“Convoy sighted.” The voice cracked over the intercom. “Tracked vehicles, dozens of them.”

“Acknowledged.” Walter replied wearily, staring at the dots on the display, the slow moving nature of the enemy forces even on the radar made it clear long before that they are of primitive tracked vehicles rather than the much faster and glamorous agravs that most warriors prefer for their retinue.

It’s one thing for them to be using such lowly equipment, for reasons already endlessly hammered in previously, it’s quite another to see the opponents doing so: So far all any of them have observed of the enemy were kriegmeister and agravs, as befitting of a proper army. Outside of the battlefield or not.

… and they’re definitely outside the field of battle, a place where only the disreputable, such as bandits and assassins, commit their acts of transgression. Yet here they are, sinners seeking repentance, yet about to commit an act of dishonor.

It matters not that the opponent was also doing something disreputable, in this case taking aid from the Turiacs, the enemies of all civilized states. That much is obvious. While for normal people only the most desperate among them, such as the Clarke estate, would resort to even using peasant level technologies such as tracks to sully the noble task of war, the anti-civilized (and supposedly barely humans) of the Turiacs have no such inhibitions.

“Orders?” The question hung in the air. Walter swallowed before replying.

“Fire when ready.” He uttered the order with a sigh. They know what they’re doing, if anything even better than him. Real combat was nothing like the classroom lectures nor the glorified sports of mock battles.

Soon after the crack of gunfire could be heard, first through the comms, then the faint booms as the few artillery sized guns made their presence known through generous application of explosive energy. Quickly followed were the dots on the display winking out of existence, each such case representing the fiery end of a vehicle probably costing the combined income of an average peasant family and the death of a crew representing a number of shattered families. Though only the shards seemed to care for the last bit… It seemed that after being banged around in the head after that last battle he became even more vocal of the plight of the common peasant.

Walter had little time to muse on that matter as soon as the din of battle approached closer. With a start he realized that the rear force, in which his command vehicle being part of, had come under attack.

As the realization sets in the first of the tracks began to explode, it was the large gunned ones, their heavy barrels making it more difficult to turn around in a timely manner.

As he popped open the hatch an eerily familiar scene begins to play out again as a group of enemy kriegmeisters merrily slaughtering their way through the tracks. Once again their unnatural grace and speed, the gift of unimaginably advanced technologies from before the End of Days making a mockery of the labor and hardships of the lessers.

He wondered helplessly as the fated events unfold in front of his eyes, wondering why, why were the shards so insistent on this mad calling to challenge the ancient established order as ordained by the god themselves? The shards screamed back at the question with a will and force that took him off guard even in the midst of combat and imminent death.

Fuck them gods, and all their hypcritical, self serving lackeyes. The thought barrel forth with a fury of a thousand years of hatred. While the shards had always harbored a disdain towards the upper crust, a sentiment that Walter privately shared, this was something else.

Do they, it have no idea that the body-, person that it's inhabiting is also nominally part of the “lackeyes”? Or such is the hate that it crossed into self loathing?

With a start he realized that the din of battle had disappeared, not because his mind had blocked them, but that the fighting in the immediate vicinity had concluded… and the massive gunbarrel of the enemy kriegmeister staring at him in the face told him all he needed to know who won that particular fight.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” They shouted into the barrel, the shards and him agreeing for once. “Another death won’t be the end of me, I seen what’s on the other side!” Though Walter hasn't exactly seen said other side, he trusts that the shards knew better for once. Besides, it’s not as if there’s another acceptable option. Begging for mercy like a coward is simply not done.

Of course there was no response, whoever’s piloting the kriegmeister probably taking a sadistic pleasure in his pointless last act of defiance. Noble last stands are a privilege of the nobility, of those in kriegmeister. Certainly not some rambling loser in a struggle bus.

It was at that precise moment when, once again, a barrage of rounds slammed into the enemy mecha, forcing it to shuffle back a few steps. As Walter looked up in shock, as the type of rounds was different from the kriegmeister of a certain someone, being far too scattered and almost taking out the vehicle he’s in. Instead, he saw instead a different mecha, some hastily strung together last minute kitbash.

“Sir, are you well?” Even through the comms the hint of concern was there. Walter recognized the voice as from that pilot he had a talk with some time ago. Apparently he managed to patch up his kriegmeister at some point after that little talk.

“Still drawing air.” he muttered though the mic, while nodding in acknowledgment before continuing. "Now we need to-"

Before he could even finish the sentence before a flurry of rockets simply deleted the kitbashed mecha in a cloud of smoke and fire. He snapped his head at the direction of the fire, and immediately cursed himself as a bundle of pain shot through his spine to his temple. The only upside was that it managed to shut the shards up for a brief bit.

What he saw was utterly unsurprising, but chilling all the same: another group of enemy kriegmeisters, guns ready to put in the finishing blow. Out of the peripherals of his eyes he saw the smoldering husk of the luckless kriegmeister who had just given him a respite from imminent death.

With a sigh he simply shrugged, not even having the mental strength to quip a response. This being real life, it would be folly to expect a storybook ending. Then he remembered that while his death here might have some abstract meaning to himself, the crew of his command track deserved better.

“Wait.” He said while holding up a hand. It might well be a pointless gesture, but his personal sense of morality, as warped as it is, dictates that he is obligated to make such a gesture regardless.

This time the enemy paid no attention to his lack of surprise, but as the lead one was in the process of aiming his weapon the forest surrounding them exploded into violence as the surprisingly accurate fire came pouring from all sides. With a start Walter realized that the background rumbling he had tuned out in the chaos of his near death experiences had been the main ambushing force making their way back.

Caught by the intensity of the ambush, the enemy mechas soon began to withdraw, pouring fire haphazardly at shadows in the trees. As the withering fire continued one by one the kriegmeister began to fall, the volume of fire overwhelming the advance armor and protection of a bygone era.

As the last of the mechas crashed into the mud with a heavy thud an eerie silence descended on the broken terrain, as if the living could not believe what had transpired. Then the rumbling began as one by one, the tracks moved out of their ambush position, their crew popping their heads out of the hatches, to see with their own eyes the impossible task they had just accomplished.

Before they could react in any form however, the telltale sound of a kriegmeister’s footstep snapped them into instincts. Hatches slammed shut, and gears were put in reverse as they scurried back much faster than they came forward.

Walter was too drained to even flinch as he turned his head towards the sound, being far too done with the flips of fates in the span of a handful of minutes. His facial expression remained unchanged as he saw the familiar sight of Therese’s kriegmeister.

Without even a greeting she made her way to the downed enemy kriegmeisters, and quickly put a round through the cockpit of each and every one of them.

“What are you doing?!” Walter shouted into the comms, spurred on by the shards more than anything else. Something about the laws of war in the different world or some such nonsense.

“Giving them a dignified closure.” Therese replied back irritantly, as if annoyed that her actions would even be questioned, much less owned an explanation.

“What?” Walter spat out, as the shards put thoughts into words faster than etiquette could police them.

“Do I really need to explain this?” Therese snapped back, suddenly pointing her gun directly at him. Walter shook his head, having wrestled control of his mind and body back just in time.

He knew, though he and the shards didn’t really want to admit it. The whole operation here is a transgression of the code of war in this world, and the specter of mere tracks taking down kriegmeisters a transgression of the natural order of the cosmos. It doesn’t matter that they have proof that their enemy the Seoguks are in league with the despised and shunned Turiacs. By the social norms the word of a noble will always trump the word of a peasant, even if the latter has raw camera footage.

Feelings don’t care for facts, and the words of the worthy can overwrite reality itself.

The incoherent rage of the shards continued well into the night, causing the most debilitating of headaches for Walter on the entire ride back to the camp and some more…