“It’s impossible I tell you.” The master engineer tried to explain to the barely walking bag of bandages. “You can’t put a gun of that size on a frame that small. It’ll barely be able to move!”

“But- it could still get into position?” Walter asked, in between coughing fits that threatened to collapse his still fragile lungs (and everything else really). About the only thing that weren’t battered were the shards, being immaterial figments not of this world nor his mind.

Bastard. Smug Bastard. Fuck that bullshit. The same mentality from the others he could live with, being mostly the products of superior breed & status. But the shards, what made that in particularly annoying was that it has none of that, yet acts even more insufferable.

“Technically yes.” The engineer conceded the point, only to pull out another one immediately. “But it couldn’t fit more than half a dozen rounds for its main gun.”

“Doesn’t matter. It probably won’t need that many rounds- one way or the other.” Walter sighed. It’s true, either they destroy the enemy or they get blown to bits. It wouldn’t be smart to put those implications into words though, given that there would be actual people crewing these things… “At least they would be sniping at long distances.” He threw out that tidbit in an attempt to make the prospect less hopeless.

The engineer winced at that. Sniping is dishonorable, only done by bandits and the honorless ones inhabiting the Turiac lands… and to be resorting to such acts, when all of them are still trying to get back in the good graces of God and country… Well, that doesn’t reflect well on them in the eyes of He who is, does it?

Walter noted the pained expression, and nodded in acknowledgement.

“It’s highly unlikely that we would be remembered for that.” He added lamely. Or remembered at all for that matter. He was well aware of how history will be written, long before the shards butted in with irrelevant examples from whatever lands they came from.

After a long moment of awkward silence the engineer finally responded.

“It shall be done.” He simply said as he walked away, moving on to one of the many things that requires his attention. Out of his earshot Walter breathed a strained sigh of relief.

So the work shall continue. For all their failures in the previous skirmish it was still a good exchange of losses. All those tracks lost was dust in the wind so far as the scribes were concerned, the lives of their crews the least important of them all.

Needless to say, morale wasn’t high, not that they would normally be high in any case to begin with. After all, it’s the peasantry that bear the brunt of the suffering in death in the sport of the nobility known as war. A sport well known for the absolute ruthlessness displayed at the lessers.

Hopefully, that will change, one way or the other…

That stray thought from the shards spooked him, sometimes he wondered if the shards was actively plotting his doom.

Curious thing, at least, if it was anyone else who had to deal with it. Still, it has been doing a far better job than he by himself could have ever done.

That has to count for something right?

“Denied.” The sheer smugness of the words dripped out of the scribe’s mouth like stray bits of food from a spoiled child.

“Noted.” Walter replied flatly as he turned away, not giving the bureaucrat the satisfaction of his little power trip.

Once out of the hut, he breathed a sigh of resignation, safely out of earshot of that bag of lard bureaucrat. Power and authority are rare and precious things, thus any of either in the hands of anyone should be abused to its limits as quickly as possible… and unlike the actual nobility, the bureaucrats aren’t even constrained by the formalities of court manners. At least when their lords weren’t around, and their victims weren't important enough.

WIth a shrug he began walking back to his group’s machinery bay. It’s not the end of the world, and he really didn’t expect any better: Most of the other commanders, already loath to share even their scraps under normal circumstances, were even less willing to give out things meant for kriegmeister to be equipped for lesser vehicles such as tracks. They were, if anything, even more unwilling than usual after he shared with them (or rather, their engineers. For it’s usually beneath the real nobility’s dignity to be interested in those kinds of things) all the data, plans, and schematics of the new combat tracks.

Of course, it wasn’t his original intention to be so generous, as he knew how the whole thing would be received. As usual, it was the shards who prodded on, rambling something about streamlining R&D and that it’s not necessary to have nine separate projects wasting resources on redundancies. It’s been some weeks and he still has no idea what other worldly events the shards were referring to.

After all, why would a postal service be in the business of world ending weapons? Heck, how would a postal service become that powerful in the first place? Must have been a pretty trusting world for something like that to flourish… but that place couldn’t have been that great either, when a postal service needed to do that kind of research.

As he trudged back into his own maintenance bay his eyes once again gazed at the half completed shells of the newest batch of armed tracks, only a few armed with the more potent weapon systems, mainly those nicked from the wreckage of the enemy kriegmeisters. He knew they were lucky to even get those, mainly because Therese pulled a few strings… probably not out of any altruistic motives, nor any genuine appreciation of the implications of these new tracks.

Which brings up the question of what she is scheming? More cannon fodder between her and the enemy? A pawn for her political maneuverings? Something else entirely?

He shook his head to clear those unfruitful thoughts. Whatever’s going on behind the veil is nothing that he could meaningfully influence, so no point in worrying about them, despite the foreboding whispers of the shards that hints of unknown horrors.

Those horrors, whatever they are, could wait. The enemy here and now has to be faced first if they were ever to get to that point to worry about the other things.

------​

“I refuse.” The pilot said flatly.

Walter didn’t even bat an eye at the insubordination. “Then you can stay behind.” He shrugged, the motion still brought a flash of pain throughout his body. “We simply don’t have enough kriegmeisters on hand.”

“Well I- wait, you’re not going to fight over this?” The pilot was taken aback by the simple acceptance of his position. Walter shook his head, then winced at the motion as it brought a flash of pain to his head

“While I wished and hoped for otherwise, I was mostly expecting that to be your choice in the matter.” He explained. “You are, after all, the descendent of a long line of noble blood- and for me to ask for something like this is an insult. I apologize for that. Considered this matter dropped.”

With those words he got up and left the room, moving on with a slight hobble in an futile attempt to convince some other mecha-less pilot to take a dive in the peasant vehicle of the armored track.

In the now empty room the pilot thought to himself some more. These are desperate times, and his own kriegmeister is currently little more than a useless pile of metal for want of spare parts. Moreover, the younger Clarke wasn’t like most of his kind: he was more than willing to lead from the front, swallowing his pride when he went into one of those lowly deathtraps. Almost forfeited his life too.

But it was still a bridge too far for him to cross to agree to pilot one of those… contraptions. If nothing else it would be a waste of his talents and skills, both scarce commodities even in the best of times…

… but that does not mean he’ll simply sit back and watch that runt die a death of the dutiful. No, he couldn’t live with the shame of that either. There has to be a way… something that he can do.

Suddenly an idea came to him. He wasn’t special: There’s plenty like him, pilots with wrecked kriegmeisters waiting for spares that will probably never arrive. And like him their honor and dignity would similarly prevent them from debasing themselves by crawling into those peasant vehicles…

… then no one will find some more parts amiss from those husks wasting away… and he’ll have his mount, one way or another…

------​

Well, it could have been worse. The thoughts from the shards flashed through Walter’s mind as he stood on the side, reviewing the hodgepodge of armed tracks, most of which still with engineers and mechanics crawling all over them for their last minute checks. For all their efforts at uniformity (at the insistence of the shards, though a lot of the mechanics weren’t opposed to it, unlike some of the master engineers) the results were anything but. Most of the chassis were similar enough, still being based on the common supply tracks. The turrets on the other hand were more unique, being constrained by the needs of the pilfered weapons from the various mechas and other looted sources.

“They’re breeding like pests.” Therese remarked idly. Walter merely shrugged, long used to the barrage of insults by his peers and superiors hurled at the armed tracks. At least the repenting princess made the effort to grace her presence here, as they were about to march forth again into battle.

“Perhaps after this you might… see them in a more positive light.” Walter choked out the words without confidence. Not that he has no confidence in the competency of the tracks, as even the shards, still smarting from the previous debacle, had regained some of its prior arrogance. No, the actual hurdle being one of legitimacy. Recognition from those who matter.

It’s something that the shards just seem to not understand, for whatever reason. Oh there are times when he argued with them in his head, as he realized that they are actually the fragments of a soul, and moreover, he could actually converse with it…him? Didn’t really help with the understanding though. Thing thinks it could bend reality towards its will for… storybook reasons?

It’s a good thing that the shards are not in charge, though how long that’ll last is anyone’s guess.

“Impossible.” Therese said in the voice of someone who has already made up her mind. He couldn’t really blame her either. So far he had delivered much less than he (and the shards) had promised.

He sighed. “As the skies will it.” He muttered, taking comfort in the age old meaningless platitude. There’s no point in arguing in either word or deed.

With a start he realized that her and the rest of the nobility’s stubbornness is oddly like that of the shards: reality is just an inconvenience to be ignored in favor of a higher truth. Perhaps the other world that the shards came from isn’t that different, which doesn’t exactly bond well for this obsession of unproven weapons…

As the skies will it indeed.