbean delicacies—jerk chicken, arroz con pollo, and callaloo.

Anthony, dressed down in a simple shirt and pants, found himself surrounded by curious students eager to hear about L.P.U.A. Meanwhile, Tyrone, ever the charmer, was engaged in a lively debate with Akeem Johnson of Jamaica about whose music was better—reggae or hip-hop.

The night ended with a toast, led by Liv, her copper-red hair glowing in the firelight. "To unity, strength, and the Jumbie spirit!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices blending into a harmonious roar that echoed across the island. For Anthony and Tyrone, this was more than just an alliance—it was the beginning of something extraordinary.

Author's note: Here are the other commanders.

Elena Gomez from Dominican Republic

Marcus "Marc" Peters from Grenada

Amara Francois from Saint Lucia

Desmond "Des" Lewis from St. Kitts and Nevis

Nia Baptiste from St. Vincent and the Grenadines

Chapter Text

The snow-dusted borderland between Poland and Ukraine was a striking sight as Anthony Grant, Tyrone Williams, Miya Oktyabrskaya, and Anastasia Orlova arrived at Bydgoszcz-Lviv University (B.L.U.), the only tankery school straddling two nations. The sprawling campus was a fusion of Polish and Ukrainian architecture, a testament to the unity and resilience of two nations bound by a shared history of struggle and triumph.

The rhythmic rumble of tank engines filled the crisp air as Artem Kovalenko, B.L.U.'s fiery 17-year-old Overall Commander, and his Vice-Commander, Zofia Hanna Broz, awaited the guests on the parade ground.

Behind them stood rows of WWII tanks, each meticulously maintained and painted with national insignias, alongside a few modern vehicles that hinted at their cutting-edge training program.

Artem was the first to step forward, his confident swagger matched by the intensity in his piercing brown eyes. At 6'0", with a lean but muscular build honed by MMA training, he radiated energy that bordered on chaotic. His short brown hair was slightly tousled, and he wore a winter version of the school's uniform—a long coat with the B.L.U. crest prominently displayed.

"Anthony Grant, Miya Oktyabrskaya," Artem said, his deep Ukrainian-accented voice carrying across the field. "It's about damn time you two visited. I was starting to think you were afraid of us."

Anthony smirked, unfazed. "Afraid? Hardly. Just busy keeping my school out of trouble."

Next to Artem, Zofia Hanna Broz offered a polite nod. At 5'3", she was dwarfed by her boisterous commander, but her presence was no less commanding. Her blonde hair, neatly braided and pinned, framed her sharp blue eyes that hinted at a mind always working. She wore the Polish version of the uniform, adorned with a small silver pin of the Polish eagle.

"We're honored to have you two here," Zofia said, her voice calm but firm. "B.L.U. has been eager to discuss strategies with like-minded allies."

The B.L.U. commanders led their guests on a tour of the campus, starting with the joint training grounds, where teams practiced in a mix of Polish and Ukrainian tanks. The seamless coordination between crews from different cultural backgrounds was impressive, a testament to the school's motto: "Together We Are Stronger."

Miya, ever analytical, observed the synchronized drills with a critical eye. "Your crews work well together. It's not easy to unify such distinct approaches."

Artem grinned, clearly pleased. "We don't unify them—we weaponize the differences. Polish precision and Ukrainian aggression make a deadly combination."

Anastasia, walking alongside Zofia, chimed in. "And how do you manage disagreements? I've seen cultural clashes destroy teams."

Zofia's expression softened. "We teach them to respect each other's strengths. It's not always perfect, but when you face a common enemy, differences become assets."

The group moved to the strategy room, a large hall filled with maps, blueprints, and miniature tank models. A large board displayed detailed reports on tactics used in previous matches, with a focus on ambushes and counter-offensives.

Artem gestured to a diagram. "This was our last match against Germany. They thought their superior firepower would crush us, but we outmaneuvered them with a bait-and-flank tactic."

Tyrone leaned closer, nodding appreciatively. "Classic misdirection. You let them think they're in control, then hit them where it hurts."

Zofia added, her tone even, "We also rely on historical studies. Every move we make is rooted in strategies used during pivotal battles in WWII. It's not just about winning—it's about honoring our past."

Anthony studied the board, impressed by the depth of their planning. "You're not just tankers—you're historians and tacticians. That's rare."

As the discussion shifted to the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation's aggressive tactics, Artem's playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a fiery resolve. "They've already tried to intimidate us," he said, his fists clenched. "Threatened to blacklist us from international tournaments if we don't comply."

Zofia's voice was calm but firm. "But we won't bow. B.L.U. was built to fight for independence and identity. If we give that up, we lose everything."

Anthony nodded, his respect for the pair growing. "You're not alone. Schools like L.P.U.A. and Léo Major Academy are standing with you. Together, we can push back."

Tyrone grinned, his casual tone masking a sharp edge. "And if they come for you, they'll have to deal with all of us."

The tour concluded with a demonstration match, where B.L.U.'s crews showcased their unique blend of tactics. In a carefully orchestrated exercise, a group of Polish T-34/85s lured a mock enemy into a trap, where Ukrainian SU-100s and modern T-84 tanks delivered a devastating ambush.

Artem, standing atop of one of his personal tanks a BM Oplot, shouted commands with unrestrained energy, his voice carrying across the field. Zofia, meanwhile, monitored the battle from a vantage point, her quiet authority ensuring precision at every turn.

When the match ended, Anthony and Tyrone exchanged impressed looks. "These kids don't just fight," Tyrone said. "They fight smart."

That evening, the group gathered in the academy's grand dining hall for a feast that celebrated both Polish and Ukrainian cultures. Plates of pierogi, borscht, and varenyky were shared alongside hearty toasts of camaraderie.

Artem, with a mischievous grin, raised his glass. "To Anthony and Miya—one American and one Russian who actually know what they're doing."

Anthony smirked, clinking his glass against Artem's. "And to B.L.U.—a school that proves unity is strength."

As the night wore on, conversations turned to plans for the future. With B.L.U. now firmly aligned with the coalition, the fight against the Sensha-Dō Federation gained another powerful ally.

For Anthony, Tyrone, Miya, and Anastasia, the visit wasn't just a diplomatic mission—it was a reminder of what they were fighting for: the right to define their sport, their way, without fear or oppression. And with schools like B.L.U. on their side, victory seemed more possible than ever.

Chapter Text

The icy winds swept across the frozen training grounds of Häyhä Academy, nestled deep within the Finnish wilderness. The academy's signature blend of brutal training and relentless discipline was in full display as their tanks maneuvered across the harsh terrain. Snow flew in chaotic flurries as WWII-era tanks clashed in a ferocious practice match that could rival the intensity of an actual competition.

The Törni sisters—Lumi, Aada, and Aino—stood at the edge of the field, observing the chaos with grim expressions. Their burn-scarred faces and missing eyes were stark reminders of the betrayal that had shaped not only their lives but also the unforgiving philosophy of Häyhä Academy. Around them, students shouted commands, engines roared, and the distant thunder of cannons echoed through the forest.

On the field, KV-1s, T-34/85s, and SU-85s engaged in a simulated battle. The tanks moved with purpose, their crews executing orders with precision. However, Häyhä's training wasn't just about tactics—it was about survival. The students weren't just learning to fight; they were being conditioned to endure.

From the command tower, Lumi's emerald eye followed every movement with hawk-like focus. Her voice, calm but commanding, carried through the cold air. "Tank three, advance to cover! Tank five, hold your position—don't expose your flank!"

Aada, standing beside her, monitored a clipboard detailing the status of each crew. Her remaining eye glinted with determination. "We need tighter coordination on the left flank. They're exposing themselves too much."

Suddenly, a KV-1 took a direct hit to its side from a concealed SU-85. The force of the impact caused a small explosion, and flames erupted from the engine compartment. The crew scrambled to evacuate, their screams muffled by the roar of the fire.

The scene wasn't uncommon at Häyhä Academy. Injuries, burns, and concussions were part of the routine, a grim reality of their rigorous training. As medics rushed to the burning tank, pulling out the dazed and wounded crew, the other students barely reacted. They had seen it all before.

On the sidelines, second-year student Mikael Korpela, nursing a bandaged arm from a previous session, muttered to his crewmates, "Another one bites the dust. Hope they didn't forget to duck this time."

His gunner, a tall girl named Vilja, shrugged. "It's Häyhä. If you're not bleeding, you're not learning."

Back at the command post, Aino adjusted her scarf to cover part of her disfigured jaw. Her voice was soft but laced with bitterness. "Physical scars heal, but the mental ones... they stay."

Lumi's hand clenched into a fist, her expression hardening. "That's why we train like this. So no one else has to endure what we did."

For the students of Häyhä Academy, the Törni sisters were more than just commanders—they were symbols of resilience and vengeance. The story of their betrayal by Pravda Girls High School during the 61st National Sensha-Dō Tournament was etched into the academy's culture. Every scar they bore was a reminder of the fire that had nearly consumed them, both literally and figuratively.

Their scars weren't just physical. Lumi's even tone often masked the rage that simmered beneath. Aada's meticulous attention to detail came from a deep-seated need to control what she could after losing so much. And Aino, the youngest, hid her pain behind a quiet exterior, rarely speaking of the trauma that had defined her teenage years.

The academy's students respected the Törni sisters not just for their leadership but for their unrelenting dedication to ensuring no one else would suffer the same fate.

The battle continued to rage on the field. A T-34/85, commanded by third-year student Eero Heikkinen, executed a daring flank maneuver, taking out two enemy tanks before being disabled by a hidden StuG III.

In the control tower, Lumi smirked. "Eero's getting bolder. That's good."

Aada nodded, making a note on her clipboard. "He's improving. Still needs to work on situational awareness."

As the match reached its peak, another tank—an SU-100—took a critical hit, its turret jamming as smoke poured from its hatch. The crew managed to escape, but not without injuries. One of the students, her arm burned from the heat, clenched her jaw to suppress a scream as medics attended to her.

When the match ended, the surviving tanks returned to the staging area, their crews disembarking with varying degrees of injuries and exhaustion. Lumi addressed the assembled students, her voice cutting through the cold air.

"Today, we learned who can adapt under pressure and who needs more work," she began, her gaze sweeping across the crowd. "Mistakes cost lives. Out there, on a real battlefield, there are no second chances."

Aada stepped forward, her clipboard in hand. "Tank three—your driver's hesitation cost you the match. Work on your reaction time. Tank five—good execution, but your communications were sloppy."

Aino, standing slightly behind her sisters, spoke softly but firmly. "Remember what happened to us. Never let your guard down. Never trust anyone who doesn't have your back."

As the students dispersed, the Törni sisters lingered, watching the medics tend to the injured. Lumi's expression was unreadable as she turned to her sisters. "We push them hard because we have to. If they think this is bad, they wouldn't last a second against the Federation."

Aada adjusted her scarf, her voice steady. "We're not just training tankers. We're training survivors."

Aino, her gaze distant, added, "Physical scars fade. Mental scars don't. But maybe... maybe we can prepare them to handle both."

Häyhä Academy wasn't just a school—it was a crucible. The fire that had nearly destroyed the Törni sisters had forged them into leaders who demanded nothing less than perfection. For their students, the pain and brutality of training were the price they paid for survival. And for the sisters, it was a way to ensure that their scars—the ones no one could see—were not endured in vain.

The frozen plains of United Federation Tankery Academy (UFTA) were alive with the deafening roar of engines and the metallic clanking of treads tearing through the snow-covered terrain. The Russian and Belarusian students, clad in their cold-weather tanker uniforms, moved with purpose as they prepared for their latest training exercise—a simulation match unlike anything the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation would dare to approve.

Here, there were no rules. There was only revenge.

Unlike conventional practice matches, this wasn't just about tank maneuvers or precision shooting. Today's session was designed with one specific enemy in mind—Pravda Girls High School. And the students made no effort to hide it.

The infantry division, composed of female students trained in mechanized warfare, had recreated a scenario where they would capture Pravda students who had supposedly abandoned their tanks. Dressed in mock Pravda uniforms, UFTA students playing the "Pravda crews" scrambled from the wreckage of their disabled tanks, only to be gunned down or captured by the advancing UFTA forces.

On the shooting range, things were even darker. The standard paper targets had been replaced with cardboard cutouts of Pravda's commanders and tank crews, their faces plastered with exaggerated smirks as if mocking the Russian students. As rounds cracked through the air, the targets were ripped apart by concentrated fire, a fitting metaphor for the burning hatred that UFTA still carried.

Standing at the edge of the range, Miya Oktyabrskaya and Anastasia Orlova observed the carnage with satisfaction. Their cold glares locked onto the tattered remains of Katyusha's and Nonna's cutouts.

Miya exhaled sharply, her gloved hands tightening into fists. "One day, we'll make the real ones pay."

UFTA had been forced to operate with WWII-era tanks due to international restrictions, much like L.P.U.A.. But just like their American allies, they weren't about to let some outdated rules stop them from leveling the battlefield.

Inside UFTA's massive maintenance hangar, Russian and Belarusian mechanics worked with smug grins as they stripped down old T-34s and tank destroyers, replacing their aging components with state-of-the-art modifications.

One of the mechanics, a 19-year-old engineering prodigy named Vladimira Kovalenko, stood proudly atop a heavily modified T-34/85, her face smudged with oil and soot. "This ain't a damn relic anymore," she grinned, slapping the side of the tank. "She's got the heart of an Armata MBT now."

And she wasn't exaggerating.

Engine Swap: Instead of the standard V-2-34 diesel engine, these "T-34s" were now powered by modernized engines used in Russia's latest MBTs, nearly tripling their horsepower and acceleration.

Reactive Armor: Slabs of ERA plates lined the hulls and turrets, negating the effectiveness of enemy HEAT rounds.

Transmission Overhaul: Modern electronic gear shifting replaced the ancient manual systems, making them easier to drive.

Targeting Systems Upgrade: The basic optics were swapped out for thermal sights and advanced rangefinders.

Auto-loading Mechanism: Some SU-100s were even retrofitted with experimental auto-loading cannons, boosting reload speed by 40%.

Standing nearby, Anastasia Orlova smirked at the results. "We just turned these antiques into killers."

Miya, arms crossed, nodded in approval. "They'll never see it coming."

The simulated match was a war game scenario. UFTA students, using their upgraded WWII tanks, would attempt to ambush a "Pravda-style" force using unconventional and modernized tactics.

The battlefield was a vast snowy expanse, featuring a bombed-out town, thick forests, and open plains littered with tank traps. The match started with two teams:

Team UFTA: Modified T-34/85s, SU-100s, and KV-85s, backed by mechanized infantry.

Team Pravda (simulated by UFTA cadets): Traditional Pravda-style formations and tactics to test weaknesses.

The "Pravda" team advanced in traditional Soviet formations, lining up in a staggered formation across open ground.

It was their first mistake.

The UFTA forces, using modern recon drones, spotted the "enemy" from miles away and adjusted their positions accordingly. While Pravda-style teams relied on direct assaults and overwhelming numbers, UFTA's strategy was built on deception and surgical strikes.

Hidden in the treeline, the modified T-34/85s remained completely still. Their new thermal optics tracked every movement as the mock Pravda formation rolled forward, oblivious to the ambush awaiting them.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The first volley of shells came from the concealed SU-100s, ripping through the leading tanks with brutal efficiency. HEAT shells slammed into the exposed enemy forces, obliterating multiple units before they even had a chance to react.

"OPEN FIRE!" Miya roared, her voice crackling over the radio.

The T-34s surged forward, engines roaring as their turbocharged powerplants propelled them at unnatural speeds. Using their modernized suspensions, they maneuvered effortlessly, exploiting the weaknesses of WWII-style tactics.

Within minutes, the entire Pravda formation was in disarray.

Some "Pravda" crews attempted to flee their burning tanks—only to be "captured" by UFTA's mechanized infantry, who dragged them to the ground, zip-tied them, and simulated POW extractions.

By the end of the match, the battlefield was littered with disabled tanks, mock casualties, and "captured" Pravda crew members.

Miya stood atop her SU-100, arms crossed, watching the aftermath. "If the real Pravda fought us today," she muttered, "they'd be finished in minutes."

Anastasia lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly. "One day, we'll show them exactly what this feels like."

Nearby, a group of mechanics cheered as they tested another turbocharged KV-85, watching it launch through the snow like an MBT.

UFTA wasn't just training.

They were preparing for war.

Anthony stepped off the black-painted UH-60 Blackhawk that had brought him to Kalmar Union Tank School, the elite Swedish Tankery Academy. The moment his boots hit the tarmac, he noticed something different.

Silence.

Unlike other Tankery schools, where the sounds of tank drills, gunfire, and student chatter filled the air, Kalmar Union Tank School was eerily quiet. There were no students casually talking, no staff members laughing, no unnecessary movement.

The entire school carried the discipline of a military installation.

As Anthony adjusted his gray hoodie, his sharp dark brown eyes scanned the environment. The academy's architecture was a blend of modern Scandinavian efficiency and medieval fortress aesthetics, its gray stone walls and blue banners evoking an air of unyielding tradition. The Swedish flag and the Kalmar Union coat of arms flew high above the academy's courtyard, motionless in the still Nordic air.

Even the few students he did see moved with rigid precision, their posture straight, their gazes sharp. No wasted movements. No unnecessary noise.

A group of students clad in gray and blue uniforms marched in formation towards a nearby tank hangar, their synchronized steps almost unnerving.

Anthony let out a slow breath.
"This place is serious. Almost as serious as Häyhä... just without the crazy injuries."

As he walked forward, he recalled the rumors.

Kalmar Union Tank School was neutral in all Tankery politics.

They refused to involve themselves in the feud between the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation and the international Tankery schools.

Their neutrality was so absolute that the Swedish Air Force outright threatened to shoot down a Japanese plane attempting to visit.

Anthony respected that kind of resolve.

He glanced over his shoulder at the two L.P.U.A. Marines who had accompanied him. Both were on high alert, hands resting on their sidearms loaded with rubber bullets—not out of fear, but out of habit.

This place was unknown territory. And unknown meant dangerous.

The Freyr Twins: Ghosts in Human Form

Anthony continued toward the main hall, his eyes locked on the two figures standing at the entrance.

They were twins, a brother and sister standing at an imposing 6'5", both wearing the gray-blue uniforms of Kalmar Union Tank School.

Platinum-blonde hair, sharp icy-blue eyes, and eerily perfect posture.

Their faces held no expression—cold, analytical, unreadable.

"Yeah... these two look like final bosses."

The male twin stepped forward first. His voice was deep, precise, and authoritative, carrying the weight of someone used to commanding respect.

"Anthony Ulysses Grant. Welcome to Kalmar Union Tank School. I am Gustavo Freyr, Overall Commander."

Anthony gave a slow nod. "Appreciate the welcome."

The female twin then spoke. Her voice was calm but sharp, like a frozen blade.

"Astrid Freyr, Vice-Commander. We expected you yesterday."

Anthony raised a brow at that. "Bad weather in Iceland delayed my flight. Couldn't do anything about it."

Astrid simply nodded once, as if processing the information like a machine.

Gustavo spoke again, motioning for Anthony to follow. "Come. We have much to discuss."

Anthony didn't hesitate.

As they entered the main hall, he couldn't help but notice how precise everything was.

No unnecessary decorations. No wasted space.

Even the lighting was positioned with military efficiency.

Kalmar Union Tank School wasn't just a Tankery academy.

It was a war machine in the form of an institution.

As they walked through the long corridors, Anthony finally spoke.

"So, Kalmar Union Tank School... you guys are the only ones who haven't been dragged into this Tankery mess."

Gustavo nodded. "Correct. We are neutral. Always have been."

Astrid elaborated. "We refuse to be involved in the power struggles of other Tankery schools. While Häyhä Academy is our neighbor, we do not take sides. Unlike them, we do not train with injuries as a constant expectation."

Anthony smirked. "Yeah, I noticed. No burn victims walking around."

Neither twin reacted to the joke.

Astrid continued. "We are only concerned with our traditions and our excellence in armored warfare. The international conflict between the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation and the rest of the world is of no concern to us."

Gustavo glanced at Anthony. "We assume that is why you came here? To see where we stand?"

Anthony gave a half-shrug. "Partly. But I also wanted to see how you guys run things. L.P.U.A. respects strong schools. And from what I've seen, you guys don't play around."

Gustavo and Astrid exchanged glances, as if silently confirming something.

Then Gustavo spoke. "If you want to see how we operate, we will allow you to observe a training session. But understand this, Grant... we do not fight for sport. We fight for efficiency. Everything we do is calculated."

Anthony nodded, his respect growing.
"Yeah. These guys aren't just Tankery players. They're straight-up tacticians."

Minutes later, Anthony found himself at the edge of a massive snow-covered training field, where the Kalmar Battalion, the Livgarde Battalion, and the BlueTooth Battalion were conducting a large-scale maneuver exercise.

Tanks rolled across the white landscape with surgical precision, their formations adapting seamlessly as new orders were given.

The Livgarde Battalion, composed exclusively of Swedish tankers, executed a perfect flanking maneuver using their Strv 103s, Sweden's infamous turretless MBTs that relied entirely on their hydropneumatic suspension for aiming.

"They're using those like goddamn snipers... Jesus."

Meanwhile, the BlueTooth Battalion utilized Strv 74s and Combat Vehicle 90s to simulate mechanized infantry support, working in tandem with tank formations in a way that even L.P.U.A. rarely attempted outside of experimental scenarios.

Anthony folded his arms.
"These guys don't fight like players. They fight like actual military strategists."

Beside him, Gustavo observed the scene with his usual cold, unreadable gaze.

"Unlike Häyhä, we do not prioritize brutality. We prioritize superiority through absolute control of the battlefield."

Astrid added, "We do not leave things to chance. We do not hope for victory. We orchestrate it."

Anthony smirked slightly. "So you guys are the chess masters of Tankery."

Astrid simply responded, "We prefer to call it the Nordic Method."

As the exercise continued, Anthony decided to ask something that had been bothering him. "If Japan's Sensha-Dō Federation wanted to force your school to comply, what would you guys do?"

Gustavo didn't hesitate. "We would refuse."

Astrid followed up. "And if they attempted to use force or diplomatic pressure... the Swedish government has already made its stance clear."

Anthony raised a brow. "Which is?"

Gustavo finally smirked, though it was an almost imperceptible shift in his otherwise icy expression.

"We would not allow them to land on Swedish soil."

Astrid added, with no trace of emotion, "Our Air Force has standing orders to shoot down any unauthorized foreign aircraft that attempts to cross our borders."

Anthony stared at them for a long moment.

Then, after a beat, he let out a short chuckle. "Goddamn. Sweden doesn't fuck around."

Gustavo nodded. "No. We do not."

Anthony took one last look at the perfectly coordinated tank formations moving across the snowy terrain, their precision eerily mechanical, their calculated aggression unlike anything he had seen before.

Kalmar Union Tank School was unlike any other Tankery school.

They were silent. Efficient. Deadly.

And above all else...

Untouchable.

Chapter Text

Highlanders Academy was no stranger to chaos. After all, they prided themselves on their ruthless tactics, Viking traditions, and battle-hardened students. But today, the usual rowdy energy that filled the massive tank hangars was replaced by something far more serious.

The Chief of Mechanics/Repairs—a grizzled, respected veteran of the school—was being airlifted to a hospital, his broken body barely clinging to life.

What had happened?

A crane carrying the engine of a Challenger 2 MBT had snapped, sending the several-ton engine plummeting onto the poor bastard's chest. The impact was devastating, crushing ribs, organs, and shattering bones.

It was a freak accident, but it left a gaping hole in the Highlanders' maintenance division.

They needed a replacement.

And Tom Oswald Macnamara knew exactly who to call.

A Call to Estonia – Ivar "The Fearless" Eksinud-Takahashi

Sitting in his office—which, like everything in Highlanders Academy, was a mixture of modern engineering and Viking brutality—Tom pulled out his secure satellite phone and punched in a number.

It only rang once before a voice answered.

"Macnamara."

Tom smirked slightly. "You sound surprised to hear from me."

"I do not get calls from old friends often."

"I need you at Highlanders Academy, immediately."

A pause. Then, a deep, measured response.
"Why?"

Tom sighed. "Chief of Mechanics got himself flattened by a tank engine. We need someone who can keep the entire motor pool from falling apart."

There was silence on the other end. Not hesitation—calculation.

Then, in that same cold, emotionless tone, the voice replied:
"I will arrive within 24 hours."

The line went dead.

Tom put the phone down and exhaled. "Well... shit's about to get interesting."

Exactly 23 hours and 47 minutes later, the skies above Highlanders Academy roared with the thunderous hum of an approaching transport plane.

Standing on the tarmac, Tom and several high-ranking students of the Viking Tank Division (H.L.A.V.T.D.) waited as the massive military aircraft landed with absolute precision.

The cargo bay doors hissed open, and out stepped...

A monster of a man.

6'9" tall, 6ft wide, built like a living tank.
Pale skin, dark blue eyes, and very short black hair.
His face was an unreadable mask of cold indifference.
And when he spoke, it was in a slow, measured voice that made every word sound like a command.

This was Ivar Frank "The Fearless" Eksinud-Takahashi.

Born from two worlds—Estonian and Japanese—he was a living contradiction.

His father, Ragnar Eksinud, was a war hero turned president of Estonia.
His mother, Akari Takahashi, came from one of the deadliest clans in Japan.

The result?

A ruthless, highly intelligent, and physically terrifying prodigy with the razor-sharp teeth of his mother's lineage and the iron-willed discipline of his father's military heritage.

And now?

He was here.

Tom took a step forward, meeting Ivar's icy stare with his own. "Welcome to Highlanders Academy, Ivar."

Ivar didn't respond immediately. Instead, his cold blue eyes scanned the campus, taking in the stone buildings, battle-worn tanks, and rough-but-disciplined students.

Then, finally, he spoke. "This will do."

Tom smirked. "Glad you approve. Your workshop is ready, and your mechanics team is waiting for you."

Ivar turned, his muscle-bound frame moving with terrifying grace for a man his size. "Take me there."

The Highlanders' motor pool was a chaotic battlefield of its own. Half-dismantled tanks, engines scattered across the concrete, and mechanics scrambling to make sense of the disaster left behind by their fallen chief.

The moment Ivar stepped inside, the noise stopped.

Every single mechanic, technician, and engineer turned to stare at the massive figure who had just entered.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then, one of the senior mechanics, a cocky 18-year-old Norwegian named Erik, snorted. "What's this? Some overgrown bodybuilder here to lift a wrench?"

The room chuckled.

Ivar didn't even blink.

With terrifying effortlessness, he strode forward, grabbed a 200-pound engine component with one hand, and lifted it like it was a paperweight.

The entire room went silent.

Ivar turned his gaze to Erik.
"I suggest you work harder. Or leave."

Erik swallowed hard and nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir!"

With that, Ivar dropped the engine part onto the table with a loud THUD and got to work.

And just like that, the mechanics division of Highlanders Academy fell in line.

Over the next few hours, Ivar reorganized the entire maintenance structure, barking orders with a quiet authority that demanded immediate obedience.

He didn't waste words.

He didn't waste movements.

He commanded through action, and soon, even the most stubborn mechanics found themselves following his orders without hesitation.

By the time Tom checked in later that evening, the motor pool was running like a well-oiled machine again.

Ivar turned, his cold blue eyes meeting Tom's gaze. "Your tanks will not fail. I will make sure of it."

Tom grinned. "Good. Because we've got a war to win."

And with that, Highlanders Academy had gained a new legend.

Ivar Frank "The Fearless" Eksinud-Takahashi—the Titan of Estonia—was here to stay.

A Brisk Scottish Morning

The crisp Scottish air swept through Highlanders Academy, carrying the scent of pine and the faint tang of distant seawater.

It was a scent that Isla Alisa Loughty, the 4'7" fiery-haired commander of Highlanders Academy, had grown accustomed to.

Today, however, there was something different in the air.

A tension. A shift.

As Isla stormed across the courtyard, her signature ginger curls bouncing wildly, she barked orders at a group of younger recruits struggling with a tank drill.

"OI! If ye cannae load a shell in under ten seconds, ye may as well pack yer bags and go home!"

The recruits paled and redoubled their efforts, knowing better than to test Commander Isla's patience.

Clad in the academy's dark green and black uniform, with a tartan sash draped over her shoulder, Isla was every bit a Highland warrior in miniature form.

Her emerald eyes gleamed with excitement and authority, but today... they also carried a hint of guilt.

She was heading toward the motor pool to meet the new chief mechanic—the one that Tom had told her about yesterday.

Their previous chief mechanic was still in the hospital, undergoing multiple surgeries in England, and Isla still felt terrible about it.

"A damn accident, but one that cost us dearly."

She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside as she neared the hangar doors.

The motor pool, typically a chaotic mess of tools, scattered tank parts, and greasy mechanics shouting over the roar of engines, was eerily... quiet.

No arguing. No cursing. No shouting about missing tools.

Instead, the mechanics were working with terrifying efficiency, moving as if they were part of a machine.

And at the center of it all was... him.

Ivar Frank "The Fearless" Eksinud-Takahashi.

The 6'9", 6ft-wide, muscle-bound Estonian-Japanese monster stood in the middle of the hangar, bare-chested, his battle-scarred, tattooed physique gleaming with sweat and oil.

Dark blue eyes cold as arctic ice.
A jawline that looked like it could crack stone.
Arms thick enough to snap steel wrenches in half.

Despite his intimidating presence, his movements were precise, calculated, efficient.

He barked orders in a mixture of Estonian, Russian, and English, his voice deep and commanding.

"Transmission assembly, Section 3, you are moving too slow. Speed up or I will make you regret it."

"Power output recalibration must be exact. No estimates. Exact calculations. Understand?"

"If a single bolt is loose on this Leopard 2, I will personally make sure you fix it with your teeth."

The mechanics nodded with terrified obedience, moving faster, sharper, more efficiently than Isla had ever seen.

She folded her arms, tapping her foot as she watched this towering demon of a man work.

Finally, she cleared her throat.

"Ahem."

Ivar didn't even look up, finishing his work before slowly turning toward her.

For a long, tense moment, the tiny Scottish commander and the Estonian juggernaut locked eyes.

Then, Isla smirked.

"Yer a big bastard, aren't ye?"

The hangar went dead silent.

The mechanics froze, some of them looking like they were about to flee in terror.

No one—absolutely no one—had ever spoken to Ivar like that.

For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his cold blue eyes unblinking.

Then, in a voice like distant thunder, he responded:

"You are small."

Isla's eye twitched. "Aye, and ye're built like a feckin' troll. What of it?"

The mechanics took a collective step back.

Tom, who had just entered the motor pool, facepalmed. "Oh, for fuck's sake..."

Ivar's gaze remained locked onto Isla. His expression unreadable.

Then—to everyone's shock—he gave a small nod of approval.

"Good. You have spirit."

Isla grinned. "Damn right I do. Now, ye big bastard, let's talk."

Isla led Ivar to her office, where they sat down for a one-on-one meeting.

Despite their differences in height, personality, and origins, they shared a similar mindset—a ruthless dedication to victory.

Isla leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Yer not just a mechanic, are ye?"

Ivar shook his head. "No. I am a tactician. A strategist. A warrior. But for now, I am here to fix your tanks."

She tapped her fingers against the table. "Ye know, if ye weren't already workin' in the motor pool, I'd have ye in the command division."

Ivar raised an eyebrow. "Tempting. But my focus is here."

Isla smirked. "Fair enough. Just know that if I need a sledgehammer with a brain, I'll be callin' ye first."

For the first time since arriving, Ivar let out a small chuckle.

"Understood."

With that, an alliance was forged.

The Titan of Estonia and the Fury of Scotland were now on the same battlefield.

And Highlanders Academy had just become even more dangerous.

The sun had barely risen over Liberty Prime University Academy, yet the massive motor pool and factory complex were already buzzing with life.

The air was thick with the scent of oil, steel, and gunpowder as dozens of students from the Army and L.P.U.A.M.C. divisions worked alongside the mechanics, technicians, and engineers to prepare for one of the largest military deliveries in the school's history.

A distant, thunderous rumble filled the air.

Anthony adjusted his black hoodie, standing with his hands in his pockets, his dark brown eyes scanning the horizon as the sound grew louder.

Next to him, Harriet Alisa Grant, her signature dreadlock-colored mohawk tied back, had her arms crossed. Her stance was firm, disciplined—Marine Corps through and through.

Beside her, Tyrone Williams, ever the laid-back genius, yawned before taking a sip from his coffee mug, the words "Too Smart for This Shit" printed in bold letters.

Then, the ground began to shake.

The train had arrived.

Unlike most schools that had modest tank garages, Liberty Prime University Academy was built like a damn military base.

Multiple runways for cargo planes.
Underground storage facilities for ammunition.
Railroad tracks running straight through the school grounds—built for massive deliveries just like this.

As the US Army and USMC train pulled in, hundreds of students were already lined up and ready to work.

Flatbeds carrying tank engines, turret components, spare armor plating, and entire vehicle chassis rolled in.

Cargo containers filled with ammunition, fuel, spare parts, and even entire powertrain systems for modern MBTs and IFVs followed.

The sound of air brakes hissing signaled the train's complete stop.

The Army instructors and Marines supervising the operation nodded at the students.

"Get to work."

And like a well-oiled war machine, L.P.U.A. mobilized.

Anthony watched as the Army and Marine students, along with the mechanics, rushed forward like a mechanized swarm.

Cranes lifted massive tank turrets off the flatbeds.
Forklifts transported heavy ammunition crates and engine components.
Troops and mechanics worked together, double-checking manifests, ensuring every last nut and bolt was accounted for.

Harriet smirked as she watched the L.P.U.A.M.C. division in action.

"Damn, I love this sight."

Tyrone, sipping his coffee, glanced at the manifest Anthony handed him. "Looks like we got some new toys."

Anthony nodded. "New LAV-AG parts, upgraded 130mm gun turrets for the Abrams, and some prototype modifications for the M10 Bookers."

Tyrone whistled. "God bless the Pentagon."

As the offloading continued, Anthony, Harriet, and Tyrone walked alongside the convoy, inspecting some of the most crucial additions to their arsenal.

1. M1A2 SEPv3 Abrams – "The Big Stick"

This wasn't just a normal Abrams MBT—these were being fitted with the new 130mm gun turret.
Extra armor plating, new composite materials, and advanced targeting systems made these tanks some of the deadliest in the world.
With L.P.U.A.'s training doctrine, their tankers didn't just follow WWII tactics—they incorporated modern mechanized warfare strategies, outpacing their international competitors.

2. LAV-AG Upgrades – "The Marine's Best Friend"

The LAV-AG (Assault Gun Variant) was a fast-moving, high-firepower IFV, perfect for the rapid assault tactics of L.P.U.A.M.C.
These were getting upgraded with the same turbine engines used in M1 Abrams tanks—turning them into high-speed, shock assault vehicles.

3. M10 Booker Light Tanks – "The Fast Killers"

These were being fitted with experimental active protection systems, ensuring they could survive on modern battlefields.
Lighter, faster, and deadlier than their WWII counterparts, they were set to become a game-changer for L.P.U.A.

Anthony ran a hand along one of the new Abrams tanks, his mind already running simulations of how these upgrades would dominate the battlefield.

As the students worked, Harriet picked up on a shift in atmosphere.

She turned, her sharp eyes locking onto a group of Army students glaring at a group of Marines.

Here we go...

One of the Army students—a senior tanker in L.P.U.A.'s armored corps—crossed his arms. "You Marines always get the best gear. Half these upgrades are for L.P.U.A.M.C., and we're stuck with Abrams and Bradleys."

One of the Marine students, a short but muscular Latina girl, smirked. "Maybe if y'all trained harder, the brass would trust you with better shit."

The Army students bristled. The Marines smirked.

Tyrone sighed. "Ah shit... here we go again."

Harriet cracked her neck. "No, we're nipping this in the bud."

She strode forward, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"LISTEN UP, YA DUMBASSES!"

Silence.

Every single student stopped what they were doing and turned toward her.

Harriet's eyes narrowed. "I don't give a shit if you're Army or Marine Corps—this ain't the actual military, and we ain't got time for dumbass rivalries. Our enemies don't care about your branch, and neither do I. You work together, or you get the fuck out."

The students looked at each other, then back at Harriet.

One of the Marines muttered, "Damn... she's scarier than our drill sergeants."

One of the Army students exhaled, nodding. "Fine. No bullshit. We work together."

Harriet grinned. "Good. Now get back to work, or I'll put y'all through Hell Week personally."

By the time the train had been fully unloaded, the sun was beginning to set.

Anthony, Harriet, and Tyrone did one final walkthrough, ensuring everything had been stored properly.

As they reached the last row of tanks, Anthony turned to his sister. "You handled that shit well."

Harriet smirked, crossing her arms. "I'm a Grant. What did ya expect?"

Tyrone chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Still can't believe we got a whole-ass railroad system running through campus. Who the fuck planned this?"

Anthony smirked. "The U.S. Government."

Tyrone sighed. "Man, I love this school."

As the final checks were completed, Anthony took one last look at the massive arsenal now at L.P.U.A.'s disposal.

It wasn't just about the upgrades.

It wasn't just about the new tanks.

It was about preparing for war.

And Anthony knew the war was coming.

The Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation was pushing harder to control Tankery worldwide.

The international schools were ready to resist.

And when the battle began, Liberty Prime University Academy wouldn't just be ready...

They would dominate.

Chapter Text

The Quiet Before the Storm

The sun had already dipped below the Liberty Prime University Academy skyline, casting long shadows across the school's sprawling campus. The distant hum of machinery from the motor pool and the sound of tank treads being tested in the distance gave the night an oddly calming rhythm.

Inside the L.P.U.A. command office, Anthony sat at his desk, his hoodie draped over his chair, skimming through the last of the day's reports. Tyrone, lazily sprawled across the couch in the office, tapped away at his phone, clearly uninterested in whatever bureaucracy Anthony was dealing with.

"Yo," Tyrone yawned. "Remind me again why I gotta be here for paperwork? I ain't no administrator."

Anthony, without looking up, flipped a page and replied, "Because if I leave you alone, you'll either sleep or find a way to piss off the Marines."

Tyrone smirked. "I mean... you're not wrong."

Before Anthony could retort, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

He glanced at the clock. 9:42 PM. Too late for regular business. Too early for an emergency.

Anthony exchanged a look with Tyrone before calling out, "Come in."

A junior officer, dressed in an L.P.U.A. armored corps uniform, stepped in, a sealed letter in hand. His posture was rigid, as if carrying something of utmost importance.

"Sir, this just arrived for you and Vice-Commander Williams... by private courier," the officer reported, holding out the envelope.

Anthony took the letter and examined it.

It was thick, old-fashioned parchment, the kind that people used for formal invitations or official summons. The seal was not American, nor from any allied nation.

It bore the emblem of Ōarai Girls' Academy.

Tyrone, who had been too lazy to move before, immediately sat up straight, his playful smirk replaced by an expression of curiosity.

"You gotta be shitting me," he muttered.

Anthony broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The calligraphy was formal, precise, and far too elegant for something coming from a high school.

As he scanned the text, his expression darkened slightly.

Tyrone leaned over. "Yo, what's it say?"

Anthony sighed before reading aloud:

To Mr. Anthony Ulysses Grant & Mr. Tyrone Williams Sherman,

It is with great importance that we formally invite you both to Ōarai Girls' Academy for an official discussion regarding the future of Sensha-Dō. This invitation is extended with the full acknowledgment of your leadership roles within Liberty Prime University Academy and the growing international influence of your institution.

We understand the current tensions between international schools and the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation and wish to discuss the matter in person to ensure a mutually beneficial resolution.

As a sign of respect, this letter addresses you both in full name form.

Please confirm your attendance at your earliest convenience.

Signed,
The Executive Council of Ōarai Girls' Academy

Tyrone blinked as he reread the letter in Anthony's hands.

"Wait... wait... what the fuck did you just say?" Tyrone asked, suddenly focused.

Anthony gave him an unimpressed look. "You heard me. They addressed us formally, using full names."

Tyrone took the letter from Anthony, eyes zeroing in on his own name.

Tyrone Williams Sherman.

His entire body went stiff.

Anthony immediately noticed the shift in Tyrone's demeanor.

Most people never heard Tyrone's last name—not even within L.P.U.A. Tyrone was extremely private about it. Few knew it even existed.

And now, somehow, the Japanese had it.

Tyrone slowly sat back down, rubbing his forehead.

Anthony leaned against the desk. "You good?"

Tyrone exhaled deeply. "Man, I don't like that they know my last name. That's been locked down for years."

Anthony nodded, his tone serious but understanding. "Yeah, I noticed that too."

Tyrone shook his head. "Either someone did their damn research, or they had access to files they shouldn't have."

Anthony sighed, placing the letter down. "Either way, we need to go."

Tyrone groaned. "Yeah, yeah... I know. But I got a bad feeling about this."

Anthony pressed a button on his desk, connecting to L.P.U.A.'s secure comms system.

"Get me a secure line to Ōarai Girls' Academy. We're confirming the visit."

A few moments later, a female voice answered in formal Japanese.

"Ōarai Girls' Academy. With whom am I speaking?"

Anthony responded in fluent Japanese, his deep voice calm but firm.

"This is Overall Commander Anthony Ulysses Grant of Liberty Prime University Academy. Vice-Commander Tyrone Williams Sherman and I accept your invitation."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then, the voice responded, slightly hesitant.

"We will prepare for your arrival. Safe travels, Commander Grant."

The call ended.

Tyrone leaned back, arms crossed. "Man, this ain't just some diplomatic talk. This is something else."

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. They wouldn't go through the trouble of tracking down your full name unless they wanted to get our attention."

Tyrone sighed, rubbing his temples. "Shit. I just wanted to relax today."

Anthony smirked. "Too bad."

Harriet, who had been silent up until now when she entered a minute ago, finally spoke.

"Y'all be careful. You know what happens when diplomacy fails."

Anthony and Tyrone exchanged a glance.

They knew exactly what happened when diplomacy failed.

And if this turned into something else...

Ōarai Girls' Academy was about to learn exactly why L.P.U.A. was feared worldwide.

Anthony folded the letter, sliding it into his pocket before grabbing his smartphone. "I'm gonna let the Pentagon and the State Department know. Just in case shit goes sideways."

Tyrone grabbed his sidearm from the desk, checking the magazine. "Yeah. And I'm bringing extra ammo."

Harriet smirked at that. "What, expecting a shootout?"

Tyrone shrugged. "Hare, it's a Japanese high school full of cute girls. That means either romance... or war."

Anthony and Harriet laughed, shaking their heads. "Alright. We leave tomorrow via a AC-130 then on a Bell UH-1Y Venom when we land on the USMC Base there." The former said.

As the three left the office, heading toward their dorms to pack, one thought lingered in both the males minds.

This wasn't just a casual visit.

This was going to be a game-changer.

And for better or worse—Ōarai Girls' Academy had just invited two of the deadliest Tankery commanders on the planet into their home turf.

Anthony strode toward his dorm, phone in hand, as the screen glowed with the secure Pentagon direct line. The dial tone barely lasted a second before a deep, authoritative voice picked up.

"This is General Mathers, United States Army. State your business."

Anthony didn't waste time. "Sir, this is Anthony Grant, Overall Commander of Liberty Prime University Academy. My Vice-Commander and I have been formally invited to Ōarai Girls' Academy in Japan for an 'official discussion' regarding the future of Sensha-Dō. The invitation was direct, personal, and—more concerning—contained classified information regarding my Vice-Commander's full name."

There was a pause.

"...Tyrone's last name?"

Anthony nodded, despite the general not being able to see him. "Yes, sir. Someone in Japan, or the Japanese Sensha-Dō Federation, got their hands on restricted records. The question is how."

Another silence. Then, a deep exhale.

"I don't like this, son. We've been monitoring Japan's Federation for some time now. They've been pulling diplomatic strings behind the scenes, and now they've got access to classified American files? That's not coincidence—it's deliberate."

Anthony sighed. "My thoughts exactly. I'd like permission to bring a security detail, but given the nature of the visit, I doubt they'd allow it."

General Mathers' tone was grim.

"You and Sherman need to treat this like a potential black-ops situation. Be cautious. We'll have a JSDF liaison meet you at the base, but don't expect the red carpet."

Anthony's eyes narrowed. "Understood, sir. Anything we should be aware of before heading out?"

"Yes. If they try to detain you, if things get hostile—you call me immediately. I'll have a Rapid Deployment Team on standby."

Anthony smirked. "Sounds like a plan. Grant out."

As the line disconnected, Anthony glanced up at the night sky.

This just confirmed his suspicions.

This wasn't just a talk.

This was a power play.

Tyrone was already in his dorm packing light—a duffel bag with essential gear, two extra magazines, a tactical knife, and a few changes of clothes.

Harriet leaned against his doorframe, arms crossed. "So... Japan, huh? You gonna bring souvenirs?"

Tyrone smirked, tucking his M9 Beretta into a concealed carry holster. "Only if I don't have to shoot somebody."

She shook her head. "Be serious. This ain't just a trip, Ty. You two are walking into a situation where they already have leverage. Watch your damn backs."

Tyrone sighed, running a hand over his short dreadlocks. "Trust me, I know."

Harriet walked over and punched his shoulder lightly. "I mean it. If I get a call saying you got jumped by some Sensha-Dō simps, I'm flying over myself."

Tyrone grinned. "I'd pay to see that. Harriet Grant, wrecking Japanese tank nerds on international soil."

She rolled her eyes. "Just don't get kidnapped, dumbass."

Anthony, now standing in the doorway, chuckled. "I'm more worried about them regretting inviting us."

By 0400 hours, Anthony and Tyrone were at L.P.U.A's private airfield, a massive stretch of concrete and steel lined with everything from WWII warbirds to modern stealth fighters. The early morning mist clung to the ground, barely illuminated by the floodlights lining the tarmac.

In front of them sat the AC-130 gunship that would ferry them across the Pacific. Not the most discreet method of travel, but a reminder—Liberty Prime University Academy didn't do subtle.

A few feet away, Harriet, Leah, Imani, and Ann stood watching. Leah had her arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Imani had her hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, and Ann just looked mildly irritated that she wasn't going with them.

Harriet, on the other hand, looked pissed.

Anthony adjusted the strap of his duffel bag before turning to them. "Relax, we're going there to talk, not start World War III."

Harriet scoffed. "Yeah? That's what everyone says before shit hits the fan."

Tyrone, standing beside Anthony, smirked. "If shit hits the fan, I'm sure we'll find a way to break the fan."

Harriet took a deep breath and shook her head. "Y'all better come back in one piece. If something happens, I will cause an international incident."

Anthony patted her on the shoulder. "We'll be fine."

She didn't look convinced.

As the roar of the AC-130's engines started to pick up, the two men gave their final nods before boarding.

Leah called out as the ramp began to close. "Don't forget! If diplomacy fails, just punch somebody! That usually works!"

Anthony chuckled. "Noted."

0530 Hours - Aboard the AC-130 Gunship

The interior of the AC-130 was cold, loud, and filled with the constant hum of the engines as the massive gunship soared across the Pacific. Anthony sat near the side of the aircraft, helmet resting on his lap, eyes scanning the mission brief displayed on a ruggedized military tablet in his hands. Next to him, Tyrone leaned back, arms crossed, eyes closed, appearing asleep—but Anthony knew better. Tyrone was never truly asleep when traveling into unknown territory.

Across from them, several armed L.P.U.A. personnel sat silently, a small security team that had volunteered to escort them as far as the U.S. Marine base in Okinawa. From there, they were officially on their own.

Anthony swiped through the classified information the Pentagon had provided regarding Japan's Sensha-Dō Federation's recent activities. It was exactly what he expected—Japan had been making moves behind the scenes, attempting to strong-arm schools, discredit foreign Tankery programs, and push for a global mandate that would enforce their own WWII tank-only regulations across all international matches.

"They're desperate," Anthony muttered.

Tyrone cracked an eye open. "Yeah? How so?"

Anthony turned the tablet toward him, showing a document that listed the schools that had already been forced to comply.

"Look at this—most of the schools that surrendered to their rules were already struggling. The ones that fought back, like us, Russia, Finland, and Canada, are still holding strong. Japan's got no power over us, so now they're trying to make us slip up."

Tyrone let out a low whistle, sitting up properly. "Damn, they really tryna play 4D chess out here."

Anthony nodded. "And inviting us? It's either a last-ditch effort to negotiate... or a trap."

Tyrone grinned, adjusting the holster under his hoodie. "Either way, we gonna piss someone off."

Anthony smirked. "As always."

1130 Hours - Over Japanese Airspace

The sun had begun to rise, casting a golden glow over the vast expanse of ocean below as the AC-130 began its descent toward Okinawa. The radio crackled to life, a Japanese voice coming through the comms.

"Large aircraft, this is Japan Air Defense. Identify yourself."

The pilot, a gruff-looking Air Force veteran, responded in kind.

"Japan Air Defense, this is U.S. Air Force AC-130, Call Sign Thunderhawk, transporting L.P.U.A. representatives on diplomatic assignment. Requesting clearance to land."

There was a long pause.

Anthony and Tyrone exchanged a look.

Finally, the voice returned.

"Clearance granted. Follow designated flight path. And... welcome to Japan."

1300 Hours - U.S. Marine Base, Okinawa

The AC-130's rear ramp lowered, allowing Anthony and Tyrone to step onto the tarmac. The heat and humidity of Okinawa immediately hit them, but they didn't flinch. They were used to operating in all climates.

Waiting for them stood a JSDF Liaison Officer, a short but stern-faced Japanese woman with her hair tied in a strict bun, dressed in an immaculate military uniform.

She bowed slightly but kept a professional tone as she looked up at the tall black Americans.

"Welcome to Japan, Commander Grant, Vice-Commander Sherman. I am Captain Aika Takamura, your escort to Ōarai Girls' Academy."

Anthony gave a slight nod. "Captain."

Tyrone, on the other hand, simply smirked. "Aight, so where's our ride?"

Captain Takamura motioned to the USMC Bell UH-1Y Venom sitting nearby, its rotors slowly spinning up.

"We will take the helicopter directly to Ōarai's designated landing zone. Your arrival has been expected."

Anthony and Tyrone exchanged a glance before stepping toward the chopper.

1337 Hours - En Route to Ōarai Girls' Academy

The flight from Okinawa to Ibaraki Prefecture was relatively quiet. Anthony spent most of it reviewing past battles Ōarai had fought, watching helmet cam footage from various matches. Tyrone, meanwhile, rested his head against the side of the helicopter, seemingly relaxed—but he was always watching.

Captain Takamura studied them both, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she spoke.

"Your school has made quite an impact on the Tankery world. Your methods are... unconventional."

Anthony glanced at her. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

She hesitated before replying.

"A fact. Many in Japan view L.P.U.A. as reckless, undisciplined... and dangerous."

Tyrone let out a snort. "Funny. That's what people say about America in general."

Captain Takamura didn't argue. She simply looked away.

1405 Hours - Ōarai Girls' Academy Landing Zone

The blades of the Bell UH-1Y Venom whirred above as Anthony and Tyrone stepped onto the landing pad, their L.P.U.A. military-style uniforms stark against the sea of Ōarai's traditional Sensha-Dō attire. Their mere presence was like a disruption in the natural order—a clash between two worlds.

Miho Nishizumi, standing at the forefront, her expression carefully composed, gave a small nod of respect.

Beside her, Maho Nishizumi stood with her arms crossed, her usual stoic demeanor in place, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes when she glanced at Tyrone.

Behind them, the Ōarai Sensha-Dō team was assembled—Hana Isuzu, Saori Takebe, Yukari Akiyama (still trying to shrink behind Hana), Mako Reizei, and even Anzu, Momo, and Yuzu from the Student Council.

And standing farther back, observing with calculating expressions, were representatives from Kuromorimine, Pravda, St. Gloriana, Anzio, and Saunders.

Anthony took a slow breath, scanning the gathering crowd, his military-trained eyes noting every exit, every potential threat, and every hidden observer.

Tyrone, on the other hand, looked at the expressions of some of the other girls and smirked. "Damn, y'all look like you expecting a couple of war criminals instead of students."

Maho sighed. "That's because, in their eyes, you are."

Miho cleared her throat, forcing a smile. "Ant-kun, Ty-kun, welcome to Ōarai Girls' Academy. It's been... a long time."

Anthony nodded, "Yeah, it has, Miho-chan."

Miho's smile faltered slightly as she studied his face, then glanced at Tyrone, who was giving Maho a raised eyebrow.

Maho sighed. "You've both changed."

Tyrone tilted his head. "Damn right we did. War changes people."

Miho blinked at that but said nothing.

The air was thick with tension, and Anthony knew that this was no mere friendly reunion. Something bigger was happening.

Behind them, Captain Aika Takamura of the JSDF gave a slight bow. "Commander Grant, Vice-Commander Sherman, the Sensha-Dō Federation has been expecting you."

Tyrone rolled his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah, let's get this shit over with."

Miho hesitated, then gestured toward the school buildings. "We've prepared a conference room for the discussion."

Anthony glanced at her. "Discussion? Or interrogation?"

Miho flinched but kept walking.

As they made their way through Ōarai's campus, students whispered around them.

Some stared in awe, others in fear, but most in confusion.

L.P.U.A. was an unknown beast in their world. Unlike St. Gloriana with its refined elegance, or Kuromorimine with its strict discipline, L.P.U.A. was seen as chaotic, militaristic, and unpredictable.

More than that, L.P.U.A. had male tank commanders, something almost unheard of in Japan's Sensha-Dō tradition.

The fact that two of them were among the most feared and respected in international Tankery made things worse.

A few girls from St. Gloriana gave polite nods as they passed. A Saunders girl whistled and whispered, "Damn, they look even bigger in person."

Pravda's girls were silent, avoiding eye contact. They still remembered what happened in Russia.

Anthony could feel their eyes, could feel the weight of a thousand questions left unspoken.

Tyrone, however, was more focused on the fact that Yukari was still hiding behind Hana.

"Yo, is fluffy hair seriously hiding from me?" he mused.

Saori smirked. "She's still traumatized from the whole 'B-52 parachute drop' incident."

Tyrone grinned. "Man, that was four weeks ago. Ain't nobody tell her to go spy on us."

Yukari let out a soft whimper but refused to look up.

When they finally reached the conference hall, Anthony and Tyrone were met with a large assembly of Sensha-Dō officials, teachers, and representatives from the Japanese Tankery Federation.

At the center of the long table sat the Federation Chairman, an older man in a sharp suit, flanked by senior members of the Japanese Sensha-Dō hierarchy.

Anthony immediately recognized the power dynamic in the room.

This wasn't a discussion.

This was a tribunal.

Tyrone muttered under his breath, "Yeah, this is definitely a setup."

Miho and Maho took their seats near the Ōarai and Kuromorimine representatives, with Katyusha and Nonna sitting stiffly near Pravda's delegation.

Darjeeling from St. Gloriana, Anchovy from Anzio, and Kay from Saunders also sat along the table, acting as neutral witnesses.

Anthony remained standing, his piercing dark eyes locked onto the Federation Chairman.

Tyrone, meanwhile, just smirked and threw his feet onto the table, leaning back like he owned the place.

The Japanese officials did not appreciate that.

The Chairman cleared his throat. "Commander Grant, Vice-Commander Sherman. We appreciate your attendance today."

Anthony's expression was unreadable. "Let's skip the pleasantries. What do you want?"

A murmur went through the room.

The Chairman narrowed his eyes. "Very well. We will get to the point. The International Tankery scene is at a crossroads. It has become evident that certain schools—such as your own—are operating outside the fundamental traditions of Sensha-Dō."

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "Y'all still on about that 'girls-only' rule? We already proved it ain't a thing no more."

One of the officials frowned. "Tradition is important, Mr. Sherman."

Tyrone just shrugged. "So is evolution."

Anthony crossed his arms. "Cut the bullshit. What do you actually want from us?"

The Chairman took a slow breath. "Your schools—L.P.U.A., UFTA, Häyhä Academy, Léo Major Academy, Highlanders Academy, and others—are disrupting the balance of Sensha-Dō. You are introducing modernized tactics, advanced weaponry, and unconventional training methods that—frankly—go against everything Sensha-Dō stands for."

Anthony's jaw clenched, but he let the man continue.

The Chairman folded his hands. "We are formally requesting that Liberty Prime University Academy and its allied schools adhere to the traditional Sensha-Dō regulations, including—"

Anthony cut him off. "Including banning all male tank commanders, reverting to WWII-only tanks, and submitting to the Japanese Federation's oversight?"

The Chairman didn't blink. "Yes."

Silence.

Tyrone let out a slow whistle. "Boy, y'all really think you can tell us what to do, huh?"

Anthony leaned forward, his dark eyes cold. "And if we refuse?"

The Chairman's face darkened. "Then Japan will refuse to recognize your participation in international matches. We will cut ties with all schools that support you, blacklist L.P.U.A. and its allies from official tournaments, and revoke sponsorships from manufacturers supplying your teams."

A slow, amused grin spread across Tyrone's face. "Ah, so that's your power play. Y'all wanna make us the enemy of the world?"

The Chairman remained silent.

Anthony chuckled. "Cute."

Miho and Maho looked between them, clearly uneasy.

The Chairman straightened his posture. "Make your choice, gentlemen. Do you stand with Sensha-Dō's traditions, or against them?"

Anthony exhaled slowly, standing tall.

Then, with absolute finality, he replied:

"We stand with Tankery."

Not Japanese Sensha-Dō.

Not the Federation.

Tankery.

The room descended into chaos.

Chapter Text

Anthony and Tyrone stood unwavering in the middle of the conference room as a storm of angry voices erupted around them.

The Japanese Tankery Federation officials—red-faced and livid—threw out every insult, demand, and condescending remark they could muster.

They called L.P.U.A. and its allies 'undisciplined savages', accused them of destroying Sensha-Dō's traditions, and even implied that modern Tankery was nothing more than glorified barbarism.

Anthony understood their body language, their clenched fists, their veins popping from their temples. They might have been yelling in English, but their posture screamed outrage and fear.

Tyrone, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed, grinned like a wolf. "Damn, y'all mad as hell."

The Federation Chairman slammed his fist onto the table, his face nearly purple. "You are a disgrace to Sensha-Dō! A mockery! You and your... your—" He gestured wildly at the assembled International Tankery Commanders, "—military thugs! You have no honor! No place in our sport!"

Anthony, still calm, tilted his head. "Then why did you invite us here?"

Silence.

Anthony smirked. "Oh, right. 'Cause y'all scared shitless."

The Chairman's face twitched, and more shouting erupted again.

That was when the unthinkable happened—three voices rose in defense of the two Americans.

Shiho Nishizumi, matriarch of the Nishizumi family, stood up, her arms crossed, her icy glare silencing the room.

"Enough."

The room went dead silent.

Shiho's voice was firm, unwavering, and cold. "You insult these young men as if they are criminals. Yet I have seen their tactics, their battles. They do not fight dishonorably. They fight to win."

A few Federation members visibly gulped at Shiho's sharp gaze.

From the opposite side of the room, another voice chimed in—Captain Ami Chōno of the JGSDF.

Ami leaned forward, her military uniform pristine and commanding, her voice carrying the weight of authority.

"I have reviewed L.P.U.A.'s and the other International schools' battles personally. Their efficiency, their adaptability... these are not the actions of brutes. These are warriors. They understand tactics at a level most schools here can only dream of."

The Federation Chairman looked ready to explode, but before he could speak, the final voice of reason entered the fray.

Chiyo Shimada.

A former rival of Shiho, a legend in Tankery herself, and someone who—despite her disagreements with Shiho—was still respected internationally.

Chiyo stood up slowly, her sharp eyes scanning the room.

"You all are afraid."

The Federation members flinched.

Chiyo smiled knowingly. "The moment L.P.U.A. and the international schools joined the world stage, Japan lost its iron grip on Sensha-Dō. And now that you can no longer dictate the rules, you throw tantrums like children."

The Chairman slammed his fist down again. "This is about preserving tradition, not fear!"

Chiyo chuckled. "Oh really? Then why is everyone here looking like they've seen a ghost?"

The entire room tensed.

Shiho, Ami, and Chiyo had backed Anthony and Tyrone.

Ōarai, Kuromorimine, Pravda, St. Gloriana, Anzio, Saunders, BC Freedom, Jatkosota, Chi-Ha-Tan, All-Stars, and several other schools now looked at the Federation with skeptical gazes.

The Federation was losing control of the room.

And then—

CRACK!

The door lock snapped like it had been hit with a sledgehammer.

Everyone turned toward the now broken conference room door.

Standing there, arms crossed, was a tall, terrifying woman in a crisp suit. Her dark hair flowed neatly over her shoulders, and her sharp, narrow eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. Her posture was predatory, her presence commanding.

And the Federation members paled instantly.

Because they knew who this was.

Yuki Tanaka-Grant.

Former Overall Vice-Commander of Kuromorimine during the era of Shiho Nishizumi and Chiyo Shimada.

A tactical genius, a former menace on the Tankery battlefield, and the wife of Christopher "Chris" Henderson Grant, the man who won her heart and terrified Japan's Tankery elites.

Anthony sighed. "Oh... shit."

Tyrone smirked. "Your mom's here, bro."

Yuki stepped forward, heels clicking against the tile, her amused smirk growing as she saw the pale, horrified expressions of the Federation members.

"You pathetic little men."

The room stiffened.

Yuki crossed her arms, her smirk widening. "Whining and crying because you can't control international Tankery anymore? Trying to strong-arm my son and his best friend? Disgraceful."

One of the Federation members, sweating, stammered, "T-This is an official meeting, Mrs. Grant—"

"Shut. Up." Yuki's voice was calm but absolute.

The man shut up.

She turned to Anthony. "Why the hell are you still listening to this nonsense?"

Anthony opened his mouth to answer—

WHAM!

Yuki's fist shot upward in a blindingly fast uppercut, smashing into Anthony's jaw, sending him flying backward into the ceiling.

His upper body was embedded in the ceiling tiles, his legs dangling comically below.

The room fell deathly silent.

Tyrone slowly blinked, then looked up at his knocked-out best friend.

"...Damn."

Shiho and Chiyo sighed in unison. "Ah. Memories."

The Japanese school representatives all stared in shock.

Yuki clapped her hands together. "Alright! Here's the deal! You wanna cry about the international schools 'ruining' Sensha-Dō? Fine! Let's settle it the old-fashioned way!"

She grinned dangerously. "All of Japan's Sensha-Dō schools versus the International schools. One massive battle. Losers... wear skin-tight anglerfish costumes."

A horrified silence filled the room.

Tyrone, still staring at Anthony's embedded body, sighed. "Yeah, I knew this was gonna turn into a shitshow."

One of the Japanese Federation members managed to croak out a question. "A-And if the international schools lose?"

Yuki grinned. "Then even the boys have to wear the anglerfish costumes."

A sudden wave of silence passed over the girls representing Ōarai, Kuromorimine, Pravda, St. Gloriana, Anzio, Saunders, BC Freedom, Jatkosota, Chi-Ha-Tan, All-Stars, and many others.

And then—

The nosebleeds started.

Girls were blushing furiously, some covering their faces, others visibly trembling at the thought of international Tankery school boys in skin-tight anglerfish costumes.

One of the Saunders girls collapsed from blood loss.

Maho simply muttered, "...Disgusting." but her nose was also bleeding.

Darjeeling sipped her tea. "How... utterly uncivilized." (Her face was bright red.)

Yuki smirked at the reactions before glancing up at Anthony's still unconscious form. "Sweetie, you can come down now."

Anthony's only response was a groggy grunt from inside the ceiling.

Tyrone just shook his head.

"Yeah, we're doomed."

The conference room buzzed with hushed discussion as the Chairman, Sensha-Dō officials, teachers, and representatives from the Japanese Tankery Federation huddled together, their expressions tense.

They had been backed into a corner—challenged on the global stage, with the world watching.

They couldn't refuse.

To back down now would mean acknowledging that International Tankery Schools (ITS) were equal, if not superior, to Japan's Sensha-Dō—a fact they had spent years trying to suppress.

And yet, accepting meant risking humiliation.

It was no longer just about Tankery.

It was national pride on the line.

Meanwhile, Tyrone pulled out his phone, opened the International Tankery Commanders group chat, and began typing a single message:

"Japan just challenged ALL of us to a global Tankery match. Japan's Sensha-Dō schools vs. the International Tankery Schools. If we lose, we gotta wear skin-tight anglerfish costumes. Even the guys."

For a moment, there was silence in the chat.

Then—the chaos erupted.

The International Response

📱 Lorenzo Ferrari (Italy 🇮🇹): "CHE COSA?! ARE THEY INSANE?! MAMMA MIA!"

📱 Artem Kovalenko (Poland-Ukraine 🇵🇱🇺🇦): "...They serious? Like actually?"

📱 Isla Alisa Loughty (Scotland 🇬🇧): "...Ye can't be fookin' serious, mate."

📱 Tom Oswald Macnamara (Highlanders Academy 🏴🇳🇴): (Sends a meme of a blushing Viking with the caption: 'I will never emotionally recover from this.')

📱 The Törni Sisters (Finland 🇫🇮):
Lumi: "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!"
Aada: "NO. NO. NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT!"
Aino: "I REFUSE!"

📱 Miya Oktyabrskaya & Anastasia Orlova (Russia 🇷🇺):
Miya: "They dare...?!"
Anastasia: "WE'LL ERASE PRAVDA FROM EXISTENCE BEFORE LOSING TO JAPAN!"

📱 Logan Roy & Amara Cross (Canada 🇨🇦):
Logan: "The Canadians will be damned if we wear some tight-ass fish suits."
Amara: "Bet. We're not losing."

📱 Klara Wagner (Germany 🇩🇪): "SIE HABEN WAS GESAGT?! (THEY SAID WHAT?!)"

📱 Liu Meixian (China 🇨🇳): "Red Banner Academy will not lose. We will crush them."

📱 Alejandro Cortés (Mexico 🇲🇽): "Those Japs think they can beat us? Nah. ¡Viva México, cabrones!"

📱 Émilie Moreau (France 🇫🇷): (Plays La Marseillaise, the French National Anthem.)

📱 Ambar Anak & Raya Kartini (Indonesia 🇮🇩): (Both play and type Indonesia Raya, the Indonesian National Anthem.)

📱 J.M.U.U (Caribbean 🇨🇦🇯🇲🇭🇹🇧🇧🇹🇹):
Shaka McLean: "Why the hell isn't Anthony saying anything?"
Rashad Thompson: "Bro, is he good?"

📱 Tyrone Williams Sherman (L.P.U.A. 🇺🇸): (Sends picture of Anthony embedded in the ceiling, legs dangling comically below.)

📱 Everyone:
(One by one, emojis, laughing gifs, and memes flood the chat.)

📱 Lorenzo Ferrari: "PFFT! I CAN'T BREATHE!"

📱 Émilie Moreau: "C'est magnifique!"

📱 Isla Loughty: "OH ME FOOOKIN' GOD! LASS! YA DIDN'T HOLD BACK, DID YA?!"

📱 Logan Roy: "HAAAAAAA! OH SHIT—HE REALLY GOT SENT TO THE SHADOW REALM!"

📱 Klara Wagner: "MOTHERF—HAHAHAHA!"

📱 Ambar Anak: "Bro got sent to Jesus!"

📱 Artem Kovalenko: "FELLAS, WE ARE SO DOOMED LMFAO."

Even the serious commanders—Miya, Anastasia, the Törni Sisters, Liu Meixian, and Alejandro—couldn't help but laugh.

📱 Raya Kartini: "Is he gonna be okay?"

📱 Tyrone: "Eh, he'll wake up eventually."

Five minutes later, the Federation representatives turned back to face the room.

The Chairman adjusted his tie, his expression strained.

"We... accept the challenge. But under one condition."

The room grew quiet.

The Chairman continued, voice firm.

"The International Tankery Schools must use World War II tanks and vehicles. No modern modifications. No MBTs. Strictly period-appropriate hardware."

Silence.

Then—

Yuki smirked. "Fine by me."

The Chairman and Federation visibly relaxed.

Then Yuki grinned wider.

"The match will take place in Los Angeles, California, United States of America."

The Chairman froze. "Pardon?"

Yuki leaned forward, enjoying their discomfort. "L.A. You know—big city? Hollywood? Sunshine? Beaches?"

One of the Federation officials stammered, "W-We assumed it would be in Japan—!"

Yuki waved her hand dismissively. "Japan's had its time in the spotlight. Now, the world watches from America."

The Chairman's face twitched.

And then Yuki delivered the final blow.

"It will be broadcasted live on international TV and social media. May 5th. One month and one week from now."

The Federation members' expressions crumbled.

They had no choice.

This wasn't just a battle for Tankery dominance anymore—this was a spectacle the entire world would see.

A global coliseum battle.

And for the first time—Japan wouldn't be controlling the narrative.

📱 Tyrone (Group Chat): "Confirmed. One month and one week. May 5th. In Los Angeles. We gotta use WW2 tanks."

📱 Lorenzo: "AHHHH! THIS IS GONNA BE MADNESS!"

📱 Artem: "WE'RE GOING TO WAR."

📱 Logan: "Good. I was getting bored."

📱 Isla: "Time to paint war paint, lads."

📱 Törni Sisters:
Lumi: "WE'RE GONNA RIP PRAVDA APART!"
Aada: "YES! YES! YES!"
Aino: "LET'S FUCKING GO!"

📱 Miya & Anastasia:
Miya: "If we lose, I am nuking Pravda."
Anastasia: "Seconded."

📱 Alejandro: "Time to train like hell."

📱 Émilie: "The French will not be humiliated!"

📱 J.M.U.U:
Shaka McLean: "Yo. America's about to host the biggest Tankery war in history."
Akeem Johnson: "And we're in it. Let's make history."

📱 Tyrone (Sends another pic of Anthony, still in the ceiling.)

📱 Everyone:
(Another wave of laughing emojis, gifs, and memes floods the chat.)

📱 Logan Roy: "God bless Yuki Tanaka-Grant. That woman is terrifying."

📱 Klara Wagner: "We're gonna win. We have to. No way in hell I'm wearing a skin-tight fish suit."

📱 Liu Meixian: "Agreed. This is now a matter of survival."

📱 Lorenzo: "ONWARD TO GLORY, AMICI!"

📱 Tyrone: "L.P.U.A. OUT!"

One thing was certain.

The biggest Tankery war in history was coming.

And there was no going back.

The tense meeting had finally ended, the Chairman, Sensha-Dō officials, teachers, and representatives from the Japanese Tankery Federation leaving one by one. Their shoulders slumped, faces grim—they knew they had been outmaneuvered.

Now, only a handful remained in the room:

Yuki Tanaka-Grant stood proudly, arms crossed, satisfied with herself after literally sending her son into the ceiling.

Tyrone Williams Sherman, arms behind his head, still amused as hell at the whole situation.

Shiho Nishizumi, her usual stern expression betrayed by a smirk, clearly entertained by the turn of events.

JGSDF Captain Ami Chōno, hands on her hips, watching everything with thinly veiled amusement.

Chiyo Shimada, sighing, rubbing her temples as if processing the absurdity of it all.

And the representatives from Ōarai, Kuromorimine, Pravda, St. Gloriana, Anzio, Saunders, BC Freedom, Jatkosota, Chi-Ha-Tan, All-Stars, and more.

And, of course—there was still Anthony Grant.

Half his body was still embedded in the ceiling.

The room was silent except for the occasional creak of the plaster around Anthony.

Then—Yuki casually grabbed his leg and yanked him out.

With a loud crash, Anthony slammed face-first into the table below before rolling onto the floor in an unconscious heap.

The room winced collectively.

"Jesus Christ," Tyrone muttered, shaking his head. "Dude got dropped like a sack of potatoes."

Kay laughed. "Man, you didn't hold back, did ya?"

Yuki dusted her hands off like she just finished taking out the trash. "He'll live."

Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned and walked out, Shiho, Ami, and Chiyo following closely behind.

"Where are they going?" Darjeeling of St. Gloriana asked.

Tyrone, still grinning, responded, "A bar, probably. Gonna drink until one of them pukes."

Shiho stopped at the door and glanced back. "Not probably. We will."

The door slammed shut behind them.

As a minute passed.
Then two.

Then Anthony groaned, lifting his head slowly from the table.

"What the fuck hit me..." he mumbled.

Tyrone snickered. "Your mom. Literally."

Anthony blinked. "...Did she really just send me to the shadow realm?"

El the overall commander of Blue Division High School crossed her arms, a smug grin on her face. "Da, you were in the ceiling for a good ten minutes. Welcome back."

Anthony squinted. "What year is it...?"

Without missing a beat, Katyusha smirked and said, "It's 1945."

Anthony froze.

His still half-functioning brain went into a full reboot sequence.

Then Tyrone completely lost his shit.

"Ayy, yo! Katyusha got jokes!"

Anthony blinked a few times before flipping her off. "Screw you, midget. I actually thought I had a concussion for a second."

Jajka, the Overall Commander from Bonple High School, snickered. "You probably do."

Anthony finally shook off the dizziness, cracking his neck before looking at Tyrone. "Alright, three days, huh? What's the plan?"

Tyrone leaned back in his chair, smirking, holding up three fingers.

"Option One—We chill out at Japan's Tankery schools. Get a feel for what we're up against and their culture."

"Option Two—We hit up Tokyo, eat some real Japanese food, hit the arcades, and enjoy the sights."

"Option Three—We call L.P.U.A. to make sure the school isn't on fire or that the septic tank didn't explode... again."

Kinuyo Nishi, the Overall Commander of Chi-Ha-Tan Academy, blinked.

"What do you mean 'again'?"

Anthony and Tyrone immediately looked at each other.

Then at the girls.

Then back at each other.

The "L.P.U.A. Is Probably On Fire" Situation

📱 Tyrone (Group Chat with L.P.U.A. Staff & Student Leaders):
"Ayo, what's the status at L.P.U.A.? We good?"

📱 Harriet Grant: "Define 'good.'"

📱 Tyrone: "...What happened?"

📱 Leah Grant: "Let's just say the septic tank did not, in fact, explode. But the airfield almost did."

📱 Imani Grant: "A sophomore crashed a Sherman into the fuel depot. The fire suppression system worked, but it took an hour to stop the panic."

📱 Ann Grant: "Also, one of the Abrams turrets got bent. Again."

📱 Tyrone: "HOW THE FUCK DO Y'ALL KEEP BENDING ABRAMS TURRETS?!"

📱 Logan Roy (Léo Major Academy): "Bro, how the hell does your school always sound like an active war zone? Even we're not that bad."

📱 Alejandro Cortés (Mexico): "Can confirm. Y'all are built different."

📱 Lorenzo Ferrari (Italy): "Mio Dio... How are you still a functioning academy?"

📱 Tyrone: "Sheer fuckin' will, apparently."

📱 Anthony: "Just... just keep shit contained. We'll be back soon."

📱 Harriet: "No promises."

📱 Tyrone (to Anthony): "Bro, we need to hire professional babysitters at this point."

Anthony sighed. "Yeah, let's not deal with that right now. Let's actually enjoy Japan before we have to go to war."

Miho, who had been quietly watching the exchange, smiled softly.

"I think it would be good for you both to experience our Tankery schools firsthand before the big match."

Anthony nodded. "Alright. Guess we'll go with Option One then—checking out the Japanese schools and learning what we can."

Tyrone stretched. "Bet. But I'm still hitting an arcade at some point. Ain't no way I'm in Japan and not playing some Gundam Versus or Street Fighter."

Saori perked up. "Oh! We could totally take you around!"

Hana smiled gently. "I believe it would be a good cultural experience for you both."

Darjeeling nodded gracefully. "Indeed. A proper education is not just found in books or battles but in experiencing the customs of the land."

Tyrone side-eyed her. "You just wanna flex your tea-drinking skills, huh?"

Darjeeling smirked. "Perhaps."

Katyusha grinned. "Maybe we'll show you guys how real Sensha-Dō is played."

Anthony and Tyrone both raised an eyebrow.

Anthony smirked. "Sure. But don't cry when we wreck y'all."

Tyrone grinned. "We'll show you what real combat Tankery looks like."

It was then that Kay asked the two Americans a question no thought about asking, "Say, are you two armed?"

Momo looked at her and scoffed, "What kind of question is that? They're not—"

The two tall(remember, Anthony is 6'2" and Tyrone is now 5'11") dark skin, cornrows hairstyle Americans casually began unloading.

For a solid five seconds, nobody said a word.

Every girl in the room stared at the arsenal that Anthony and Tyrone casually laid out on the table.

A Beretta M9, a Glock 19, a Heckler & Koch MP7, a UMP45, a SPAS-12 shotgun, two M67 frag grenades, two M84 stun grenades...

...and a Twinkie.

Nobody questioned the Twinkie.

The silence was deafening.

Momo of the Ōarai Student Council opened her mouth—then closed it.

Then opened it again.

Then closed it again.

The girl was malfunctioning.

"What... what the hell...?" she finally managed to croak out.

Kay burst out laughing. "OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS CAME TO JAPAN STRAPPED?!?"

Anthony and Tyrone shrugged simultaneously.

Anthony smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Tyrone popped a bubblegum bubble. "Yeah, what if we got jumped? Gotta stay ready."

Katyusha stood on her chair, pointing aggressively at the weapons. "YOU'RE NOT IN A WARZONE, YOU MANIACS!"

Tyrone side-eyed her. "We in Japan, right?"

"YES!"

"And this country got yakuza, right?"

"...Yes?"

"And y'all invited us to a high-stakes, globally televised Tankery battle where our entire schools' reputations are on the line, right?"

"...Yes...?"

Anthony smirked. "Exactly. We came prepared."

Katyusha threw her arms up in exasperation. "PREPARED FOR WHAT?!?"

Darjeeling, ever the composed one, took a sip of her tea before calmly stating, "I must say, this does reinforce certain American stereotypes."

Tyrone grinned. "I mean, they ain't wrong, though."

Miho, still processing this madness, turned to Maho, hoping for some kind of logical explanation.

Maho simply sighed. "They've always been like this."

Saori, finally breaking free from her stunned silence, pointed at the Twinkie. "...Why is there a Twinkie?"

Tyrone looked at it.

Then at her.

Then back at it.

Then slowly slid it toward Anthony.

"Emergency rations," Anthony said completely deadpan.

Saori's eye twitched.

"...You brought a Twinkie to a diplomatic meeting?"

Tyrone nodded. "And it still looks fresher than half the food in this country."

Hana, normally quiet and composed, actually looked disturbed. "You're telling me... that in your country, you just... carry firearms like this?"

Anthony shrugged. "Depends on the state."

Momo nearly had a stroke. "DO NOT SAY THAT LIKE IT'S NORMAL!"

"Bruh, it is normal," Tyrone said. "Like, what if we run into some crazy Tankery simps who wanna jump us? Gotta keep that thang on me."

Mako, who had been napping this entire time, finally lifted her head.

"...You guys ever shot someone before?" she asked in her usual monotone voice.

The room went still.

Anthony and Tyrone both looked at each other.

Then back at Mako.

Then back at each other.

Anthony slowly opened his mouth to answer—

BOOM!

The door slammed open.

Captain Ami Chōno had returned.

She immediately saw the arsenal on the table.

Then looked at Anthony and Tyrone.

Then back at the arsenal.

Then at the girls, who all looked like they had just witnessed international war crimes.

Ami let out a long, exhausted sigh.

"...Goddammit, I knew you two would do something stupid."

Before anyone could respond, the sound of loud footsteps approached the door.

Then—BAM!

The door swung open again.

Standing there, arms crossed, looking as smug as ever, was Yuki Tanaka-Grant.

The former Kuromorimine legend.

The mother of chaos.

The woman who literally sent Anthony into the ceiling earlier today.

She took one look at the table full of weapons...

Then at the girls, who were collectively losing their minds...

Then at Ami, who looked like she was debating whether to scream or drink herself into a coma...

And then—she burst out laughing.

"HAAAAAAA! YOU TWO REALLY BROUGHT ALL THAT?!"

Anthony sighed. "Mom—"

Yuki wiped a tear from her eye, grinning ear to ear. "Damn right, my son! You're always prepared!"

Tyrone nodded in approval. "See? Moms gets it."

Ami massaged her temples, looking at Yuki in disbelief.

"...Why are you encouraging this?"

Yuki grinned wider. "Because this is the American way."

By the time everything settled down, Ami confiscated the grenades but let them keep their sidearms. "For 'self-defense purposes.'"

The Twinkie remained untouched.

And somehow, despite the sheer insanity of the meeting, the Japanese Tankery schools agreed to let Anthony and Tyrone tour their facilities.

Miho sighed. "This... is going to be an interesting visit."

Anthony smirked. "Damn right it is."

Tyrone clapped his hands together. "Alright, ladies—show us what you got. Let's see if Japan's Sensha-Dō is actually worth the hype."

The girls steeled themselves.

This wasn't just a friendly tour.

This was a battle before the war.

And the world was watching.

Chapter Text

As Anthony and Tyrone walked ahead, their heavy 6'2" and 5'11" frames casting long shadows under the sun, the girls from Ōarai, Kuromorimine, Pravda, St. Gloriana, Anzio, Saunders, BC Freedom, Jatkosota, Chi-Ha-Tan, All-Stars, Bonple, Blue Division, and more trailed behind them, still trying to process the two towering Americans in front of them.

It was one thing to hear about them.

It was another thing to see them in action.

But seeing them up close? That was an entirely different level of reality.

They all remembered the infamous Freshman Photos—a viral image circulated through Tankery circles nationwide.

Anthony's face was scrunched up, eyes closed, lips pursed, looking like he had just eaten the world's sourest lemon mid-sneeze.

Tyrone, on the other hand, looked utterly bewildered, his mouth agape, eyes wide, like he had just witnessed a tank turn into a Transformer and forgot how to breathe.

It had been a national meme for three weeks.

And now, those same two goofballs stood before them, two towering, battle-hardened, muscle-packed tankery commanders who had fought in some of the most brutal, unregulated Tankery matches known to man.

The difference was staggering.

Miho and Maho watched silently, their emotions more complex than they expected.

It had been over a decade since they last saw Anthony and Tyrone in person.

The four of them had once been children, running across their families' military bases, playing tag between parked tanks and armored vehicles.

Back then, Anthony had been a scrawny, book-smart kid, always carrying some military strategy book his dad gave him. He had dreamed of commanding a Tankery school but never knew if he'd actually get there.

Tyrone? Tyrone had been a wildcard. He wasn't supposed to be a Tankery kid. He was supposed to follow his father into the Air Force—yet here he was, one of the deadliest Vice-Commanders in the world.

And now, looking at them—taller, sharper, more dangerous—Miho and Maho both felt an odd sense of nostalgia mixed with pride.

These were their childhood friends.

But these were also two of the most feared commanders in the sport.

As the group walked through the school grounds, the Japanese Tankery girls couldn't help but steal glances at the two Americans.

It wasn't just their height or their size—it was their presence.

Anthony walked with a calm, controlled confidence, his sharp military posture making it very clear he had been trained to lead. His movements were precise, calculated, like a man always thinking three steps ahead.

Tyrone? Tyrone had that swagger, that casual "I can wreck your shit and still look cool doing it" energy. He moved like a predator at rest, one hand casually in his hoodie pocket, the other spinning his phone around his finger like he had nothing to worry about—yet every step he took had an undeniable readiness to it.

The girls exchanged whispers as they walked.

➡ "Are they really the same guys from those photos?"

➡ "They don't look like students... they look like soldiers."

➡ "Did you see their arms?! Their biceps are the size of my head!"

➡ "I heard they use modern tanks... how do they even handle WWII ones?"

➡ "I thought they were gonna be funny and goofy... but now I feel like I'm walking next to a final boss."

Katyusha, the shortest one among the group, looked particularly annoyed.

Her usual bratty confidence took a massive hit standing next to Anthony and Tyrone, whose shadows literally loomed over her.

She grumbled under her breath.

"This isn't fair," she muttered to Nonna, crossing her arms. "Why are they so damn big? I feel like a chihuahua next to two Dobermans!"

Nonna smirked. "Would you like me to carry you so you can speak to them eye-to-eye?"

Katyusha's face turned red. "SHUT UP, NONNA!"

Darjeeling, walking beside Kay from Saunders, let out a humored sigh.

"Tea is often judged not by its name, but by its quality when tasted," she mused, watching the two Americans ahead. "I believe we have been drinking the wrong tea all along."

Kay raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you underestimated them?"

Darjeeling nodded slightly, taking a delicate sip from a teacup she somehow had on hand. "Yes. And I do believe Japan may be in serious trouble."

The Chi-Ha-Tan girls—who were known for their "Charge first, think later" tactics—watched the two with wide eyes.

Nishi, their Overall Commander, whispered to her Vice-Commander, Tamaki Tamada.

"If... if we had to fight them, what do you think would happen?"

Tamaki deadpanned. "We would die."

Nishi gulped.

Meanwhile, Kay from Saunders grinned.

"Man, these guys are cool as hell!" she nudged Naomi, her best sharpshooter. "I bet they'd fit right in with our team."

Naomi chuckled. "They give off more Special Forces than Tankery vibes, but yeah... they're interesting."

Tyrone, meanwhile, noticed all the staring.

He stopped mid-step, turned around, and looked directly at the girls trailing behind them.

"Y'all good?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

The entire group froze.

Then immediately looked away like a bunch of guilty kids caught staring at a teacher's test answers.

Tyrone smirked. "Y'all acting like y'all never seen two tall-ass Black dudes before."

Mako, in her usual monotone, simply said, "We haven't."

Tyrone paused.

Then nodded.

"Aight, fair."

As Anthony walked ahead, he could feel Miho and Maho's gazes on him.

He turned his head slightly, giving them a small side-smirk.

"It's good to see you two again," he said casually.

Miho smiled warmly. "It really is."

Maho nodded. "You've changed, Ant-kun."

Anthony chuckled. "So have you."

Maho's lips curved ever so slightly. "We'll see who changed more on the battlefield."

Anthony's smirk widened. "Looking forward to it."

It was then that Katyusha stepped in front of Anthony trying show confidence and bravery. But Anthony got down to her level assuming she wants his attention. He gives her his Twinkie and his Woodland BDU jacket to keep warm. Keep in mind, Katyusha is 127 cm (4'2"). And Anthony's Woodland BDU jacket is a XXL meant to fit someone his body type. Meaning Katyusha felt tiny wearing it. Miho glared dangerously at Katyusha for wearing it.

Katyusha blinked.

She stared down at the Twinkie in her hands.

Then at the massive Woodland BDU jacket now draped over her tiny 4'2" frame like a military parachute.

It was warm.

It smelled like Anthony—like gun oil, fresh leather, and a faint trace of cologne.

The loli commander of Pravda was not sure how to react.

Her brain short-circuited.

This wasn't how she expected things to go.

Five Minutes Ago

Katyusha had stepped in front of Anthony, ready to confront him like a proper commander.

Despite being over a two feet shorter, she was going to assert dominance.

She was going to stand tall.

She was going to show confidence and bravery.

She was going to put the fear of Pravda in this American commander.

But the moment Anthony knelt down to her level—his calm brown eyes meeting hers, his towering presence now uncomfortably close—her mind blanked out.

Then, before she could even speak, he casually handed her a Twinkie... and then took off his oversized BDU jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Like she was some kind of little kid.

Back to the Present

The Japanese Tankery girls stared.

Miho's eye twitched dangerously.

Maho crossed her arms.

Darjeeling took a sip of tea, watching with amusement.

Kay grinned wildly, nudging Naomi. "Yo, look at her! She's drowning in that jacket!"

The XXL-sized military-issued jacket practically engulfed Katyusha's tiny frame, making her look like a child who stole her dad's coat.

The sleeves dangled past her hands.

The bottom hem dragged near her knees.

And the worst part?

It was warm and comfortable.

A part of Katyusha wanted to throw it off, glare at Anthony, and tell him, "I am NOT a kid, you Yankee Baka!"

But instead...

She held the Twinkie close, and hugged the jacket tighter around herself.

And she wasn't sure why.

Miho Nishizumi was not amused.

Her hazel-brown eyes narrowed as she watched Katyusha wrapped up in Anthony's jacket like some kind of clingy girlfriend.

Miho subconsciously clenched her fists.

A dark aura radiated around her.

Saori immediately noticed.

"U-Uh... Miho-chan?" she whispered, poking Miho's shoulder carefully.

Miho didn't respond.

Her focus was on Katyusha.

More importantly, on the fact that Katyusha now smelled like Anthony because of the jacket.

The short blonde haired girl had just unintentionally declared war.

Tyrone being a gentleman saw Miho twitching(in a jealous rage) thought that she's cold too. He elbows Anthony with a head tilt towards the 158 cm (5'2") girl and the latter nodded. Anthony tosses his old Freshman year L.P.U.A. XL hoodie that he outgrew towards Miho.

Tyrone does the same but tosses it at random... landing on top of Maho.

Miho froze as the oversized L.P.U.A. Freshman hoodie hit her in the face.

The moment it slid down into her hands, she stared at it.

It was old—worn but soft. The fabric carried a familiar scent—the same one Miho remembered from childhood.

Books. Leather. A faint trace of sweat.

Anthony.

Slowly, she clutched it closer to her chest.

Her entire brain shut down.

Maho, on the other hand, had no warning before Tyrone's hoodie smacked her directly on top of the head.

The 5'4" Kuromorimine ace immediately glared at Tyrone.

Tyrone blinked, realizing what he just did. "...Shit, my bad. That was meant for—"

Before he could finish, Maho put the hoodie on.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she owned it.

Like she claimed it.

The hallway went completely silent.

The 4'2" Pravda commander still hadn't moved.

Anthony's XXL Woodland BDU jacket swallowed her entire tiny frame like a child trying on her dad's coat.

She hadn't said a word.

She was still holding the Twinkie.

Her face was completely red.

"...She hasn't blinked in over a minute," Nonna whispered, looking mildly concerned.

Katyusha wasn't just stuck—she was glitching.

Katyusha.exe had stopped responding.

This was NOT how she expected today to go.

➡ Miho wearing Anthony's old hoodie.

➡ Maho wearing Tyrone's hoodie.

➡ Katyusha literally drowning in Anthony's military jacket.

The silence was deafening.

Until...

"Ayo, why do those look GOOD on them though???" Kay finally breaks the silence.

The entire room erupted.

Saori: "MIHO-CHAN, YOU LOOK SO CUTE IN THAT!"

Darjeeling: "It appears war has just begun in more ways than one..."

Naomi: "Did Tyrone just accidentally claim Maho?"

Mako: "Miho looks like she just achieved enlightenment."

Alisa: "THAT'S NOT FAIR! WHY DON'T I GET A COOL HOODIE?!"

Meanwhile, Miho had not moved an inch.

Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of Anthony's hoodie.

She wasn't giving it back.

Ever.

Tyrone scratched his head, looking between Maho—who was already adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie like it was hers now—and Miho, who was... uh... looking concerningly happy in Anthony's.

"...Did we just start some shit we can't undo?" Tyrone muttered.

Anthony sighed.

"...Yeah. Yeah, we did."

Tyrone nodded slowly.

"...Welp. Too late now."

Anthony glanced back at Katyusha, who still hadn't moved or spoken since the Twinkie-Jacket Combo Hit.

"...I think I broke Katyusha."

Tyrone shrugged. "She'll reboot in a few minutes."

Maho, having zero hesitation, looked at Tyrone with dead-serious eyes.

"This is mine now," she stated flatly, tugging at the hoodie.

Tyrone blinked. "Aight, bet."

She did not elaborate.

And neither did he.

The implications were terrifying.

Miho was still staring at Katyusha.

Katyusha was still staring at nothing, her brain blue-screened.

Miho's grip tightened on her hoodie.

Katyusha clutched the Twinkie tighter.

Neither of them said a word.

It was then that Anthony decided to try and snap Katyusha back to reality... most attempts didn't work. So Anthony carried her like a baby.

Katyusha.exe Has Stopped Responding.

Anthony, now holding the tiny Pravda commander in his arms like a baby, sighed as he gently rocked her back and forth.

The 4'2" loli dictator still hadn't blinked.

Still hadn't moved.

Still hadn't spoken.

The only thing she did—after what felt like an eternity—was mechanically take a bite out of the Twinkie.

Everyone stared.

The tension in the air was palpable.

Miho's aura darkened.

Her grip tightened on the XL hoodie Anthony had thrown at her.

Her light-brown eyes locked onto Katyusha like a sniper acquiring a target.

Saori, standing next to her, slowly inched away.

She had never seen Miho like this before.

Miho wasn't just jealous.

Miho was plotting murder.

Meanwhile, Tyrone Was Just Watching the Show.

Tyrone, still standing there with his hands in his hoodie pockets, observed the chaos with an amused smirk.

The moment Maho claimed his hoodie, he knew shit was about to escalate.

Now?

Now it was a full-blown international incident.

His gaze flickered to Maho, who looked entirely too comfortable in his hoodie.

The 5'4" Kuromorimine commander had already rolled up the sleeves, adjusted the drawstrings, and—worst of all—wasn't giving it back.

Tyrone narrowed his eyes.

Challenge accepted.

The Rest of the Girls? Losing Their Minds.

Kay was having the time of her life, nudging Darjeeling with a massive grin. "Man, this is peak entertainment! I didn't think things would go this crazy so fast!"

Darjeeling took a slow sip of her tea, her usual elegant smile in place. "Ah... but of course. War does not always begin with cannon fire. Sometimes, it begins with a simple... act of possession."

She side-eyed Maho wearing Tyrone's hoodie.

Kay burst out laughing. "Yo, you making it sound like she stole his soul!"

Darjeeling simply smirked. "Perhaps she did."

Nonna Was Still Taking Pictures.

Click.

Another photo of Anthony cradling Katyusha like a baby.

Click.

A close-up of Miho gripping Anthony's hoodie like she was about to go to war.

Click.

Tyrone, in the background, grinning like a demon.

Click.

Maho, smugly adjusting the hoodie Tyrone gave her.

Click.

Katyusha, still not moving.

Nonna's phone was getting a workout. "These will make excellent leverage," she muttered to herself.

Katyusha finally swallowed the Twinkie.

And, just like that—

Her brain rebooted.

Katyusha's Internal Monologue

System Restarting...
Processing Data...
Current Status: Wrapped in Grant's Massive Jacket.
Temperature: Warm. Too Warm. But Also Kind of Nice.
Twinkie Acquired: Yes.
Social Status: ???
Miho Nishizumi Death Glare Detected.
WARNING: HOSTILE ENERGY FROM 5'2" JAPANESE GIRL.
SOLUTION: Act Natural.

Katyusha blinked.

Then slowly looked around the room.

Nonna was smiling at her like a mother watching her child make a bad decision.

The rest of Pravda's team looked too entertained.

Darjeeling was sipping tea, looking like she had already written the history books on this moment.

Saunders? Laughing their asses off.

Chi-Ha-Tan? Looking horrified.

Jatkosota? Deadpan as hell.

Miho?

Miho was still glaring.

Katyusha, still wrapped up in Anthony's massive Woodland BDU jacket, finally processed what was happening.

She squirmed in Anthony's arms, her face redder than a Soviet flag.

"PUT ME DOWN, AMERICAN!" she finally barked, trying to sound intimidating.

Anthony, smirking, set her down gently.

But he didn't take back the jacket.

Katyusha wobbled for a moment before standing straight, the oversized coat still draped over her tiny frame.

She looked down at it.

She looked back up at Anthony.

Then at Miho.

Then back at Anthony.

Then—

She hugged the jacket tighter.

Miho Nishizumi Was About To Commit A Hate Crime.

Miho's eye twitched.

She turned to Tyrone, who was already watching her.

"...Is this a war declaration?" she asked, her voice low.

Tyrone snorted. "Damn, girl, you tryna start WWIII over a hoodie?"

Miho didn't blink.

Tyrone sighed, scratching his head.

"Aight, look. We can make this fair," he said, crossing his arms.

Miho narrowed her eyes. "...Fair how?"

Tyrone pointed at Maho, still wearing his hoodie. "You and Ant ain't even dating, but you mad 'cause of that jacket, right?"

Miho remained silent.

Tyrone smirked. "Aight, so if you wanna be even, I got a deal."

Miho raised an eyebrow. "What deal?"

Tyrone snatched Anthony's spare varsity jacket from his duffel bag and threw it over Miho's shoulders.

Miho.exe Has Stopped Responding.

Miho stared at the Liberty Prime University Academy varsity jacket now on her.

She blinked.

She looked at Anthony.

Then at Katyusha, still in the BDU jacket.

Then at herself in the varsity jacket.

Then—she gripped it tighter.

Her face turned red.

Her brain short-circuited.

A trade had been made.

Peace was restored.

For now.

➡ Anthony's BDU jacket? Stolen by Katyusha.

➡ Tyrone's hoodie? Claimed by Maho.
➡ Anthony's spare varsity jacket? Now Miho's.
➡ Tyrone? Smug as hell.
➡ Nonna? Still taking pictures.
➡ Darjeeling? Already writing poetic commentary.
➡ Miho & Katyusha? In a silent cold war.
➡ Anthony? Resigned to his fate.
➡ Twinkie? Eaten.

And just like that—

The greatest national Tankery rivalry had just escalated into a full-on Hoodie War.

Nobody knew how it would end.

But one thing was clear.

This was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The tension from the Hoodie War™ had barely settled before Anzu Kadotani, Momo Kawashima, and Yuzu Koyama of the Ōarai Student Council took the opportunity to change the subject.

They had many questions for the two Americans—not just about Tankery, but about the structure of L.P.U.A. itself.

Anthony and Tyrone, sensing the shift in the conversation, relaxed slightly.

They weren't going to reveal Tankery-specific strategies for obvious reasons, but everything else?

Yeah, that was fair game.

Anzu, as usual, had a mischievous grin, but there was a serious glint in her eyes.

She wasn't just asking for curiosity's sake.

She was analyzing.

Momo adjusted her monocle, already mentally taking notes.

Yuzu simply looked intrigued.

Tyrone smirked and leaned against the wall. "You wanna know what L.P.U.A. is like? You sure?"

Anzu grinned. "Of course! Spill it."

Anthony crossed his arms, glancing around at the many interested faces. "Alright, but we're not talking about Tankery specifics. That's classified."

Momo nodded. "Understood. Just the other stuff, then?"

Anthony nodded back. "Yeah."

Anthony started, "First off, every student at L.P.U.A.—regardless of their division—gets paid bi-weekly."

The hall went silent.

Like... dead silent.

...

.......

........."WHAT?!"

The reaction was immediate.

➡ Miho, Maho, Darjeeling, Anchovy, Kay, Nishi, and even Katyusha froze in place.
➡ Yukari nearly fell.
➡ Erika's mouth dropped open.
➡ Anzu's usual smug grin disappeared.
➡ Momo actually choked on air.
➡ Yuzu's eyes widened like dinner plates.
➡ Every single Japanese Tankery girl in the room had the same stunned expression.

"...Y'all don't get paid?" Tyrone asked, blinking.

Everyone slowly shook their heads.

Tyrone and Anthony exchanged a look.

Then Anthony sighed, rubbing his temples. "Bruh... that's fucked up."

"Wait, wait, wait—hold on a second," Yukari interrupted, leaning forward like she had just heard the biggest crime of the century. "You're telling me... every student at L.P.U.A. gets a salary?! Like... actual money?!"

Tyrone nodded, shrugging. "Yep. Every two weeks, like clockwork."

Darjeeling narrowed her eyes. "How much... are we talking?"

Anthony thought for a second. "Depends on the division. Regular students get $1,500 every two weeks—"

"—WHAT THE FUCK—" Kay almost choked on her own breath.

Anthony continued like nothing happened. "—Tankery students get $2,000 bi-weekly, and the officers—Overall Commanders and Vice-Commanders—get $3,500 to $5,000 depending on rank and responsibilities."

Silence.

More silence.

And then—

"I'm going to be sick," Momo whispered, clutching her stomach.

Miho looked at Anthony and Tyrone, still trying to process what she just heard.

"You're telling me..." she started slowly, "...that every L.P.U.A. student gets paid... just for attending?"

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. You're a student, right? You put in work, you contribute to the school—why shouldn't you get compensated?"

Maho clenched her jaw. "We don't get anything for participating in Sensha-Dō. In fact... we often lose money on travel, repairs, and other expenses."

Tyrone looked genuinely baffled. "Hold up. Y'all have to pay out of pocket to do Tankery?!"

The girls nodded.

Tyrone turned to Anthony, his face blank.

"...Bro, that's some slave labor shit."

Anthony nodded, his arms crossed. "Yeah. That's straight-up exploitation."

Seeing how shocked the Japanese girls were, Anthony decided to go all in.

"That's not all. At L.P.U.A. and most International Tankery schools, we also get full health and dental coverage."

Another silence bomb detonated in the room.

"...WHAT?!" Yukari shouted.

Tyrone grinned, shaking his head. "Man, y'all get screwed harder than a tank track under artillery fire."

Momo, still trying to recover, adjusted her monocle shakily. "H-Hold on... free healthcare? Like... completely free?"

Anthony shrugged. "Yeah. If you get sick, break a bone, need surgery—whatever. School covers it. No cost."

Mako felt dizzy.

Erwin fainted.

Yukari held her head in her hands, looking like she just found out Santa Claus wasn't real.

"If Sensha-Dō did that..." she mumbled, eyes wide. "...I wouldn't have to work a part-time job anymore."

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "You work a job while doing Tankery?"

She nodded sadly. "Yeah. I need to help my family with expenses and hobbies, and since Sensha-Dō doesn't pay..."

Tyrone scoffed. "Man, that's bullshit. Y'all risk your lives for this sport, and you don't even get paid?"

Yukari and Momo looked ready to cry.

"Although," Tyrone said crossing his arm. "it is the respected governments of each of the International Tankery schools that give the benefits and pay. Like for example, L.P.U.A is heavily supported and funded by the US Government, US Education, the US President, Congress, the American citizens across the entire that watch this like it's NFL or the World Cup, and US Armed Forces. Same goes for Russia, Italy, Germany, Mexico, Spain, France, Canada, Finland, The Philippines, Indonesia, China, Australia, The Caribbean, and a few more."

...

.......

........."WHAT?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

The Japanese Tankery girls sat frozen, their minds still buffering from the bombshell revelations Anthony and Tyrone had just dropped on them.

The hallway felt like it had been hit with an artillery barrage—stunned, silent, and completely unprepared for the aftermath.

The Damage Report So Far:

✅ L.P.U.A. and most International Tankery schools PAY their students bi-weekly.
✅ L.P.U.A. students get FULL health and dental coverage.
✅ The U.S. government and military financially back L.P.U.A.—along with Congress and American citizens.
✅ Other countries do the same for their own International Tankery schools.
✅ Japanese Sensha-Dō? No pay. No benefits. No government support. Nothing.

The Reactions:

➡ Miho Nishizumi: Absolute shock. Processing... still buffering...
➡ Maho Nishizumi: Clenching her jaw in frustration. She knew Sensha-Dō had problems, but this? This was straight-up robbery.
➡ Yukari Akiyama: Existential crisis mode activated. She was thinking about all the part-time jobs she worked just to afford her hobby.
➡ Erika Itsumi: Looking at Miho and Maho, realizing their entire careers were a scam.
➡ Darjeeling: Sipping tea, but visibly tense. As a commander, she was now questioning EVERYTHING.
➡ Kay: Brain not braining and looking like she just heard the Tooth Fairy was a crackhead.
➡ Katyusha: Still drowning in Anthony's BDU jacket but now focusing on her second existential crisis of the day.
➡ Momo Kawashima: Having a mental breakdown. Her monocle just cracked from how hard she clenched her teeth.
➡ Anzu Kadotani: Her usual smug grin was GONE. This was a problem.
➡ Saori: Still holding Miho, worried her friend was about to pass out from stress.
➡ Nonna: Took another picture. This was too good to miss.
➡ Chi-Ha-Tan girls: Deadpan staring. They were known for bad decisions, but Japan's entire Tankery system was somehow even worse.

Leaning against the wall, Tyrone grinned, arms crossed. "Y'all look like someone just told you Santa ain't real."

Miho opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"Th-This can't be real..." she muttered, voice shaking.

Anthony sighed, rubbing his temples. "Miho, it's real. Y'all getting screwed over by the Sensha-Dō Federation, plain and simple."

Maho took a deep breath, struggling to keep her voice calm. "How long... has this system been in place?"

Anthony shrugged. "Since Tankery started for us. L.P.U.A. was founded as a military preparatory school, so funding was never an issue. But even non-military-affiliated schools get huge government and corporate sponsorships because International Tankery is a multi-billion-dollar industry."

Kay, still trying to wrap her head around this, turned to Miho and Maho.

"Okay, lemme get this straight... Japan's Sensha-Dō has been running for decades, but y'all don't get paid, don't get government support, AND have to pay out of pocket just to compete?!"

Miho and Maho nodded slowly.

Kay's jaw dropped.

"WHAT THE HELL?!"

Anthony, now done sugarcoating things, leaned forward.

"You wanna know what really pisses me off?" he said, his deep voice filled with irritation.

Miho, Maho, and the others looked at him, wide-eyed.

"It's not just the lack of pay. It's not just the lack of healthcare. It's the fact that Japan's Sensha-Dō Federation has the nerve to try and control International Tankery while their own system is literally medieval."

Tyrone nodded, stepping in.

"They wanna ban us from using modern tanks. They wanna force us to follow their outdated-ass rules. And worst of all?"

He gestured at Miho, Maho, and the others.

"They got y'all brainwashed into thinking this is a normal extracurricular activity club."

The Nuclear Bomb Drops:

➡ L.P.U.A. has a multi-billion-dollar industry backing it.
➡ International Tankery is treated as an actual SPORT, not just an 'extracurricular activity club.'
➡ Most schools get military, corporate, and national sponsorships.
➡ Japan's Sensha-Dō Federation has NO financial support for its students.
➡ Japanese Tankery students have been exploited for years... and didn't even realize it.

The fluffy brown-haired tank nerd finally lost it. "I WORK THREE PART-TIME JOBS JUST TO KEEP UP WITH SENSHA-DŌ, AND THESE GUYS GET PAID JUST TO SHOW UP?!?!"

The entire hallway winced at how loud she yelled.

Kay, still trying to process the horror, turned to Darjeeling. "You knew about this?"

Darjeeling shook her head, her usual calm expression wavering. "No... I had no idea it was this bad."

Anchovy looked ready to punch a wall. "All this time, we thought we were representing our schools, but in reality, we're just free entertainment for the Federation!"

Miho, still holding onto Anthony's varsity jacket, gritted her teeth.

"So... what you're saying is..." she said slowly, anger creeping into her voice.

Anthony nodded. "Yup. Y'all been used."

Maho's fists clenched. "Those bastards..."

Tyrone smirked. "Welcome to the real world."

➡ Miho and Maho? Furious.
➡ Darjeeling? Composing an angry letter to the Federation.
➡ Kay? Already plotting how to bring this info to the press.
➡ Yukari? Ready to commit a war crime or a hate crime.
➡ Anzu? Scheming on how to flip this into financial gain.
➡ Momo? Crying over lost money.
➡ Katyusha? Still in Anthony's jacket, but now angry in it.
➡ Chi-Ha-Tan? Feeling even more stupid than before.

Mako, ever the monotone, sighed. "Well... at least we're learning the truth before it's too late."

Miho turned to Anthony, determination burning in her hazel eyes.

"Anthony," she said firmly.

He looked at her, surprised at the seriousness in her voice.

Miho took a deep breath.

"Teach us how to fight like you."

The room went dead silent.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Maho stepped up beside her sister, her expression mirroring Miho's.

"She's right," Maho added. "We've been stuck playing by Sensha-Dō's outdated rules for too long. It's time we learn how to really fight."

Tyrone grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Damn. Y'all really tryna go to the dark side, huh?"

Miho smirked. "If it means winning... then yes."

Anthony raised a brow, "You do realize we technically can't train you all since we're going to compete against each other. Right?"

Tyrone also adds, "Let's not forget about the fact that we also mostly use MBTs, IFVs, APCs, drones, AT mines, and infantry in our matches. And before any of you ask. Yes, we also use attack helicopters and fighter jets."

Everyone immediately double-takes at that. It was then that Yukari raised her hand, "Does that mean that Boeing B-52 Stratofortress bomber that was used was L.P.U.A's?"

Anthony answered her, "Not really. We loaned it from the Air Force. Also I like to apologize if you're still having nightmares from the Chinese did. I had zero control on that one. I can even write you a check if you're lacking to pay your therapist."

Hearing this made Yukari start thinking about. Then she thought the perfect thing. "How bout a JLTV?"

Miho, Hana, Saori, Mako, and many were surprised to hear something that isn't a tank.

So was Anthony and Tyrone. The former shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a walkie talkie, "Give me five minutes. It won't cost much since I can just give one of ours. From the mechanics team." He then speaks in the radio quietly. And in the next five minutes a C-130 cargo plane flies above and dropping it's cargo. A Oshkosh Joint Light Tactical Vehicle (JLTV or Joltvee) and it lands in the courtyard.

The moment the JLTV hit the ground, everything changed.

A literal Oshkosh Joint Light Tactical Vehicle—military-grade, combat-ready, and completely functional—just fell from the sky like it was a vehicle drop in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2019.

And Anthony barely blinked.

Tyrone just grinned.

And every single Japanese Tankery girl?

Yeah, they weren't okay.

Casualties of Shock:

Miho Nishizumi: Staring at the vehicle like it was a divine relic.
Maho Nishizumi: Questioning the very foundation of Sensha-Dō logistics.
Yukari Akiyama: Experiencing a mix of overwhelming joy and existential horror.
Anzu Kadotani: Doing mental gymnastics on how to profit from this information.
Momo Kawashima: Monocle officially cracked beyond repair.
Yuzu Koyama: Contemplating switching careers to L.P.U.A.
Darjeeling: Tea cup? Shattered. Mental state? Crisis mode.
Kay: "Y'ALL CAN JUST ORDER VEHICLES LIKE PIZZA?!"
Katyusha: Still in Anthony's BDU jacket, but now mentally combusting.
Chi-Ha-Tan Girls: Wondering why they keep choosing the worst tactics possible.
Pravda: Just stopped trying to understand reality at this point.

Meanwhile, Yukari was experiencing the best day of her life. "IT'S REAL!" Yukari sprinted toward the JLTV, hands trembling. "IT'S REALLY HERE! AND IT'S MINE!"

She threw herself onto the hood like she had just been reunited with a long-lost lover.

Anthony, completely unfazed, just handed her the backup keys. "Keys are under the driver's seat, Fluffy. Fuel's full. Don't crash it."

Yukari held the keys like they were the Holy Grail.

Her soul left her body.

She rushed in and hugged the steering wheel.

Tears.

Literal tears.

"I-I-I don't know how to repay you!" she sobbed, pure bliss radiating off her like an overcharged reactor.

Tyrone shrugged. "We're Americans. We just give people stuff sometimes. 'Cause freedom."

The Girls Were Not Okay.

➡ Saori: "She's... actually crying."
➡ Hana: "She may never recover from this."
➡ Mako: "This feels like an arranged marriage, but with military hardware."
➡ Miho: I... I need to sit down...
➡ Darjeeling: The logistics... THE LOGISTICS...
➡ Kay: "Bruh, that's, like, a whole-ass JLTV. You could've given her a hat or something."
➡ Anzu: "Nah. She earned it."

Momo was hyperventilating. "Y-You—you can just order military vehicles like that?!"

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Can't y'all?"

Momo let out a dry laugh of despair. "DO WE LOOK LIKE WE CAN?!"

Tyrone shook his head. "Damn, man. Y'all out here fighting with negative bank accounts, and we out here with military sponsorships."

➡ International Tankery Schools: Funded by governments, corporations, and treated like professional sports.

➡ Japanese Sensha-Dō: Underfunded, treated like an extracurricular club, and forced to pay for everything themselves.

➡ Reality: Japan has been getting scammed for decades.

Darjeeling clenched her porcelain teacup so hard it shattered in her hand.

Her politeness had officially reached its breaking point. "I... I refuse to accept this," she muttered, her elegant composure starting to crack. She turned to Anthony and Tyrone, her normally calm, sophisticated voice trembling. "You mean to tell me..." she said slowly, dangerously, "...that all this time, Sensha-Dō has been nothing but an unpaid circus act for the Japanese Federation while the rest of the world actually treats it like a profession?"

Anthony sighed. "Yeah, basically."

Darjeeling's hands trembled.

Her soul left her body.

Tea juice leaves scattered across the floor like the ashes of her shattered worldview.

Then she turned to Miho, Maho, and every Japanese Tankery commander in the area.

"We've been deceived," she whispered.

Miho and Maho nodded grimly.

Katyusha was still in Anthony's jacket, but now furiously biting her thumb in frustration.

Kay looked ready to flip a tank over.

Yukari?

Yukari was still hugging the JLTV like a cat that found a sunbeam.

Miho took a deep breath and stood tall. "Anthony. Tyrone."

Both Americans turned to her.

Miho's eyes burned with newfound determination.

"You were right," she admitted. "We were blind to the truth... but now? We want to change."

Maho stepped beside her.

"We can't keep playing Sensha-Dō like it's a school club. If Japan wants to survive in the Tankery world..." She clenched her fists. "We need to evolve."

Anthony smirked. "Y'all sure about that? No going back if you do." Miho nodded firmly. "So be it."

Tyrone cracked his knuckles, grinning. "Aight then. Welcome to the real game."

As the dust settled from the JLTV drop and financial revelation, one thing became clear:
Japan's Sensha-Dō Federation would never be the same again.
The Japanese commanders had finally opened their eyes.

Now?

Now they were ready to fight.

And Anthony Grant & Tyrone Williams Sherman?

They had just recruited Japan into the Tankery arms race.

TL;DR – What Just Happened?

✅ L.P.U.A. casually air-dropped a JLTV into Japan.
✅ Yukari is now a proud vehicle owner.
✅ Japanese Tankery girls are still recovering from financial trauma.
✅ Miho & Maho have officially decided to modernize Japan's Sensha-Dō.
✅ Darjeeling is experiencing a full British meltdown.
✅ Kay is about to start an uprising.
✅ Katyusha is plotting vengeance.
✅ Anthony & Tyrone are just enjoying the chaos.

Chapter Text

Miho had been riding a mix of emotions all day.

Between the financial bombshells about International Tankery, the chaos of the Hoodie War™, and learning about the L.P.U.A. boys' obsession with Japanese girls, she had barely processed everything.

But there was one question that still burned in her mind.

A question that had been lingering ever since she learned about how different the International Tankery scene was compared to Japan's Sensha-Dō.

"Anthony," she said, her voice steady, "has there ever been an accident in your matches?"

Anthony and Tyrone immediately stiffened.

Their relaxed postures were gone in an instant.

The joking, the teasing, the casual banter—all of it vanished.

And everyone in the courtyard felt it.

The shift was instant.

The air grew heavier.

Miho wasn't expecting that reaction.

But now, she knew.

The answer was yes.

Miho, seeing their sudden shift in demeanor, knew she had touched a nerve.

Tyrone exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "Yeah... there's always accidents in Tankery. Minor ones happen all the time. Sprains, bruises, concussions, fractures—hell, even burns. That's just the nature of the sport."

Anthony nodded grimly. "But major accidents? The kind that stop a match or postpone it for months? Yeah. Those happen too."

The Japanese Tankery girls fell silent.

They had heard of some incidents in Sensha-Dō, but the worst injuries usually involved minor burns or bruises from tank malfunctions.

But to stop an entire match or delay a tournament for months?

That was unheard of in Japan's Tankery scene.

Even when Miho and her team almost drowned in that river during the tournament, it hadn't outright stopped the match.

But the way Anthony and Tyrone spoke...

It was clear the International Tankery scene was on a whole different level of danger.

Anthony crossed his arms. "We won't name the schools involved. Out of respect. But we'll tell you the countries."

Miho and the others nodded silently.

Then, Anthony began.

Philippines vs. Finland – The Frozen Match

"One match between the Philippines and Finland had to be postponed because of extreme cold."

Tyrone sighed. "Filipino students—most of them never experienced below-freezing temperatures before—were slowly freezing mid-match."

"At first, it was small stuff," Anthony explained. "Slower reaction times. Stiff hands. Minor shivering."

"But then it got worse," Tyrone added. "Some started showing early signs of frostbite."

The Japanese girls' eyes widened.

Saori covered her mouth. "F-Frostbite?!"

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. The match was stopped the moment one of their gunners collapsed inside his tank."

Miho felt her heart drop.

Maho narrowed her eyes. "How cold was it?"

Tyrone sighed. "Negative 45 degrees Celsius."

Everyone stared.

Darjeeling, usually composed, blinked. "...That's below -40 Fahrenheit."

Momo's monocle nearly fell off. "That's... colder than Siberia!"

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. It was so bad that the Filipino students had to be hospitalized for hypothermia. Some almost lost fingers."

Tyrone clenched his fists. "The match was postponed for two months—until the Filipinos could get proper winter training and gear."

Miho felt sick.

This was far worse than anything in Sensha-Dō.

🇩🇪 Germany - The Ammo Cook-Off Incident
"A tank took a direct hit to its ammo rack. Normally, we use regulated training rounds that just disable the tank, but something went wrong. The shell ignited the remaining ammo inside, and the entire tank exploded."

Gasps.

Hana covered her mouth. "Oh my god..."

"The crew survived," Anthony clarified, "but two of them suffered third-degree burns, and the match was immediately stopped. It took three months for that school to return to competition."

China vs. Ukraine/Poland – The Chernobyl Disaster

"The worst accident by far?" Anthony's voice dropped lower. "A match between China and Ukraine/Poland."

Miho did not like the tone in his voice.

Maho felt uneasy.

Tyrone shook his head. "The match had to be stopped immediately."

Mako, for once, spoke up. "Why?"

Anthony's next words sent a chill through the entire group.

"Because the match was held near Chernobyl."

Silence.

Dead.

Fucking.

Silence.

Miho's blood ran cold.

Maho gripped her arms.

Yukari looked horrified.

Saori, usually the loudest, covered her mouth in shock.

Nonna's neutral expression turned into a rare frown.

Katyusha actually sat up straight.

Then—Tyrone delivered the kill shot.

"Hundreds of students had to be sent to the hospital for radiation poisoning."

Miho felt like she couldn't breathe.

Hundreds?!

Anthony continued, voice grim.

"They didn't realize how bad it was until students started vomiting blood mid-match. By the time they stopped the match, the damage was already done."

Tyrone clenched his fists. "Some had to go through surgery to remove contaminated tissue. Others had to be quarantined for months. It took almost a year to fully remove the radiation from their systems."

Miho was shaking.

Maho looked like she wanted to punch something.

Darjeeling gripped her teacup tightly. "That is... beyond tragic."

Kay, usually playful, had a grim expression. "They could've died."

Anthony nodded. "That's why that match was relocated to a new battlefield. But the damage was already done."

Miho felt nauseous.

🇮🇹 Italy - The Urban Collapse Incident
Tyrone sighed.

"Italian schools love running urban environment matches. But one time... an old abandoned building collapsed when a Leopard fired too close to it."

"Did—" Sofia the Overall Commander of the Yogurt Academy hesitated. "Did anyone get hurt?"

"One girl(Serafina Rossi) got trapped under debris, but her teammates pulled her out in time."

L.P.U.A. vs. Mexico – The Fuel Line Explosion

Anthony exhaled. "Even L.P.U.A. has had close calls."

Tyrone nodded. "We were in a match against Mexico. Everything was going fine—until one of our MBTs hit an underground fuel line."

Maho narrowed her eyes. "And?"

Tyrone gave a humorless chuckle.

"It was like a nuke went off."

Miho stared.

Anthony nodded. "The explosion was so massive, it engulfed an entire section of the battlefield. We thought we lost people."

Momo gulped. "D-Did anyone...?"

Anthony shook his head. "No one died, thank God. But we had students with severe burns, concussions, and some had to be put in ICU. The match was postponed for three months."

Miho's hands were shaking.

Maho clenched her fists.

🇫🇮 Finland - The Firestorm Match
Maho and Erika already had a bad feeling about this one.

"A Finnish school was running an aggressive ambush match, using forests for cover," Anthony started.

"One of the tanks fired too close to dry brush."

"...No..." Yukari whispered.

"The entire forest went up in flames."

The courtyard was dead silent.

"The match was immediately stopped, helicopters were deployed, and the Fire Division barely got everyone out in time."

Maho inhaled sharply.

"How long was the match postponed?"

Anthony looked her dead in the eyes.

"Six months."

Darjeeling's grip on her teacup tightened. "This is why International Tankery has its own disaster response teams, I assume?"

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. Every International Tankery school has a dedicated Fire Search & Rescue, Medic, Recovery, and Disaster Division."

Tyrone crossed his arms. "If something happens, we don't wait for help. We are the help."

Miho took a deep breath, trying to process everything.

The International Tankery world was brutal.

Accidents in Sensha-Dō were nothing compared to this.

Miho clenched her fists.

She had to be stronger.

➡ Miho & Maho: Shaken, but more determined than ever.
➡ Darjeeling: This information changes everything.
➡ Katyusha: ...Maybe these Americans aren't reckless. Maybe they're just survivors.
➡ Yukari: Must. Research. More.
➡ Saori: I feel sick...
➡ Kay: International Tankery is no joke...
➡ Momo: ...We have no idea what we're up against.

As the sun set over Ōarai...

Miho Nishizumi knew one thing for certain.

She was about to enter a whole new world of Tankery.

Chapter Text

Location: A Bar Somewhere in Town

Status: Three Drunk Legends + Two Unconscious JSDF Officers

The bar was dimly lit, the warm glow of lanterns casting an orange hue over the wooden interior. Bottles of sake, whiskey, and beer cluttered the table.

A rowdy group of former Sensha-Dō legends sat at the back, laughing, drinking, and reminiscing like a group of college students on a wild weekend.

This was not a gathering of dignified, retired commanders.

This was a mess.

Yuki Tanaka-Grant (Former Overall Vice-Commander of Kuromorimine), Shiho Nishizumi (Former Overall Commander of Kuromorimine), and Chiyo Shimada (Former Overall Commander of St. Gloriana) were drinking like absolute degenerates.

And they were LOUD.

Meanwhile, Ami Chōno, the former tournament judge and JGSDF officer, was completely unconscious, her face resting against the sticky wooden table.

Next to her, Captain Aika Takayama, the JSDF liaison officer who had greeted Anthony and Tyrone earlier that day, had just finished puking her entire soul out into a bar trash can.

It was chaos.

Yuki slammed her empty sake bottle on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Another one!" she shouted, grinning like a drunken war goddess.

Shiho, who had long since ditched her usual stern and cold demeanor, leaned against the table, her face slightly flushed. She hiccuped before smirking.

"Y'know..." Shiho slurred, pointing at Yuki, "You... you stole my man back in high school... but I like you."

Chiyo burst out laughing, her refined St. Gloriana mannerisms completely gone.

"Shiho," she wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes, "Yuki didn't steal Chris! She just... won! Fair and square!"

Yuki threw her arms up. "Damn right I did!"

The bartender, a poor soul who had clearly seen far too much shit tonight, just refilled their drinks in silence, knowing that arguing with three drunken former Tankery commanders was a suicide mission.

Meanwhile, Chōno twitched in her unconscious state, her face still pressed against the table.

Captain Takayama groaned from her seat, barely lifting her head from the trash can of shame.

"I hate... everything," she muttered.

Chiyo smirked. "Lightweight."

Aika weakly raised her middle finger.

Shiho, now deep into her cups, leaned forward with a smirk.

"You know... I used to hate you," she told Yuki, pointing a slightly wobbly finger at her.

Yuki snorted. "I know."

Shiho grinned. "But now... I think I respect you more than anyone in Tankery."

Chiyo nodded aggressively. "SAME. You're insane, Yuki, but I'd follow you into any battle."

Yuki grinned. "Damn right you would."

Shiho slammed her empty glass on the table and pointed at Yuki again.

"You know what I hate?" she slurred. "The Sensha-Dō Federation."

Chiyo nodded. "Fucking assholes."

Yuki chuckled. "Took y'all long enough to figure that out."

Shiho groaned. "They screwed us over for years. We put everything into Tankery, and what did we get?"

"NOTHING!" Chiyo shouted, slamming her fists on the table.

Shiho grabbed the nearest bottle of whiskey and poured herself another glass.

"Y'know," she continued, "I used to think Sensha-Dō was about honor, tactics, and skill. But now? It's just corrupt old men in suits trying to control us."

Yuki laughed loudly, downing another shot. "Welcome to the club, Shiho!"

Chiyo shook her head. "Man... If we ran Sensha-Dō... we'd fix everything!"

Yuki smirked. "You really wanna fix it?"

Shiho and Chiyo looked at her.

Yuki leaned forward, grinning like a fox.

"We burn it all down."

Silence.

Then—Shiho and Chiyo burst into laughter.

Takayama, still recovering from her puke session, groaned.

"Why... am I here..." she muttered.

Chōno twitched.

Still unconscious.

Poor woman never stood a chance.

As the night wore on, the bottles kept piling up, and the conversations became looser.

At some point, Shiho leaned against Yuki, an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face.

"Hey..." Shiho murmured. "Even though you did steal my man... you raised a damn fine son."

Yuki blinked.

Then she smirked.

"Damn right I did."

Chiyo laughed. "Anthony's got his mother's brains and his father's charm. That kid is dangerous."

Shiho nodded. "Maho respects him. More than most."

Yuki arched an eyebrow. "And Miho?"

Shiho smirked. "Miho's got it bad."

Yuki grinned like a wolf. "Oh, I know."

Chiyo nudged Yuki. "What about Tyrone?"

Yuki snorted. "That boy's too smooth. I don't even know if he knows when he's flirting. But Maho? Yeah, she's definitely interested."

Shiho sighed dramatically. "My daughters, in love with Americans. What would my ancestors think?"

Yuki cackled. "That you've got good taste!"

Shiho groaned. "I'm too drunk for this conversation."

Chiyo grinned. "That's the best time for it!"

Aika, still recovering from her existential crisis, just mumbled into the table.

"Kill me now..."

Ami?

Still unconscious.

May she rest in peace.

➡ Shiho, Yuki, and Chiyo? Drunkenly planning to overthrow the Sensha-Dō Federation.
➡ Ami? Still unconscious.
➡ Captain Aika? Regrets everything.
➡ The Bartender? Is questioning his life choices.
➡ The poor JSDF officers outside? Wondering if their careers are over.

As the night dragged on, the Sensha-Dō legends drank, laughed, and schemed like it was the Wild West.

And one thing was very, very clear.

Sensha-Dō was about to change forever.

Location: A Late-Night Karaoke Bar

Status: Three Drunken Tankery Legends + Two Unconscious JSDF Officers + One Bartender Who's Seen Too Much

The neon lights of the karaoke bar glowed against the midnight sky, flickering in vibrant blues and purples. The bass of an upbeat J-Pop song could be heard thumping through the walls as a very unhinged trio of women entered the establishment.

➡ Yuki Tanaka-Grant led the way, grinning like a warlord who had just conquered a country, carrying two completely unconscious JSDF officers on her shoulders like they weighed nothing.
➡ Shiho Nishizumi followed, slightly swaying, her usual serious demeanor completely destroyed by the sheer amount of alcohol in her system.
➡ Chiyo Shimada brought up the rear, smirking like a fox, clearly buzzed but still dangerous.

The staff at the karaoke bar blinked as the doors swung open.

A muscular, 5'9" Japanese woman strolled in carrying two passed-out military officers, followed by two of the most famous Sensha-Dō legends in Japan, both visibly drunk.

The bartender, who had already endured too much tonight, slowly took off his glasses, sighed, and muttered under his breath.

"Not this shit again."

"ROOM FOR THREE! AND... UH... TWO CORPSES!" Yuki shouted cheerfully as she walked in, still carrying Aika and Ami on her shoulders.

A very nervous young hostess—clearly new to the job—looked at them with wide, horrified eyes.

"Uh... um... are they okay?" she asked, pointing at the two very unconscious JSDF officers.

Shiho waved dismissively. "They'll live."

Chiyo grinned. "Physically, at least."

The hostess hesitated. "Should we... call an ambulance?"

Yuki laughed loudly and set the two officers down on a couch like they were ragdolls.

"Don't worry about 'em!" she patted their heads. "They're just questioning their life choices!"

Aika groaned weakly, her head spinning. Ami, meanwhile? Still completely out.

Shiho, who had somehow acquired another drink, smirked at Yuki.

"Alright, fearless leader. What's the plan?"

Yuki grinned devilishly.

"We. Are. Singing."

Chiyo laughed. "Oh hell yeah."

Shiho raised an eyebrow. "I don't sing."

Yuki's grin widened. "You do tonight."

Shiho narrowed her eyes. "You can't make me."

Chiyo casually handed Yuki a microphone.

Yuki raised it. "I can make you, actually."

Shiho sighed. "...I hate you."

Yuki smirked. "Love you too, princess."

Shiho, Yuki, and Chiyo sat down in the private karaoke booth, the massive screen in front of them glowing bright blue.

Yuki scrolled through the song list, looking for something chaotic.

She found it.

With an evil grin, she tapped the screen.

A few seconds later—

🔥 "Bohemian Rhapsody" – Queen 🔥

Shiho's eye twitched.

"...You did this on purpose."

Yuki took a sip of her drink. "Maybe."

The music started.

🎶 "Is this the real life...? Is this just fantasy...?" 🎶

Chiyo and Yuki immediately threw themselves into it, singing dramatically while Shiho just sat there, looking like she was reevaluating every decision in her life.

➡ Yuki? Belting out the lyrics like a rock star.
➡ Chiyo? Overly theatrical, doing dramatic gestures.
➡ Shiho? Silent suffering.

As the song hit the first chorus, Yuki turned to Shiho with a grin.

"You're gonna sing at some point."

Shiho crossed her arms. "No."

Chiyo nudged her. "Come onnnn, Shiho! Live a little!"

Shiho sighed.

She looked at the glowing screen.

Then back at her two idiot friends.

Then at her half-finished whiskey.

Finally, with a deep breath, she grabbed a microphone.

And when the song hit the hard rock section—

🔥 Shiho went fucking feral. 🔥

🎶 "SO YOU THINK YOU CAN STOP ME AND SPIT IN MY EYYYYE?" 🎶

🔥 Shiho Nishizumi was SCREAMING into the microphone. 🔥

➡ Yuki? Laughing her ass off.
➡ Chiyo? Banging her head like a metalhead at a concert.
➡ Aika & Ami? Unconscious.
➡ The Hostess Outside? Wondering if she should call the cops.

By the time the song ended, Shiho was breathing heavily, her hair slightly disheveled.

Yuki grinned like a maniac.

"See? That wasn't so bad."

Shiho slammed her drink down.

"Next song."

Chiyo laughed. "Oh, she's hooked now."

One song turned into two.

Two turned into ten.

➡ Yuki sang classic rock and military marching songs.
➡ Chiyo performed flawless covers of anime openings.
➡ Shiho? Metal. Pure, unfiltered metal.

By 2:00 AM, the karaoke room was in shambles.

➡ Shiho's tie was gone.
➡ Yuki had a cowboy hat (no one knew where it came from).
➡ Chiyo was passed out, clutching a microphone.
➡ Aika was still in the trash can.
➡ Ami had not moved.

The hostess, standing outside, just sighed deeply.

"I'm quitting tomorrow."

The Aftermath – 3:00 AM

Somehow, they all made it out of the karaoke bar.

➡ Yuki carried both Ami and Aika on her back again.
➡ Chiyo was humming happily.
➡ Shiho looked like she had been in a war.

As they walked through the quiet, dimly-lit streets, Yuki smirked.

"You know... that was fun."

Shiho sighed. "I'm never doing that again."

Chiyo laughed. "Oh, yes you are."

Shiho groaned.

As they turned a corner, Yuki looked up at the stars.

"...You know," she murmured, "Even if everything changes... nights like this? They make it worth it."

Shiho glanced at her.

Then smirked slightly.

"Yeah," she admitted. "They do."

Chiyo grinned. "We should do this again."

Shiho stared. "No."

Yuki grinned. "Yes."

Aika, still half-conscious, muttered weakly:

"Kill me..."

Ami?

Still unconscious.

May she rest in peace.

Location: A Dark Alleyway – 3:45 AM

Status: Three Drunken Tankery Legends + Two Unconscious JSDF Officers + Zero Dignity Left

The cold night air did little to soothe the absolute disaster unfolding in the back alley of a quiet Japanese street.

Three of the most feared Tankery legends in history—Yuki Tanaka-Grant, Shiho Nishizumi, and Chiyo Shimada—were currently hunched over, hands braced against the brick wall, violently puking their guts out.

➡ Yuki? Holding onto a streetlamp for dear life, muttering about "never mixing tequila with vodka ever again."
➡ Shiho? Silent. Dead-eyed. Pure suffering. Wishing she was in a tank instead of here.
➡ Chiyo? Laughing between pukes, because somehow she was still having a good time.

A few feet away, Aika and JSDF Captain Ami Chōno were still completely out.

➡ Ami? Face-down in a trash bag. Dead to the world.
➡ Aika? Barely conscious, muttering "I regret everything."

It was a pathetic sight.

A legendary trio of Tankery icons reduced to alleyway drunkards.

Shiho, after retching one last time, spat to the side and wiped her mouth.

"We need... a place to crash," she muttered.

Yuki, still leaning on the streetlamp, grinned weakly.

"I got just the place."

Chiyo raised an eyebrow. "...If it's another bar, I swear to god—"

Yuki laughed. "Nah, nah, an old friend."

Shiho and Chiyo exchanged looks.

Because if Yuki called someone an 'old friend'...

That meant trouble.

Location: Akiyama Barbershop – 4:00 AM

The Akiyama Barbershop was one of the oldest establishments in the area—a modest, two-story home with a classic red-and-white barber pole spinning outside. The upstairs was the family's residence, while the ground floor was the barbershop.

Inside, Yoshiko Akiyama had just finished brewing tea when a knock at the door nearly startled her.

Her husband, Jungorou Akiyama, was already snoring on the bed, completely oblivious to the world.

Yoshiko frowned, setting the teapot down. "Who the world would visit at 4 AM?"

She tightened her robe, stepped toward the door, and opened it.

What she saw?

Five heavily drunk women.

Three of them—Yuki, Shiho, and Chiyo—staring at her like guilty children.

Two of them—Ami and Aika—barely able to stand.

Yoshiko's calm demeanor immediately froze.

Her dark brown, curly hair—much like her daughter Yukari's—ruffled slightly as she narrowed her eyes.

Then, without hesitation—

SLAM!

She shut the door.

But she wasn't fast enough.

Yuki's foot caught it.

The door stopped inches from closing.

Yuki's grin widened. "Aw, come on, Ōarai's Fluffy Brown-Haired Leader."

Yoshiko's eye twitched violently. "Don't. Call me. That."

Yuki laughed, pushing the door open slightly.

"Still as stubborn as ever, huh? Come on, Yoshi, let us in."

Yoshiko's deadpan glare did not waver. "You all smell like a war crime."

Chiyo, drunk but still snarky, leaned against Yuki. "To be fair, Yuki is a walking war crime."

Yuki snorted.

Shiho sighed. "Yoshiko, we need a place to crash."

Yoshiko folded her arms. "You all look like hell."

Shiho nodded. "We feel worse."

Yuki patted Ami's unconscious head. "And these two? Yeah, they're one step from the grave."

Aika groaned weakly. "...Please... help..."

Yoshiko sighed deeply.

She was a calm and patient woman—she had to be, living with both her eccentric husband and her military-obsessed daughter.

But these three?

These three were absolute menaces.

Her former rivals in Tankery.

Her greatest headache as a commander.

And now, they were wasted beyond belief at her doorstep.

"...Fine."

Yuki grinned. "I knew you loved me."

Yoshiko glared. "Shut up and get inside before I change my mind."

 Inside the Akiyama Residence

➡ Yuki? Sprawled across the couch like she owned the place.
➡ Shiho? Sitting stiffly at the table, sipping tea with a thousand-yard stare.
➡ Chiyo? Curled up in a chair, humming to herself.
➡ Aika & Ami? Dead asleep on the floor.

Yoshiko, standing in the kitchen, watched them with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. "You all look so pathetic right now," she muttered.

Yuki grinned. "And yet, you let us in."

Yoshiko sighed. "I regret it already."

Shiho, still nursing her tea, mumbled quietly. "...We need to stop drinking like we're still teenagers."

Chiyo laughed. "No fun in that."

Yoshiko shook her head, before pouring herself some tea. "So. What the fuck happened?"

The three former commanders exchanged looks.

Then—

➡ Yuki: "Politics."
➡ Shiho: "A bet."
➡ Chiyo: "Ami and Aika got dragged into hell with us."

Yoshiko stared at them. "...I hate all of you."

Yuki grinned. "Love you too, Fluffy."

Yoshiko threw a shoe at her face.

Upstairs – Yukari Akiyama's Room – 4:30 AM

Meanwhile, Yukari Akiyama was fast asleep, dreaming of tanks and military hardware.

Then—

CRASH!

She bolted upright. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

She stumbled out of her futon, half-awake, still dressed in her camouflage pajamas.

She peeked out of her door.

...

And what she saw?

Her mother.

Anthony's mother, Yuki Tanaka-Grant.

Miho and Maho's mother, Shiho Nishizumi.

And Alice's mother, Chiyo Shimada.

All sitting in her house.

...

...

"I'm dreaming," Yukari whispered. "I have to be dreaming."

Then—

Yuki waved at her. "Yo, Fluffy Jr.! How's life?"

Yukari's soul left her body.

She turned around.

She closed the door.

She went back to bed.

...

"Nope. Not dealing with this."

Location: Akiyama Residence – 8:00 AM

The morning sunlight barely peeked through the curtains of the Akiyama Residence, casting a soft glow over five broken women who regretted every life decision that led them here.

Yuki, the legendary war goddess of Kuromorimine, was currently sprawled out on the couch, an ice pack on her forehead, groaning in agony.

Shiho, normally a beacon of discipline and composure, sat at the kitchen table, clutching her temple, looking like she had just survived a battlefield full of artillery strikes.

Chiyo, still wrapped in a blanket, refused to move from her chair, groaning softly.

Ami, the fearless JGSDF officer, was currently face-down on the floor, muttering something about regret and misfortune.

Captain Aika Takayama?

Still unconscious.

Yoshiko, standing by the stove, was watching them all with a deadpan expression, brewing a fresh pot of tea.

She wasn't going to say anything.

She didn't have to.

Their suffering was enough punishment.

Outside – 8:15 AM

A black, heavily modified 2025 Chevrolet Suburban SUV rumbled to a stop outside the Akiyama residence.

Behind the wheel?

Anthony Grant.

His aviator sunglasses reflected the morning sun, his expression unreadable.

Miho sat in the passenger seat, guiding him to the location.

Maho Nishizumi and Alice Shimada were in the back seats, already exhausted from the situation.

Tyrone wasn't here—he was busy getting a tour at Kuromorimine.

Which meant that Anthony?

Was handling the hangover disaster alone.

It wasn't his first time dealing with his drunk mother.

And it damn sure wouldn't be his last.

Anthony turned off the engine, sighing.

"Alright, let's get this over with."

Inside – 8:20 AM

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Yoshiko, still brewing her tea, turned her head toward the door.

Yukari—who had spent the entire morning mentally preparing for this bullshit—immediately opened the door.

And there stood Anthony.

6'2" of pure "I don't have time for this" energy.

Dressed in his black tactical jacket, military-style boots, and fingerless gloves.

A backpack full of hangover remedies slung over his shoulder.

And his aviator shades still on, because dealing with drunk parents required maximum intimidation.

Behind him?

Miho, Maho, and Alice.

Miho: Already regretting her existence.
Maho: Not amused at all.
Alice: Just here to pick up her mom.

Yukari sighed heavily. "They're inside," she muttered. "It's... bad."

Anthony didn't say anything.

He just walked in.

The Hangover Disaster – 8:25 AM

The moment Anthony stepped in, he was met with the sight of destruction.

➡ Yuki? Still draped over the couch, sunglasses on, refusing to move.
➡ Shiho? Massaging her temples, trying to regain her dignity.
➡ Chiyo? Half-asleep, blanket wrapped around her like a burrito.
➡ Ami? Still on the floor, unmoving.
➡ Aika? Still dead.

Anthony inhaled deeply.

Then...

Clapped his hands together.

"Alright, wake your drunk asses up!"

➡ Yuki: "Nnnnnghhhhh..."
➡ Shiho: "I will shoot you..."
➡ Chiyo: "...Five more minutes..."
➡ Ami: (No response. Possibly still dead.)
➡ Aika: (Still dead.)

Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose.

Miho, Maho, and Alice stood behind him, silently judging their respective mothers.

Maho crossed her arms. "This is pathetic."

Alice sighed. "I'm not even surprised."

Miho just looked away, embarrassed.

Anthony tossed the backpack onto the table.

Inside?

➡ Hangover medicine.
➡ Bottled water.
➡ Vitamin packs.
➡ Instant ramen.
➡ Electrolyte drinks.

Yoshiko, watching from the kitchen, nodded approvingly. "Well-prepared, as expected."

Anthony glared at Yuki. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"

Yuki grinned weakly. "Maybe."

Anthony groaned. "Drink the damn water, Ma."

Yuki reluctantly took the bottle and started drinking.

Shiho did the same.

Chiyo, still wrapped in her blanket, grumbled but obeyed.

Ami and Aika?

Still in a coma.

Anthony shook his head. "Miho, Alice, help me carry your moms to the SUV."

Miho sighed. "Got it."

Alice nodded. "Understood."

Anthony turned to Maho. "You helping?"

Maho scoffed. "Absolutely not."

Figures.

Transporting the Hangover Victims – 8:45 AM

➡ Yuki? Dumped into the back seat like cargo.
➡ Shiho? Strapped in, still groggy.
➡ Chiyo? Still wrapped in her blanket, looking like a depressed owl.
➡ Ami? Still unconscious, but at least breathing.
➡ Aika? Dead weight. Literally.

Miho and Alice sat in the back, monitoring their moms.

Maho sat in the passenger seat, completely done with everyone's bullshit.

Anthony started the SUV.

Then glanced at Yuki in the rearview mirror. "You gonna be alive back there?"

Yuki waved a hand lazily. "Maybe."

Anthony sighed.

Then, as he shifted gears, he muttered under his breath. "Never drinking when my Mom's involved... ever."

Maho chuckled. "Smart decision."

Anthony shook his head, pressed down on the accelerator, and drove them back toward Ōarai Girls' Academy.

Chapter Text

Location: Ōarai Academy Courtyard – 10:30 AM

Status: One Modern Military Vehicle + One Excited Tank Otaku + One Stressed American Supervisor

Yukari Akiyama, Ōarai's most passionate tank nerd, stood before the Oshkosh Joint Light Tactical Vehicle (JLTV) that had literally dropped from the sky yesterday.

Her hands were clenched into fists.

Her breathing was erratic.

Her eyes sparkled with uncontainable excitement.

This was it.

A real modern U.S. military vehicle.

Not a WWII relic. Not a fragile light tank.

This was a beast—armored, powerful, and brimming with modern military engineering.

And it was hers to drive.

...Under Anthony's strict supervision.

Anthony, standing to her right, had his arms crossed, wearing his usual black tactical jacket, military boots, and aviator shades.

His face? Stone-cold neutral.

Inside, though?

He was mentally preparing for potential disaster.

"Alright, Yukari-san," Anthony said, his deep voice calm but firm. "I'm gonna say this once—this is NOT a tank. It's an armored tactical vehicle. That means you can't treat it like some T-34 or a damn Panzer III."

Yukari nodded rapidly, practically vibrating in place. "Yes, sir!"

Anthony sighed. "That means no ramming into things, no reckless swerving, and for the love of God, DO NOT engage the auto systems."

Yukari froze.

Her head tilted.

Her brows furrowed.

"...Auto systems?"

Anthony's eye twitched.

Shit.

Inside the JLTV – 10:45 AM

Yukari sat in the driver's seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes darting over the dashboard.

It was so advanced.

So many buttons.

So many switches.

So many tempting, glorious, military-grade controls.

Anthony sat in the passenger seat, watching her like a hawk.

Behind them?

Miho and Saori were bucking up in the back, Mako half-asleep as usual.

Yukari inhaled.

Exhaled.

Turned the key.

The JLTV's engine roared to life, a deep, powerful hum vibrating through the entire vehicle.

Yukari shuddered with excitement.

Anthony rolled his neck.

"Alright. Slowly. Ease into it."

Yukari nodded and pressed the accelerator gently.

The JLTV moved forward, smoothly gliding over the road.

Anthony nodded in approval.

"Good. Keep it steady."

Five Minutes Later...

"YUKARI, SLOW THE HELL DOWN!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The JLTV tore across the school grounds, kicking up dirt and debris.

Anthony gripped the dashboard, teeth clenched.

Miho was screaming internally.

Saori was clutching Mako like a lifeline.

Mako?

...Still asleep.

Yukari?

Living her best life.

"THIS THING HANDLES LIKE A DREAM!" Yukari yelled, her eyes wide with adrenaline.

"THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU DRIVE LIKE A NASCAR RACER!" Anthony barked.

They zoomed past other students, who watched in horror and awe as the giant military vehicle thundered across the school grounds.

"LOOK AT THE SUSPENSION! THE ARMOR! THE—"

"YUKARI, IF YOU HIT THAT FENCE, YOU'RE GONNA PAY FOR IT!"

Yukari slammed the brakes.

The JLTV skidded to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Silence.

Anthony exhaled deeply.

Yukari turned to him, beaming.

"That was amazing!"

Anthony slowly turned to look at her.

Deadpan. Expressionless. Done.

"Get. Out."

Location: Maple High School, Tomakomai – 12:00 PM

Status: One American Vice-Commander + One Canadian-Themed School + One New Friend Named Trout

Tyrone adjusted his hoodie as he stepped onto the grounds of Maple High School.

The cool Hokkaidō air hit his face, refreshing and crisp.

The school itself?

Unique.

Flags consists of their name "Maple" written on the bottom right a wooden trophy plate carrying to a moose head lined the walkway swayed in the breeze.

The students?

Dressed in black berets, white shirts, black skirts, tights, and boots—resembling an elite military academy with a distinct Canadian influence.

Tyrone had done his homework.

This school had a deep-rooted history connecting Japan and Canada, built upon centuries of diplomatic relations.

Their Sensha-Dō program?

Unique.

They didn't rely on brute force.

They focused on maneuver warfare, tactics, and positioning.

And their commander?

A girl named Trout.

Tyrone found himself in front of a girl about average-sized height, with brown eyes, long black hair tied in a plait, and a mole on her forehead.

She had an easy-going, confident expression, hands in her pockets, her black beret tilted slightly to the side. "You're the American, huh?" she said, eyeing him up and down.

Tyrone smirked. "Last I checked."

Trout grinned. "Damn. You're taller than I thought."

Tyrone shrugged. "You're shorter than I expected."

Trout snorted. "Oh, we're gonna get along just fine."

Tyrone chuckled. "Guess so. So... y'all really running Light Tanks out here?"

Trout nodded. "Yeah. Maneuver warfare, baby. We don't need MBTs—we outmaneuver 'em."

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Interesting. I respect that."

Trout smirked. "You should. We've beaten plenty of schools that had better tanks than us."

Tyrone rubbed his chin. "Aight, I gotta see this in action."

Trout nodded.

"Then let's hit the field."

Maple High School Training Grounds – 12:30 PM

Tyrone stood on the observation deck, arms crossed, watching as Maple High School's tanks maneuvered like wolves in a coordinated pack.

➡ Ram Cruiser Tanks cutting sharp turns.
➡ Grizzly Cruiser Tanks flanking wide.
➡ Valentine Infantry Tanks covering key positions.
➡ Light Tanks zipping through the trees.

It was clean.

Precise.

Disciplined.

Tyrone nodded in approval.

"Damn," he muttered.

Trout smirked. "Impressed?"

Tyrone glanced at her. "Yeah. I see the logic behind it. Y'all don't fight fair—you fight smart."

Trout grinned. "Damn right. We don't believe in brute force. That's not the Canadian way."

Tyrone chuckled. "Yeah, well... don't tell that to the Royal Canadian Army. They love brute force."

Trout laughed. "Okay, you got me there."

The two stood in silence for a moment, watching the training exercise unfold.

Then Trout turned to him. "So, tell me, American..."

Tyrone glanced at her. "Yeah?"

Trout smirked. "You ever driven a Grizzly Cruiser Tank?"

Tyrone grinned. "Not yet. But I'm about to."

Tyrone sat inside the Grizzly Cruiser Tank, hands gripping the controls as he adjusted to the compact interior.

"Shit, man... who the hell designed this?!" Tyrone muttered, shifting in the tight seat. His broad shoulders were pushed against the sides, and his knees were damn near touching his chest.

"Sensha-Dō Federation tank engineers," Trout replied, smirking from the commander's seat. "Built for efficiency, not comfort."

Tyrone grumbled, adjusting his seating position. "Man, this shit wasn't built for someone my size..."

"Yeah, well," Trout shrugged, "we ain't exactly 6-foot, 200-pound tankers over here."

Tyrone sighed and focused back on the controls. He could feel the smooth handling of the Grizzly Cruiser Tank as he gently pressed the accelerator.

The tank responded instantly, gliding forward with surprising agility. "Damn... this thing's smooth."

Trout leaned back, grinning. "Yep. That's why we prefer maneuver warfare. Heavy tanks are great and all, but we like to dance."

Tyrone tested the turret controls, rotating the main gun. The hydraulics were faster than he expected, allowing quick aiming adjustments.

"Alright, alright, I respect this," Tyrone admitted. "Still don't know if I'd trade an Abrams for it, but this is solid."

Trout chuckled. "Most wouldn't. But we're not here to fight Abrams—we're here to outmaneuver them."

Tyrone nodded. "Aight, I see the vision."

As he drove the tank across the training field, he could hear Trout's voice over the radio headset.

"Yo, question," Trout asked, her tone shifting slightly.

Tyrone arched a brow. "Shoot."

"Tell me about Léo Major Academy. You know, our international counterpart."

Tyrone blinked, pausing for a second.

Trout continued, "I mean, I know they're supposed to be the 'Canadian equivalent' to us, but every time I hear about them, it's some crazy shit. Like, what the hell goes on over there?"

Tyrone sighed, letting out a short chuckle. "Oh, man... where do I even begin?"

Author's Note: The next lines will be Tyrone explaining who L.M.A is to Trout.

Léo Major Academy: The Most Feared Tankery School in North America

Léo Major Academy wasn't just a Tankery school.

It was a reformed juvenile detention center that housed some of Canada's most dangerous youths.

And its Overall Commander?

A man who looked older than 17 and carried a reputation that made even the most hardened Tankery commanders uneasy.

Born in Toronto, Canada, Logan Roy had been a fighter since birth.

From rough neighborhoods to gang-infested streets, Logan survived by sheer force of will and raw strength.

➡ By the age of 7, he had already witnessed Sensha-Dō in Japan, inspiring his passion for Tankery.
➡ By the age of 12, he had been locked up in Léo Major Youth Detention for beating the living shit out of bullies who mocked his interest in Tankery.
➡ By the age of 13, he rose to the top of the juvenile system, earning the title of "The Boss" among the most dangerous delinquents.
➡ By 14, when Léo Major Center was converted into a Tankery Academy, Logan took over as Overall Commander.

And that's when things changed forever.

Léo Major Academy became a war machine.

No rules. No hesitation. No mercy.

They didn't just play Tankery.

They weaponized it.

The Léo Major Academy Devil's Tank Division (L.M.A.D.T.D.)

Within Léo Major Academy, there existed an elite Tankery unit.

A division feared across all International Tankery Schools.

The Devil's Tank Division.

➡ Specialty: Psychological warfare, shock tactics, war crime-level strategy.
➡ Members: The most ruthless tankers, handpicked by Logan Roy himself.
➡ Tactics: Taking POWs during matches, executing simulated war crimes, mind games, and terror tactics.

They weren't just here to win.

They were here to dominate.

At Léo Major Academy, every student's past was worn on their skin.

➡ Freshmen (Boots) – Minor tattoos. Petty crimes. Vandalism, theft, assault.
➡ Sophomores (One or Two) – More ink. Carjackings, armed robbery, gang involvement.
➡ Juniors (Experienced) – Half-sleeve/full-sleeve tattoos. Organized crime, large-scale operations.
➡ Seniors (Skilled) – Full body tattoos. Multiple arrests. Considered lethal in Tankery matches.

L.M.A.D.T.D. Members?

➡ Signature "Devil's" Tattoos.

Flames, skulls, demonic imagery, meant to strike fear into their enemies.

When an opponent saw a heavily tattooed L.M.A. tanker step onto the battlefield?

They knew it was already over.

Author's Note: Now back to our Tank Girls n' Boys.

Tyrone shook his head as he continued driving the Grizzly Cruiser Tank. "You wanna know what makes L.M.A. different from y'all?" he asked.

Trout leaned back in her seat, listening.

Tyrone smirked slightly. "They don't care about honor. They don't care about sportsmanship. They don't even care about playing fair."

He glanced at Trout.

"They care about winning. By any means necessary."

Trout let out a low whistle. "Damn... they really built different, huh?"

Tyrone chuckled. "Oh, you have no idea. Last week, they went up against Romania's Tankery school."

"And?"

Tyrone let out a low laugh.

"Bro, it was a war crime match."

Trout blinked. "Wait, what?"

"L.M.A. didn't just beat Romania," Tyrone said, shaking his head. "They psychologically destroyed them."

➡ Ambush tactics straight out of WWII.
➡ Fake surrender maneuvers.
➡ Radio jamming and misinformation.
➡ Forcing opponents into bottlenecks and obliterating them.
➡ Using simulated POWs as bait.

By the end of the match, Romania's team was in complete disarray.

The UN Tankery Federation had to step in and review the match footage because it was so brutal.

Trout exhaled. "Damn. And this is normal for them?"

Tyrone nodded. "Yeah. Logan runs that school like a damn military dictatorship. And the crazy thing? It works."

Trout rubbed her chin. "You think they're gonna pull that shit in the upcoming Japan vs. International match?"

Tyrone smirked.

"Oh, 100%."

After parking the Grizzly Cruiser Tank, Tyrone stepped out and stretched his arms.

"Damn, that was a tight-ass fit," he muttered.

Trout chuckled. "Yeah, it ain't built for a dude your size."

Tyrone cracked his neck. "Still, smooth ride. But man... y'all are gonna have a tough time if L.M.A. gets serious in this upcoming tournament."

Trout exhaled. "Yeah, I figured. But that just means we gotta be smarter."

Tyrone smirked. "I respect that."

Trout grinned. "And I respect that you didn't flip the tank over."

Tyrone snorted.

"Man, give me some credit."

Location: St. Gloriana Girls College – School Ship Dock

Later that afternoon, Tyrone stepped onto the boarding ramp of St. Gloriana Girls College's school ship, the crisp sea breeze brushing against his face. He had expected tea. Elegance. Politeness.

What he had not expected was Logan Roy.

The moment Tyrone's boots hit the deck, his sharp brown eyes locked onto a familiar figure.

Standing at the top of the ramp was Logan, the notoriously dangerous Canadian Overall Commander of Léo Major Academy—a man feared across International Tankery.

Logan, as always, looked older than his age.

Dressed in Léo Major Academy's all-black formal wear, he stood with the presence of a seasoned commander rather than a high school student. His short slicked-back hair, lean but muscular build, and piercing hazel eyes made him stand out—especially with that distinct, cold aura that never seemed to leave him.

Even more noticeable was the fact that he was blind in his left eye—yet that never seemed to affect his skill.

Beside him, two figures stood like silent sentinels.

➡ Amara "The Reaper" Cross – Logan's Vice-Commander, one of the most feared tankers in L.M.A.. Her black tank top exposed her tattooed arms, each one a story of violence and victory. She had a quiet but deadly presence—a woman who had seen and done things most couldn't comprehend.

➡ L.M.A.D.T.D. Student – A towering Léo Major Academy Devil's Tank Division member, dressed in combat gear, with a Remington Model 870 shotgun casually slung over his shoulder. Because, of course, L.M.A. brought firearms even to a diplomatic visit.

Tyrone stopped mid-step, blinking. "...What in the actual fuck?"

Logan smirked, arms crossed. "Didn't expect to see me here, did you?"

Tyrone exhaled through his nose, already feeling a headache coming. "Bro, dafuq you doing here? You tryna start an international incident again?"

Amara chuckled, her cold blue eyes glinting with amusement. "Nah. Just visiting some old friends."

Tyrone narrowed his eyes. "You? Friends?"

Logan's smirk didn't waver. "You'd be surprised."

Tyrone had done his research.

He knew Logan was different from other commanders.

What he didn't know—until now—was that Logan had deep ties to St. Gloriana.

When Logan was just seven years old, his parents had sent him to Japan for a summer trip.

It was there, in Yokohama City, Kanagawa Prefecture, that he first fell in love with Sensha-Dō.

He had witnessed a match—the sheer power, precision, and elegance of tanks moving across the battlefield had ignited something inside him.

But more importantly...

He had met Darjeeling.

And Assam.

And Orange Pekoe.

And Rosehip.

Logan had been a small, sharp-eyed Canadian boy, watching from the sidelines as the future stars of St. Gloriana trained.

They had talked.

They had laughed.

And Logan had encouraged them to pursue Tankery, even when they doubted themselves.

Back then, he wasn't the cold, ruthless leader he was today.

Back then...

He was just a kid who loved tanks.

And it was that summer—that one moment—that set him on the path to becoming the commander he was today.

Tyrone crossed his arms, eyeing Logan with suspicion. "So, what? You just here for tea and nostalgia?"

Logan shrugged, his smirk never fading. "Something like that."

Tyrone looked between him, Amara, and the heavily armed L.M.A.D.T.D. student. "...Yeah, I call bullshit."

Logan chuckled. "Come on, Ty. You think I'm the type to cause problems everywhere I go?"

Tyrone deadpanned. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Before Logan could respond, a new voice cut through the air. "My, my, my... the prodigal Canadian returns."

Tyrone turned his head—

And there she was.

Darjeeling.

The Overall Commander of St. Gloriana Girls College stepped forward, her elegant gait as refined as ever. A cup of perfectly brewed tea rested in her hands, her signature knowing smile gracing her lips.

Behind her, Assam, Orange Pekoe, and Rosehip followed, their expressions a mix of curiosity, surprise, and fond amusement.

Logan's smirk softened—just barely.

"Darjeeling."

Darjeeling took a sip of her tea, tilting her head. "I must say, Logan... it has been quite some time since you last graced us with your presence."

Logan exhaled. "Yeah. It has."

Tyrone watched the exchange carefully.

This wasn't just a visit.

This was history.

Darjeeling sighed. "I see you still have a penchant for bringing... interesting company."

Her sharp blue eyes flicked to Amara and the L.M.A.D.T.D. enforcer.

Amara gave a lazy smirk, nodding in greeting. "Yo."

The L.M.A.D.T.D. student simply adjusted his shotgun.

Darjeeling raised an eyebrow. "I do hope you don't intend to use that. We are a civilized establishment, after all."

The enforcer didn't respond—he simply tilted his head slightly, an unspoken acknowledgment of her authority on this ship.

Logan sighed. "Relax. We're not here to start stuff."

Darjeeling chuckled. "How reassuring."

Tyrone, watching this unfold, shook his head. "Alright, man, seriously. You gonna tell me why you're really here?"

Logan exhaled, looking out over the deck. "...It's been a long time since I saw them."

Tyrone blinked. "Saw who?"

Logan didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he watched as Assam and Orange Pekoe approached, their expressions tinged with something deeper than just surprise.

Memories.

Recognition.

And, maybe—just maybe—a hint of nostalgia.

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "...Oh. Oh shit."

It hit him.

Logan wasn't just visiting St. Gloriana.

He was coming home.

At least, to a version of home he had long left behind.

Chapter Text

The sun hung high above the British-themed school ship, casting a golden hue over the pristine courtyard. The scent of Earl Grey lingered in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of oil and metal from the nearby tank garages.

Tyrone still wasn't sure how the hell this day had turned into a Canadian reunion.

He had come to St. Gloriana to observe their tactics, enjoy some tea, and maybe wreck someone in a Tankery practice match.

Not witness Logan Roy—Léo Major Academy's cold and infamous commander—having an emotional, nostalgia-filled homecoming.

Darjeeling stood in front of Logan, her expression unreadable.

Assam and Orange Pekoe flanked her sides, watching Logan with mild curiosity and amusement.

Rosehip, however, had no such composure. "AHHHH! IT'S LOGAN!"

The tiny, redheaded menace rushed forward at breakneck speed.

Tyrone took a single step back, preparing to dodge whatever chaos was about to unfold.

Logan, however?

He didn't move.

With perfectly controlled ease, Logan sidestepped Rosehip's incoming charge, causing the hyperactive tanker to stumble forward, nearly tripping over herself.

He caught her at the last second, gripping the back of her blazer like she was a misbehaving puppy.

Rosehip pouted immediately. "Ugh! You still dodge too fast!"

Logan smirked slightly. "And you still don't know when to slow down."

Darjeeling watched the brief, but oddly comfortable exchange between Logan and Rosehip with a small, knowing smile.

Tyrone crossed his arms. "Yo, Logan. You gonna explain why you know these girls like y'all been childhood friends or some shit?"

Logan exhaled, releasing Rosehip as she adjusted her uniform.

"It's not complicated," Logan muttered. "I met them a long time ago, back when I was a kid visiting Japan."

Assam nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I recall a small Canadian boy with a sharp tongue and a reckless smile. It seems time has... sharpened you."

Orange Pekoe sighed, shaking her head. "It really has been years. You look so much older, Logan."

Tyrone snickered. "I mean, the dude already looked like he was 30 when he was 15, so that's not surprising."

Logan shot Tyrone a flat stare but didn't refute the statement.

Darjeeling took another sip of tea before finally speaking.

"Tell me, Logan," she said smoothly, "are you here for sentimental reasons... or do you have a hidden agenda?"

Logan smirked. "Can't it be both?"

Darjeeling raised an eyebrow. "Hah. You always were good at keeping people guessing."

Amara, Logan's Vice-Commander, let out a low chuckle.

"You know what's funny?" she said, glancing at Darjeeling. "Most people who talk to Logan for the first time end up terrified of him."

Darjeeling set her teacup down on a silver platter held by a passing student.

"Terrified? No, no. Logan was never the terrifying type. Mysterious, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But terrifying?" She smiled faintly. "Never."

Logan's hazel eye flicked toward Darjeeling. "That so?"

Darjeeling met his gaze without hesitation.

"That is so."

Tyrone, still watching from the sidelines, felt like he was watching some kinda rom-com moment.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" Amara asked Logan, stretching her arms.

"Yeah," Tyrone added, rubbing his chin. "You just here for tea, or you tryna see if St. Gloriana wants to join the International side of Tankery?"

Logan's smirk widened ever so slightly.

"What if I told you it was a little bit of both?"

Tyrone scoffed. "Bro, you ain't slick."

Darjeeling sighed. "Logan, you always were a strategist, even as a child. But let me make one thing clear..."

She leaned in slightly, voice smooth and confident.

"St. Gloriana has its own traditions. And while I respect the international Tankery schools, I will not be so easily swayed."

Logan chuckled. "Oh, I never expected it to be easy."

Tyrone rolled his shoulders. "Welp. This is gonna be interesting."

While Logan's presence alone was enough to shift the atmosphere, Tyrone wasn't just standing around waiting for drama to unfold.

While Logan had his moment with Darjeeling and her command team, Tyrone decided to get a closer look at St. Gloriana's tank lineup.

Walking over to the school's garage, he spotted a group of students performing maintenance on their Centurion Mk I tanks, their meticulous British discipline evident in the way they worked.

Tyrone let out a low whistle. "Damn, y'all really do treat these things like fine china, huh?"

One of the mechanics perked up. "Of course! A tank must be treated with the same care and precision as a fine cup of tea!"

Tyrone blinked. "...I dunno whether to respect that or be deeply confused."

A refined voice answered behind him. "Why not both?"

Turning, Tyrone saw Assam approaching, her ever-composed expression in place.

She folded her hands behind her back. "You must be Tyrone Williams Sherman. I've heard quite a bit about you."

Tyrone grinned. "Oh yeah? Good things or bad?"

Assam smirked. "Both."

Tyrone chuckled. "Figures."

Before Assam could say more, a loud whistle pierced the air.

Tyrone and Assam both turned their heads—

Only to see Logan and Darjeeling standing face to face once again.

The tension was palpable.

Tyrone muttered under his breath.

"Oh, here we go."

Logan exhaled slowly. "I'll get straight to the point."

Darjeeling arched an eyebrow. "I would hope so."

Logan's voice was steady, cold, and calculated. "I know you don't want to side with either the Japanese Federation or the International Tankery Schools. You value neutrality. You value tradition."

Darjeeling nodded. "That is correct."

Logan smirked.

"Then let me give you an offer."

Darjeeling tilted her head slightly, intrigued. "Go on."

Logan stepped forward, hands in his pockets.

"St. Gloriana doesn't need to officially join the International Tankery schools. You can remain neutral. But you will need allies if things escalate."

Darjeeling narrowed her eyes. "And you wish for us to be your ally?"

Logan's smirk widened.

"I want you to be my wild card."

The British commander's lips curled into a small smile. "How very Canadian of you."

"Is that a yes?"

Darjeeling took a sip of tea before answering.

"I will consider it."

Logan chuckled. "That's all I needed to hear."

Tyrone, standing at the sidelines, shook his head.

"Man, I swear, you Canadians always got some sneaky-ass political strategy."

Logan grinned. "It's what we do."

Amara chuckled. "That and war crimes."

Tyrone smirked. "Yeah, I ain't ever forgetting that Romania match."

Darjeeling sighed, placing her teacup down once more.

"I suppose this visit was not as pointless as I originally thought."

Tyrone exhaled. "Yeah. That makes two of us."

Location: Sensha-Dō Training Grounds – Ibaraki Prefecture, Japan

The next day shown as the morning sun glowed bright over the training grounds, casting a warm hue over the countless rows of WWII-era tanks positioned across the battlefield.

To most Sensha-Dō participants, the sight of such a modern monster should have been intimidating—but for the assembled tank commanders of Saunders, St. Gloriana, Maple High School, and Pravda?

It was an opportunity.

➡ Kay leaned against her Sherman, her usual wide grin plastered across her face. "Y'all really think you can take on thirty tanks with just one?"
➡ Darjeeling stood with her arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "This shall be an enlightening demonstration."
➡ Trout adjusted her black beret, cracking her knuckles. "We'll see how well your Western technology holds up against superior maneuver tactics."
➡ Katyusha—who was still wearing Anthony's oversized BDU jacket like it was her property—snickered, arms crossed. "This will be fun."

The challenge was simple: annihilation-style battle.

One Abrams vs. 30+ WWII tanks.

Objective: Last tank standing wins.

Terrain: Open fields, scattered trees, hills, and urban training structures.

Time Limit: None.

Kay, Darjeeling, Trout, and Katyusha had assembled a coalition of tank crews eager to humble the two American commanders.

What they didn't know was that the Abrams was the standard training tank for L.P.U.A.'s middle schoolers and high school freshmen.

For Anthony and Tyrone?

This was child's play.

As the match was about to begin, Anthony and Tyrone climbed into the two-man Abrams, settling into their roles.

Anthony took the driver's seat.

Tyrone took the gunner's position.

"Alright," Tyrone muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Thirty against two... You nervous?"

Anthony snorted. "Bro, I fought worse odds in Call of Duty on Veteran difficulty."

Tyrone grinned. "Aight, let's put on a show."

They switched to the open radio channel, where they immediately heard the enemy teams chatting.

➡ "They're gonna get wrecked, huh?"
➡ "No way they can hold out against all of us!"
➡ "This'll be fun—oh, we should totally mess with them over the radio."

Kay, Darjeeling, Katyusha, and Trout—along with their crews—began a coordinated assault of psychological warfare.

Flirting, teasing, and taunting over the open channel.

Kay: "Hope you boys don't get distracted hearing all these lovely voices in your ear~"
Darjeeling: "A refined gentleman would be utterly undone by a lady's charm, wouldn't he?"
Katyusha: "Hah! They're probably already flustered."
Trout: "You're facing Maple High School, boys. We don't go down easy."

The radio exploded with Sensha-Dō girls whispering sweet nothings, playful taunts, and seductive teasing.

Anthony and Tyrone's reaction?

They immediately began screaming in multiple languages.

Tyrone: "¡HIJO DE PUTA! ¡DEJA DE HABLARME ASÍ!" (Spanish)
Anthony: "WO IST DER KÄSE?! ICH WERDE DICH FINDEN!" (German)
Tyrone: "КАКИЕ У ТЕБЯ ПРОБЛЕМЫ, КАТЮША?!" (Russian)
Anthony: "ANDAH KAU! SAYA AKAN MELEDAKKAN KAMU!" (Indonesian)
Tyrone: "PUTANGINA MO! AKALA MO HA?!" (Tagalog)
Anthony: "どこにいるのか分かってるぞ、ダーリン！お前の戦車はもうダメだ！" (Japanese)

The entire Sensha-Dō teams were thrown off so badly that some girls fumbled their radio equipment.

➡ "Huh?! What the hell did they just say?!"
➡ "They just started yelling in, like, six different languages—!"
➡ "W-Wait, did they just say my name in Russian?! HOW?!"
➡ "I think I heard Indonesian... Who the hell speaks that here?!"

Even Logan, Amara, and the L.M.A.D.T.D. student watching from the stands burst into laughter.

"HAHAHA! Yo, they didn't even hesitate!" Amara wheezed, clutching her sides.

"That was a brilliant counterattack," Logan chuckled, shaking his head. "Pure chaos. I love it."

But the Americans weren't done.

Tyrone and Anthony immediately flipped the psychological warfare back onto the girls.

Using the same open radio channel, they started throwing compliments to the girls—flirting in the most precision-targeted manner possible.

Anthony: "Oh, Darjeeling, your voice is like smooth jazz and a warm fireplace on a winter night. How do you expect me to focus?"

Darjeeling choked on her tea.

Tyrone: "Katyusha, I swear, your leadership makes me wanna simp. You sure you don't wanna defect?"

Katyusha froze, gripping the oversized BDU jacket tighter.

Anthony: "Kay, I ain't gonna lie, your energy makes me wanna take you out for some barbecue and beer after this match. Win or lose."

Kay turned bright red.

Tyrone: "Trout, girl, if I ever go to Canada, I'm gonna to show you around. You sound like you got that ride-or-die energy."

Trout flinched. "T-Tch! I-I don't—! Shut up!"

And they didn't stop there.

They began targeting every girl in the stands, in the observation tower, and even some of the crew members.

➡ "Yo, who's that cutie in the second row of the observation deck? Yeah, you, shorty. What's your name?"
➡ "I hear someone breathing heavy over the radio. Is it because you're nervous, or do you just like hearing my voice?"
➡ "Yo, I bet the girls at Kuromorimine would fold if we started complimenting them, huh?"
➡ "Ayo, St. Gloriana girls, you ever had a gentleman from America take you out for real tea?"

Miho (watching from the stands) turned red but covered her face. "T-This is... I wasn't ready for this!"

Maho crossed her arms. "Hmph. Flirting won't win them the match... right?"

Nonna sighed, shaking her head. "Katyusha, focus."

Katyusha was frozen, holding the BDU jacket like it was her lifeline.

Saunders Girls were squealing, laughing, or trying to hide their blushes.

St. Gloriana Girls were stunned—their refined British composure utterly shattered.

Maple High School Girls were flustered as hell.

Pravda Girls were turning red but trying to act cold.

The battle hadn't even started yet, and already, the psychological war was in full swing.

Logan, Amara, and the L.M.A.D.T.D. students were howling with laughter.

Logan shook his head, wiping a tear from his eye. "Those two are absolute menaces."

Amara grinned. "Man, they just wiped half the enemy team's morale before firing a single shot."

Anthony and Tyrone sat inside their Abrams, smirking.

Anthony: "Alright. You ready to actually start blowing them up?"

Tyrone: "Hell yeah. Let's show them what the L.P.U.A. freshman tank can do."

The match hadn't even started, and already...

The Sensha-Dō girls were mentally and emotionally wrecked.

The sound of engines roared to life as the Sensha-Dō teams moved into position. The open field was filled with the rumble of over thirty WWII-era tanks, lined up like an iron wall ready to crush anything in its path.

In the center of the field, however, stood one solitary titan—a custom L.P.U.A. two-man crew M1A1 Abrams MBT, looking completely out of place in the sea of vintage steel.

Inside the Abrams, Anthony and Tyrone prepared for battle. The radio chatter was buzzing with activity, but most of it was filled with frantic voices, whispered questions, and flustered responses.

The Americans continued their relentless flirtation over the open channel as they moved into position, expertly using their voices as a psychological weapon.

Anthony: "Hey, Katyusha, I hope you're ready to get blown away. Not by my tank—by my charm."

Katyusha, still wrapped up in Anthony's oversized BDU jacket, fumbled with her controls, her face turning redder than her tank's paint job. "D-Don't you dare—!!"

Tyrone: "Yo, Trout, I swear, your voice could make a guy cross an ocean just to see you."

Trout's grip on her tank's controls tightened. "Y-You're gonna be the first one I take out, Sherman!"

Darjeeling: "This is war, not a matchmaking service, you know."

Anthony: "Maybe it's both. After all, you're all fighting to win my heart, right?"

Darjeeling's tea cup almost slipped from her hands. "P-Preposterous! I would never..."

Kay: "Focus, girls! We need to— Wait, hold up—did you just say my voice sounds like 'sunshine wrapped in denim'?!"

Anthony: "You heard me. Sweet, strong, and with that 'get it done' energy."

Kay practically forgot she was in a tank. "...Are you for real?!"

Katyusha: "Stop flirting! Fight me seriously!"

Anthony laughed. "Oh, I am serious. You're just too cute to ignore."

On the radio, Alisa—known for her short temper and willingness to bend the rules—sounded particularly frustrated. "Listen up, you American bastards—are either of you single? Or got a friend who can actually handle someone with real fire?!"

Tyrone chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "Actually, I got a friend for you, Alisa. L.P.U.A.'s head mechanic. He's 7'2", built like a tank, muscular as hell, friendly as hell, and very single."

The entire radio channel went silent for a second.

Alisa's voice cracked. "...You're not lying, are you?"

Tyrone shrugged. "Nah. Name's Hiroshi Van Zandt. Half-Japanese, half-Dutch, all badass."

The Abrams lurched forward, its heavy treads carving through the grass as Anthony and Tyrone finally stopped toying around and began the assault.

"Target acquired," Tyrone said, locking in on Trout's Grizzly Cruiser tank. "Engaging."

The Abrams' main gun fired, the shockwave rattling the air as the shell slammed into Trout's tank, disabling it immediately.

"Ahhh! D-Dammit!" Trout yelled, her tank grinding to a halt.

"That's one," Anthony muttered, moving the Abrams into cover behind a low rise.

The girls were all heavily distracted by the Americans' continuous flirtation and charm tactics. Their tank formations were slipping, their accuracy plummeting, and their communication was full of flustered responses.

Katyusha: "Concentrate! F-Focus! Don't listen to their stupid voices!"

Kay: "...You think they'd actually take us out for barbecue and soda?"

Darjeeling: "This is unbecoming! We mustn't be distracted by compliments... no matter how charming."

Trout: "Can someone please stop them from talking?!"

The Abrams weaved through the field, its heavy armor shrugging off incoming fire as Anthony and Tyrone systematically eliminated tanks left and right.

A Sherman went up in smoke after a direct hit.

A Centurion tank ground to a halt, disabled.