It's not often that I find myself visiting trading posts and similar. Whenever I show myself in places that other machines frequent, I tend to attract certain kinds of people. These kinds of people can be roughly divided into overconfident bounty hunters, part-spotters that are a bit too greedy for their own good, misguided lonely low tiers looking for a patron, and starved teams waiting nearby to ambush and gut whoever they think they could take on. Actually, I'm pretty sure that anyone visiting such places attracts these people, but the fact that I'm travelling alone appears to make me an even more promising target. None of these people are ones I need bothering me. But occasionally, it's simply less of a hassle to just go and buy supplies then deal with whoever's attention I caught, instead of having to pry them out of a wreck.

The trading post I'm currently entering is at the edge of a clan's territory. A long abandoned stone quarry serves as a backdrop and to shield it against attackers from most sides. It is a relatively new establishment - a winter or two ago I had to travel much farther for this kind of convenience. It appears the clan that the post belongs to has been expanding their borders; I take note of this because clan borders are something I try to be mindful of. 

Most guards get extremely anxious when they notice an MBT trespassing. Such news always quickly reaches their respective officer, typically someone who has something to prove. Before you know it, they have mobilized a significant chunk of their clan's arsenal with the express goal of turning you into the most impressive entry of their service record yet.

The way this usually ends is as tragic as it is predictable. They ruin my day by trying everything in their might to kill me. I ruin their career by not dying and on top of it causing them an amount of losses that will be impossible to justify to their superiors. No one wins in this scenario.

So, I try to avoid this kind of drama whenever I can. Luckily, I haven't been involved in any such quarrels with this clan. Otherwise, I'd suspect the guards would have kicked me right out. Or at least... tried to. They look like tough tanks, which they have to be if the purpose of this trading post is to sell goods and not offer free loot. They do, nevertheless, give me extremely wary looks as I drive past them leisurely. As thick as their armor might be, if their minds aren't even thicker they know if I was here to raid their trading post, they wouldn't be able to stop me.

There's also a few other visitors here currently. A little group of tanks is standing near the buildings. Two of them seem to be arguing about something, so they're too distracted to notice me as I drive by. The rest of the group stares unabashedly. I ignore them and make my way to one of the buildings. It's more of a tent really, and the supplies it offers are stacked in sloppy piles or thrown into crates in a manner reminiscent of grab bags.

I start rummaging through one of the crates. It appears to be containing items similar and related to motor oil, which leads me to believe that I might find what I need in there. The shopkeeper doesn't pay any attention to me as I do. He's a heavy tank of the IS-series type, according to what I can see of his hull. The turret is mostly covered by the newspaper he's currently preoccupied with reading while slurping a big can of fuel.

Finally, I manage to fish out a bottle of oil from the crate. Just to be on the safe side, however, I continue my search until I find a second one. I grab them both and hold them up, addressing the shopkeeper.

"How much is this?"

In the moment it takes him to realize I'm talking to him, I get a glimpse of the headline of the newspaper he's reading. It poses a dramatic question: 'IS THE BLACK DEATH BACK?' Then, he very abruptly lowers the newspaper to look at me.

"It's twenty-" he starts to say, but now seems to notice what type of tank he's looking at. Audibly choking on his fuel for a moment, he finishes the sentence in a much tenser voice than he started with: "-thousand per bottle..."

I nod, taking a mental note that I remember oil being a lot cheaper the last time I bought some, and reach to my side. Unwrapping some tarp there uncovers a sprocket wheel that I looted some time ago. I unfasten it from my frame and place it in front of the shopkeeper, who doesn't look thrilled by this in the slightest. Before he can complain, I have a calmly spoken instruction for him.

"I'll also take the news, please."

While glaring at me, he reaches behind himself and proceeds to hand me a copy of the same newspaper he's been reading. I thank him and stow away my purchases in my hull, then simply leave.

***

My tracks then carry me to a place that I consider somewhat of a little sanctuary for myself. Every now and then, I like to come here to just spend some time in peace and quiet. It's further inside the forest than most tanks care to go, especially because no road leads here. 

Of the many places I have visited, and in particular of the ones within a fuel tank's reach of where I usually travel around, this is definitely my favorite. It is... idyllic. The ground is soft with layers upon layers of leaves and needles. Tall bushes and undergrowth form a sort of barrier around a slightly more open space that is mostly dominated by a creek. The ground here forms large, rocky steps, creating countless small waterfalls and ponds below them.

I'm currently sitting near the edge of one of those steps and performing some maintenance tasks on myself. Beside me, the creek dabbles past and off the ledge. The early afternoon sun's rays dance with their shadows. I feel like I have all the time in the world to finish my tasks. After checking every single screw on my frame and every single bolt on my tracks, I take stock of my ammunition and all the other items I'm currently carrying with me. I test all my sights and electrical components, all the wires and the battery as well. Lastly, it's time for the oil change.

Naturally, I could just pour the old used oil into the creek. Someone else might have done it without a second thought. But I think it would deface the scenery. Thus, I grab some buckets and put the oil into them instead. I'll find some other place to dump it, later.

Since an oil change isn't exactly a mentally challenging task, I keep myself entertained through it by grabbing the newspaper I bought and giving it a read.

It contains all sorts of news stories about the surrounding area. Which clan fought whom lately and how it went for them, for the most part. That's what the clans care about the most, after all. One page is dedicated to recent airplane sightings, with the obligatory warnings and standard reminders of how to act when encountering an unaffiliated plane. A big section of multiple pages is plastered with ads of all kinds. People selling their products, their spare parts, (yet) attached body parts, strange "cursed" artifacts they found, strange "blessed" artifacts they found, their services as mercenaries, their collection of model ships, their collection of trophies from defeated enemies, their dead teammates, their alive teammates, and anything else one could imagine could be turned into currency. Another few pages right after those are essentially wanted posters. Those are also the typical kind: Someone wants to get revenge on their rival but it should look like an accident, or get rid of someone who called them a wimp but is unfortunately actually stronger than them, and so on.

One of those however makes me stop skimming and look at it more closely for a moment - the first thing that catches my eye is the comparatively low head-money it offers. It's a fraction of the others' offers, but has the strange addendum of "+MY ETERNAL GRATITUE" (spelled exactly like that). Reading the accompanying description makes me chuckle. The client emphasizes feverishly that they do not wish for the runaway tank to be killed... just returned to them safely because he's their platoon mate and has gone missing again (...?) and they're very worried about him. They go on to explain what he looks like, but seemingly were unable to afford as many letters as they hoped they would because the needlessly detailed description is cut off halfway through and mid-sentence. 

I linger on that ad for a bit longer, genuinely wishing this fellow that they'll find their platoon mate soon... and in one piece. Then, I move on.

The next section is the lead article which the headline on the cover belongs to. They could have easily put it in the beginning of the newspaper, but I guess it's one way to get people to at least glance at the other sections as well as they browse through.

After reading through the entirety of the article, I have concluded a few things. It is written in the same sensational style that lead articles tend to be, putting a lot of effort in inspiring fear - or at least, intrigue - in its readers. It is about a tank. This tank is seemingly terrorizing the locals since recently. It has been doing this before in the past, but mysteriously disappeared for a while. Now it's back, or at least witnesses of its rampages swear it's the same tank. The author of the article has nicknamed it the "Black Death", though it's not entirely clear from the information given if anyone else is actually calling it that. In any case, it kind of makes me glad that the nickname given to me by the populace is very down-to-earth in comparison.

In general, the ratio of actual information versus scaremongering in the text leans heavily towards the latter. There are a handful of photos printed on the pages, but they are all of alleged victims. Grainy, blurry pictures of mangled wrecks. No one has managed to catch the delinquent on camera yet, it seems. Three sketches are attached too, artistic renditions based on reports. Despite being rather vague, they do share some features. The descriptions next to them suggest that the locals might be dealing with an MBT of sorts. But I know that people are quick to call any tank that is scary and strong an MBT unless proven otherwise... so I take this with a grain of salt.

The article puts emphasis on the fact that the attacks have been happening only at night, a pattern that is consistent with the previous appearance of the unknown tank. It warns the readers that the attacker is "fast, strikes without warning, gone as quickly as it came, leaving the dead without taking any part of them", and strongly suggests to avoid travelling or leaving campfires lit during the night until the threat is resolved.

That makes me wonder: How do they envision the threat to be dealt with? The article doesn't offer any ideas. Surely it won't resolve itself.

But then again, apparently that's exactly what happened the last time this tank showed up...

...so who knows.

By now, I'm long done with the oil change. I was done even before I finished reading the article. I find myself looking at the sketches for a bit longer before I close the newspaper and stow it away. As I idly watch the creek flow by and the tree branches sway, as the sun takes its course and the shadows grow longer, I slowly drift off into sleep. Yet, I remain alert... if only partly. Without really consciously processing the view any longer, I still perceive it. But the visions of my dreams join it, creating a strange blend of reality and imagination.

Something about the sketches I saw keeps my thoughts busy even as I sleep. The three of them seem to refuse to merge into one. No matter how hard my imagination tries to combine them into a single coherent form, it's like they are escaping my mind's grasp. Loose lines on paper turn into vaguely defined shapes between the trees. I know they're not really there, but on some level my subconscious reacts as if there was a real threat looming in the darkness ahead. It tries to acquire a target, and naturally fails. 

The three spectres continue to elude my full comprehension. At the same time, I'm starting to understand one thing clearly: The article was wrong. There's not a singular hostile tank afflicting this place. There's three of them. It was three the last time they showed up, too. 

I can't explain how I know this with such certainty. I don't think of myself as gifted with divination or anything of the supernatural sort; I can only assume that it must be a previously lost memory or temporarily forgotten knowledge that I've acquired somehow.

An oppressive feeling grows somewhere in my core. The hazy dream I'm having has long crossed over into the territory of a nightmare. The three shadows begin to creep closer. Have I been in such a situation before? I can't remember. No matter how deeply I search my memory, the stupor of sleep denies me answers. 

Something is wrong. 

But I can't remember.

I would back up if I was able to move at all in this state. Or maybe... My turret still seems to be capable of turning. My cannon lines up with one of the spectres... And it disappears. My turret swerves further, where I can make out the rightmost shadow. It dissipates as well, like the quickly fading after-image of a bright light. 

The last shadow, right in front of me... It refuses to go away. It seems to expand itself in an appallingly bloating manner. Growing taller and taller before me, yet never crossing the treeline. 

I frantically attempt to load a shell, but it feels like my loading mechanism is fumbling for thin air where my shells should be. Somehow, the shell ends up in my breech anyway. 

Everything about this encounter feels too real to be just part of my dream. Yet, I'm fully aware of being asleep at this point, but can't seem to exit the state. My sensors break through the confusing trance, unmistakably warning me of a threat that is very much there and very much real. 

I know! I see him! 

My own shot rips me from my sleep in the most startling and disturbing way. 

The flood of information that makes up my surroundings and my own status wash over me like a crashing wave. 

All my forward-facing optics and optical devices instantly zero in on what I had just fired my main cannon at. Despite the nightly lack of light, I can clearly make out a machine. Standing right where the last shadow had disappeared the moment I had fired. 

The tank is small. Extremely short. There would have been no other way for it to survive my shot - my shell simply passed over its roof. Leaving the tank in question very obviously shell-shocked, at least to some degree. 

Technically, this little light tank had signed a figurative waiver that its life was forfeit the moment it got this close to me in my special sanctuary without any invitation whatsoever. Its survival of the initial shot was pure luck. 

But as I grimly go about reloading my cannon to finish what I started, I notice something vital. 

This is the same light tank that has been following me around for two days now. I really don't know how he found me this time. But it's noteworthy that he finally seems to have managed to escape the dirt pit I had left him to die in. 

"You again..." I rumble slowly and with hopefully very obvious discontent. 

The light tank doesn't move except nodding his cannon cautiously.

I stare him down for a while, but don't finish putting the shell into my breech... yet.

"You shouldn't be here," I tell him.

"But I need-"

"Well I'm not going to give it to you."

He starts wobbling on his tracks.

"Why not?" he insists.

My initial response is just a weary glare, which apparently prompts him to start ranting.

"Why can't you just-... It's not like, a secret launch code for nukes or something! What am I gonna do with it?!"

"Why don't you tell me that?" I reply with narrowed optics.

He stays silent. Gotcha.

...or so I thought.

"It's....it's not for me," he admits. 

Frankly, I have no idea what to make of that statement. Seems like he really, actually wants my radio frequency. But I was at least partly right in assuming someone sent him to ask for it.

"For whom is it then?" I ask as he doesn't go on.

"For Talon."

His tone makes it sound like he expects me to immediately understand what all this is about now. But I don't. I've never heard that name before.

"I don't know who that is," I reply soberly.

"...What? He said you know him," the light tank frowns.

"I don't."

"But... he knows you."

"...Hardly anyone here doesn't."

"Come on!!"

I let out an exhausted sigh. He's being so impossibly persistent about this. What on Earth did this Talon guy promise him as a reward that he hasn't given up already?

Asking him to leave again seems pointless. Making him leave didn't work either the last time I tried.

For a moment, I reach for a shell again. But then, I turn my cannon away. My turret returns to its neutral position, facing forward. The light tank, now facing my full side, watches skeptically.

"Come closer," I say.

He hesitates at first, but then seems to sense a possibly successful mission and moves towards me. Halting a few meters away, he looks at me expectantly.

"Closer."

Interestingly, he complies with that as well. He rolls in front of me and looks up.

I lower my cannon a little, not aiming at him directly but nevertheless making him aware that I'm able to depress it far enough that I could still very easily shoot him if I wanted to.

"What does he need my frequency for?" I ask, in a decidedly patient tone.

The light tank seems happy to answer.

"He wants to talk to you."

"He just wants to talk?"

"Yeah-"

He quickly realizes that I didn't like his replies as I suddenly kick my engine into gear, bump into him, and push him back.

"H-Hey!! Don't-!" he yelps, but instead of doing the smart thing and backing up as fast as he can, he tries to push back. With absolutely no success.

"I don't even have a frequency," I grumble.

The light tank finally seems to understand that he's at a clear disadvantage here. At some point in his presumably short life, he may have learned the lesson that getting pushed by something that is stronger and bigger than you can very quickly lead to serious or even fatal injury. But another important lesson doesn't seem to be as ingrained as it should be yet: Always look behind you before reversing. Especially if you're going to reverse so abruptly and fiercely that it looks more like you're leaping than driving. There might be a ledge behind you. And you might simply fall off.

His startled scream is terminated by a big splash.

I shake my turret and turn around.

So far, so good... But now I don't feel safe here anymore, either. It's in the middle of the night, and I'd rather be sleeping. My instincts, however, tell me to relocate and I set myself into motion.

It's not that I get far before I hear the light tank's voice pipe up behind me again.

"Just make one!!" he whines from somewhere below the ledge.

I don't even slow down, but definitely slump a little.

Either way. I need to leave. Even if I'm not sure where to go next. But I figure that if I'm going to make a trip, I might as well make it worthwhile. And even though going through my mental, prioritized list of tasks, acquiring fuel isn't exactly top priority right now, there's no evident harm in preponing it. I know how I'll go about it, at the very least.

It's not a long drive until I return to one of the roads that lead through this forest. Being well-trodden, it's obvious that it sees frequent use. Following it is far from taxing so I choose a leisurely pace, and the moonlight shining through the gap in the canopy even makes it unnecessary to use headlights.

This feels like it could be a peaceful drive... but it stops being that as the light tank eventually catches up to me. He seems upset, if him opening fire on me is any indicator. Well, I'm not exactly happy to see him again this soon, either.

I tolerate exactly two shells plinking off my rear plates before I halt. The shots stop abruptly as I turn my turret around and point my cannon at the little nuisance, who is now halting in the middle of the road too.

"What do you think you're doing...?" I ask sternly.

"Shooting you."

The reply is so deadpan that its stoicism catches me off-guard for a split-second longer than I'd want to admit.

"I'd prefer if you didn't do that," is the sanest response I can offer to this kind of statement.

It doesn't at all provoke any deference to my wish; instead, it provokes another shot. The shell deflects off my turret cheek this time.

"Stop," I insist.

"I will if you give me a frequency," he says gravely. His words are followed up by another completely harmless shot.

The fact that he seems to consider himself the one with the leverage in this situation boggles my mind. It just feels like something... very fundamental is wrong with this tank. Maybe we would be better off establishing the basics first.

"Do they not teach you anymore at the factory that your cannon is for killing?" I ask with a slight frown.

Even though I expect being shot again, he holds his fire this time.

"I would kill you if I could!" the light tank claims boldly.

"...why?"

"Because I hate you."

Once again, his words are spoken as if he was simply stating an universal truth. But I find it so hard to believe that someone like him could have been dwelling in this world for long enough to understand what they mean. Their gravity must be lost somewhere in translation. It can't be a genuine feeling.

I'm at a loss for an answer, and in the resulting pause, he shoots me again.

This conversation is quickly making me even more tired than I already was. I end up turning my turret back around to the front and set myself into motion again.

Of course he scurries right after me. But after receiving yet another shell, I speak up more harshly.

"If you damage any of my belongings, we're going to have a problem, alright?"

Apparently, that finally gets the message through. Despite him following me still, there's no more shooting for the time being.

For a while, we drive on in silence. The road as well as the forest around us just seem to go on infinitely, but I know that in two hours or so, I'll reach the forest's edge. My thoughts, on the other hand, seem to be going in circles. No matter what, they end up returning to the same question. Eventually, I give in and just ask it out loud.

"Why do you hate me?"

My tone is neither accusatory nor patronizing. It's not my intention to set up some sort of verbal trap for him or lecture him or anything. I just want to find out what makes him say such things.

"You should know," he says coolly.

I hum pensively. Hard to tell whether this explains anything or just brings up more questions.

"Are there other things you hate?" I therefore ask on.

He doesn't reply as quickly as before. I glance back over my fender and notice him picking up some speed to catch up to my side. He looks up at me. Whatever he's about to say, it must matter to him. So, I listen attentively.

"I hate weaklings," he relates after seemingly gathering his thoughts. I nod, and he goes on. "And the forests. Cheap fuel,..." He trails off for a bit, but appears to recall the rest soon enough. "...and cheap parts. Loneliness as well."

After waiting for a bit to see if he's done, I nod again.

"That's a lot of things," I point out calmly. 

He doesn't try to refute it. In fact, he doesn't say anything else for the rest of the drive.

We eventually reach the edge of the forest. By now, the night is turning into dawn. The sun isn't quite rising yet, but as I pass the last dense line of trees, I can see a brightening line on the horizon - despite all the haze drifting above the fields.

Driving on undeterred, it takes me a moment to realize the light tank is no longer driving next to me. I coast to a stop and turn around.

He's stayed behind at that last treeline, seemingly hesitant to go on. At my inquiring gaze, he briefly looks behind him, before rising to speak.

"The day... I hate the day the most," he shouts.

I couldn't really explain why if someone would ask me, and maybe it's drastically unwise - but I find myself messing with the tuning of my radio.

"Tell him," I reply in the meanwhile, "that he can reach me at 96.0."

The light tank looks at me with a dumbfounded expression. I just nod and turn to leave.