Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“...still?”

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“...up! Sleepy-...”

Tap. Tap. Ta-

“Stop it!!”

My voicebox somehow springs to life before the rest of my systems follow it. If it had been the other way around, maybe the words would have been different ones. But they express the sentiment well enough. My audio sensors pick up a yelp, followed by some hasty movement.

“Ah! Sorry to wake-”

With some effort, I open my viewports and try to understand where I am, but the first impression I get is dazzling sunlight shining right into them. The second impression is a tank standing next to me, arms raised in startled surprise as if they had touched something corrosive just now. Their teal and beige coat of camo paint catches my attention, but doesn't cause any reflexive feelings of hostility on my end... so I just silently sit and try to process why I seem to have been unconscious, with no memory of how I ended up that way.

“Huh. Really slept this whole time,” a familiar voice somewhere behind me remarks.

“I'm sorry for waking you up, dear!” the tank beside me chortles, and I finally manage to shake off my groggy disorientation enough to recognize her as Morris. That also leaves no doubt who the other voice belongs to.

“Probably needed it, then,” Artax replies in a shrugging tone.

Morris looks up at me curiously, her arms retreating into her frame.

“I guess it's really true what they say about MBTs being able to perfectly hide when they're unwell!” she says, clearly talking to Artax, but I feel the befuddled need to voice my opinion of this strange claim anyway:

“...What?”

Instead of elaborating, Morris just tilts her turret, still gazing at me as if she was admiring a work of art. Maybe she wants to tell me something, but she definitely isn't doing it for whatever reason. I decide I have to help her along a bit.

“What did I miss...?” I ask, still in a befuddled tone. A quick glimpse behind me also makes it clear what Artax is doing at the moment - he is simply lounging inside his tent and casually browsing through a newspaper.

“Not much, I'd say!” Morris cheerfully fills me in, “We just were about to start putting up the tents when we noticed you must have nodded off. But I was able to make you let go of the strings, luckily!”

“And then you just napped away for the last couple hours,” Artax finishes the report absent-mindedly.

Well, that explains the afternoon sun. And the blackout... At least I seem to have woken up in the exact same spot where I was when the hole in my recollection of this day began. We're still in the middle of Tow, and now with evening approaching, it seems the town is getting even more lively. Besides the usual noise, there's echoes of music in the distance. The celebration must be about to start...

“I see,” I mumble. I look to Artax again and ask, “Anything interesting on the news?”

He turns the page, shrugs, and chuckles, “No clue. I can't read, but I like to look at the pictures.”

Morris leaves my side to pick up a large bag from her tent, and that makes me ask the next question that comes to my mind. “Are we leaving soon?”

Without stopping fastening the bag to her frame, Morris replies, “Not today, Ace told us. The hunters wanna stay until the morning at least! Just in case the Black Death shows up here tonight.”

“...Why would he?” I ask, but this time my confusion doesn't stem from just waking up.

“Well, uh, there's so many people here, they thought it would be easy for him to sneak in along with all the strangers and cause trouble.”

“Doesn't seem like something he would do, to me,” I mumble. It would be a complete contradiction to his usual overly subtle approach, in my opinion. Blending in with the crowds might work for the average tank, not so much for the average MBT...

Morris finishes her task and shrugs. The fact that she's obviously getting ready to go somewhere, even if not away with the hunters, leaves my question effectively still unanswered. Perhaps she's planning on strolling around the town? Going to the celebration early? I look at her more intently, but before I can repeat my question, my gaze seems to remind her of something.

“Oh, by the way!” she says, “you had a visitor while you were asleep.”

Even if I wasn't being stalked by an MBT hellbent on killing me, that wouldn't be news I would just take so lightly. I pretend not to be alarmed as I reply with a question, even though in spirit, I am grabbing Morris and shaking her frantically.

“A visitor? ...what did they need from me?”

Neither Artax nor Morris notice the shift of my tone and posture towards a tense one - the former doesn't look up from his newspaper for a second, and the latter's casual tone doesn't change at all as she goes on.

“Said he's a friend of yours!” she informs me cheerfully, though she seems more pensive as she goes on, “A strange little fellow that was, talked a bit weird. Right, Artie?” She looks at her companion, “Did you catch what he wanted?”

“Probably just wanted to say hi?” Artax replies.

None of that sounds reassuring to me. And I feel like the description suggests it could have been a certain light tank once again-

Artax interrupts my train of thought by perking up suddenly and gesturing at the page he's looking at.

“Wow! Speak of the devil, huh? He looked just like the bloke in this article.”

I freeze as if struck by lightning. The next thing I know is that I am now the one grasping the newspaper, to the tune of Artax's half-hearted protest.

The picture on this page is a photo of two tanks. As the poorly lit photograph burns itself into my optic sensors, the flow of time around me stops mattering. I stare at the mismatched duo being depicted, straining my optics as if trying to see through an optical illusion. One of them small, a light tank - though a fairly common model in other regions, I've only seen one of them around here frequently, lately. The other tank is massive in comparison, taking up the entire frame and then some - the framing together with the randomly patterned camo paint turning its shape into something intangible, lacking boundaries. The only distinct feature is a lifted arm, appearing from somewhere behind the light tank in the foreground, with the claws outstretched to motionlessly mimic the waving gesture of the smaller tank's slightly more delicate arm.

At a casual first glance, this may seem like two random tanks, maybe platoon mates, having an ordinary portrait taken in a location that just happened to be a bit too cramped for 'proper' posing. And I may not be familiar with the appearance of the larger tank, but the presence of Yasha in the photo, and the strange sense of intimacy in the composition makes it abundantly clear who I am also looking at, even before I read the headline. And that this is anything but an ordinary portrait.

“Black Death finally caught on camera...?” I whisper, reading the title of the article out loud without even realizing. What I do notice is that Morris and Artax have suddenly shuffled so close to me that they are, by all means, intruding on my personal space. They are obviously trying to get a glimpse at what is upsetting me so about this bundle of paper.

“Black-...” Morris repeats in an aghast voice, “...you mean-?”

Artax looks up at me with troubled optics but remains silent as I return the gaze, the alarmed thoughts on his core all too easy to guess.

“What does this say?” Morris urges me on, pointing at the body of the article in a manner that is untypically impatient for her. It takes me a moment to connect the dots and figure out that, she, just like Artax, cannot read either. I focus my attention on the page again and start reading it out to the two, but also myself. I need to hear it spelled out to believe it.

The article, as sensational as they always are, wastes not a single letter before immediately drawing conclusions based on its own assumptions. At least it doesn't forget to lay out the actual facts while it's at it: A tank approached the newspaper with a photo she took, reporting her concerns about strangers she met being possibly connected to the MBT known as the 'Black Death'.

Her name being 'censored' to “P”, she regularly indulges in her hobby of nature photography around the greater Tow area. Either P didn't get the memo or she was willing to die for her hobby, because she has been going out into the meadows and nearby woods despite the rumours (and at this point, growing pile of actual evidence in the shape of corpses) of a murderous MBT being on the loose in the region. But even though she has met someone in the woods two nights ago briefly before dawn, she has gotten out of the encounter not only unscathed, but with a souvenir picture as well. This someone was an oddly behaving light tank - it approached her cautiously as she was in the middle of taking photos of fireflies, and asked her what she was doing.

P was of course happy to explain the purpose of the device in her hands to the curious rookie; he still seemed wary of it and left, but a couple minutes later returned. This time, he was accompanied by a 'frightening' MBT, but they both seemed peaceful. The MBT also inquired about her camera in 'remarkably simple and choppy sentences', obviously also wary of it. In a small interview section, P describes how she was baffled to meet an MBT who is 'unfamiliar with a device as mundane as a camera'. But other than his small companion, he seemed to comprehend it quickly enough; not only that, he even asked P to take a picture of him and 'his' light tank.

She remembers feeling a subliminal sense of dread throughout the entire, arguably harmless interaction, without really being able to fathom what made her so afraid. It's partly what made her think later that she might have been dealing with the Black Death, without realizing at the time.

One thing that started puzzling her long after the two strangers left again and she was starting to calm down was that they didn't want to keep the picture from her instant camera. The MBT told her that she should put it 'in a place where many people will see it', with the explanation that he wants an 'old friend' of his to see it. As a reminder that...

“Talon is feeling better than ever, wonders if his friend is holding up well too, and if not, plans to visit him soon to make things right.”

This particular direct quote wedges itself into my core as I read it out, making my voicebox falter as if I had to grate it through. These words were clearly not meant for the same tanks that Talon speaks to only with his 'simple and choppy sentences'. Finally being rested enough to have less muddled thoughts, the implications are all too clear to me to stay calm now.

“Oh?” Morris hums out loud, somehow completely failing to understand the shift in my tone, “What a caring soul. I wonder who he m-”

“He means me,” I cut her off with a strained hiss. She is still clearly trying to comprehend the meaning of what I am saying, but Artax has already figured it out, if the noticably more agitated idling noise of his engine is any indicator. Feeling like he might be the more helpful one in this situation, I look at him directly and ask, “The light tank who visited earlier - the one claiming to be a friend of mine, where did he go after you sent him away?”

As Artax's expression turns from tense to utterly confused, I realize that I must have blurted out my question much too fast for any non-MBT to keep up. In my current, high-strung state, however, I find it hard to accommodate. I wave the newspaper around in front of his viewports, tapping the photo of Yasha and Talon urgently as I repeat, “Where did he go? Where did he go? Where? did? he? go??” But all that does is shellshock the already scared tank further and he doesn't answer. Instead, Morris chimes in, very clearly rattled as well, but at least able to speak and gesture hastily.

“Well, uhm- he went that-, that way-, but-” she stammers. It must be dawning on her now that she might have accidentally compromised my safety with her gullible behavior. My gaze darts off towards the alleyways at the corners of the square, feeling almost as if I could see the fugitive light tank sitting there and taunting me. From the corner of my optics, I pick up the frantic motion of Artax breaking free from his stunned stupor and wringing his arms as he speaks to me in an imploring way.

“It was hours ago! He might not even be inside the town anymore!”

I don't know if he thinks that will soothe me. Because as far as I can tell, it has the opposite effect.

“If he's still here, I'll find him,” I growl, stuffing the newspaper into one of my bags absent-mindedly as my engine springs to life.

“But- But there's so many tanks around toni-” Morris tries to dissuade me, with Artax finishing her thought in the same distraught tone, “He won't even have to hide!”

“I'll find him anyway,” I snap back grimly. I set myself into motion despite the two other tanks grabbing at my hull in a desperate effort to make me reconsider my plans; their claws grasp at my frame ineffectively without gaining a proper hold, even leaving some scratch marks. With how I'm picking up speed almost instantly, the two slow tanks can't hope to keep up; instead of being able to even drag themselves along with me, they are just unwinding their arms out of their frames as they lag behind.

“But then what?!” Morris shouts, raising her voice in a way that she hasn't before. “What are you going to do to him??”

“You don't understand-” I insist.

Something else happens at the same time - at the entrance of the hunter's quarters, there's another commotion. I can't help but pay at least peripheral attention to it. There's Ace's voice, sounding incredulous as he chides someone for being “a cheeky brat”. There's quick motions, something small exits in a hurry while complaining loudly about how it deserves at least some compensation for helping. Ace's voice grows in volume as it comes closer to the door, shouting “You call that helping?!” Before I know it, I've stopped dead in my tracks, tearing up the square with screeching brakes. My turret swings around and I acquire the target almost instantly - a small, stout light tank clutching a fuel can and yelling unintelligible swears as it flees from a disgruntled Chaffee swinging a hammer at its rear.

The shell is halfway into my breech when my aim is suddenly blocked by someone moving in front of me. I switch to my regular optics and am faced with a very flustered Morris having planted herself in front of me.

“Answer me!” she shouts at me, clearly determined to stand her ground despite the whole situation and being at the scary end of my cannon barrel clearly leaving her way out of her depth. “Answer me, Scarecrow - Zephyr! If you find him, then what??”

Her question's inanity bewilders me.

“It should be obvious,” I reply, this time in a voice that is low and grave enough to make the sound of me loading my cannon strident in comparison. Somehow, Morris still doesn't move away. Not even as Artax also enters the corner of my vision and starts tugging at her frame with speechless urgency - to get her out of my crosshairs, just in case. But she doesn't even acknowledge his presence, instead standing up even higher on her running gear as she retorts angrily.

“Killing the little one won't solve anything! You think the Black Death will just- he'll just say, well damn, better not mess with a guy who kills young'uns?! You really think that will stop him?! That,- that he'll be so sad about it he'll just jump into a lake?? You'll just make everything worse! For yourself! And- and for-”

Towards the end of her furious tirade, her voice cracks as she seems to be overwhelmed by her emotional state, and she finishes quietly, “...and for everyone else, too...!”

She visibly slumps as she adds a quiet, “But...you do you. Yeah, we probably just don't get it. Not like anyone here could stop you....either.”

Unexpectedly, her surrender makes me feel just as defeated. While Morris's gaze is lowered, I notice Artax staring up at me. He stopped trying to make Morris move, and instead pats her flank soothingly. His body language is betraying his own inner turmoil, despite his attempt at comforting his friend. As for my own emotions in that moment, I'm really not sure how I feel about this outburst of mine. The only thing I can think about right now is how I just showed a mortifying lack of self-control. It's not like me to panic like this - to put vulnerability on display. This is a side of myself I don't even recognize.

To make the entire matter even more disgraceful, I quickly realize that none of this went unnoticed by the other machines currently occupying the square. My audio sensors pick up hushed murmurs from a small group of tanks having set up their tents further in the back, a quick glance in their direction also confirming that they are unabashedly staring. Less subtly, Ace is now approaching us, looking quite worried too.

“Hey,” he asks with a tilted cannon, “You guys all right?”

The question seems superfluous to me, and the look I give him in response is pointed. Maybe more so than he deserves. My response ends up delayed, and stiff.

“I apologize for the commotion. There was a disagreement, but it's settled now.” Turning my hull towards one of the square's exits, I announce my departure with a sober, “If you need me, I'll be...around.” None of them comments on my leaving. Though as my tracks carry me away to a yet undecided destination, I try not to look back or listen in on the conversation the others are surely having about me right now.