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FIRST STRIKE- Bereiter- 4 Attack against 1 Defense- 2+ to Hit. Three hits- Extra damage from +2 Pen against 1 Armor
INI 11- Rheiner- The T-8 is definitely history. 3 Attack against 2 Defense- 4+ to Hit. 1 Hit from Cannon, 1 Damage against Fusilier Squad.
INI 10- Vix- 1 Crit, 1 Hit, against Fusilier Squad
INI 7- T-8s- Nonexistent
INI 6- Lutzow-Spelinger- Beating dead horses.
INI 4- Martins- 1 Hit, 1 Crit, against the remains of the Fusilier Squad.
The enemy had become unthreatening- boring, almost. They were no threat- one just pointed to them, and their weak little vehicle exploded. They had been outmatched both in tactics and in materiel- and yet…for many of you, this had been the first battle you could call victory, whether such was a scoff and a desire for another go, or a mildly refreshing change from regretful days past.
Lieutenant Splitterschwert, a man who had taken a foolhardy adventure once before in his life and survived his own mistakes, felt sympathy for one of the remaining enemy. A squad of lost soldiers, that he had been showering with machine gun fire- never purposefully accurate. He decided, with a rub of his helm- a steel cap that concealed a mistake- to let this bunch run, if they were wise enough to value their lives rather than continue to fight. He instructed his platoon to hold fire, and for a moment, there was quiet…
Before the squad erupted into bursts of smoke and fragmentation, dirt clods showering up and about- a massacre. Yet they were the enemy- but he had spared them. Apparently, the cuirassier had disagreed about showing mercy to the Twaryians.
Why, though?
Splitterschwert was distracted from a short stint into philosophy by a report from one of his tank commanders- he saw something on his observation scope. The m/28 might have been an old tank, but it had plenty of new features for the wary scout- and Walter looked where he had been told. There- almost where he could not see them, he clicked to the next magnification lens- and saw them. Two platoons of three T-15 type tanks, large and imposing, like hulking brutes at a Sosaldtian gangsters’ bar and brothel, whose only method of communication was beatings and beddings done with equal violence.
Yet, the third platoon was different. It was T-16s, which he had seen dispatched with unusual ease not long ago, but one was different. Its turret had been painted a red hue, and from behind the turret sprouted a pair of strange pipes…as he stared, he realized what they were, and they were confusing as they were intimidating.
Rockets. Big Ones.
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