Following the signs to the gathering point of the “hunters” turns out to be exorbitantly straightforward. They must have made sure that even the simplest of machines would be able to find its way. The only way to make it even more impossible to get lost would have been painting a line on the ground.

An extremely tight-knit trail of signs points us to a square nested against the inside of the town walls. Some tents are strewn about the square, occupied by either supplies or their owner. The square is flanked by buildings, of which one looks like a warehouse and seems to be the intended gathering point. Its gate is wide open and a final sign points at it, reading “REPORT HERE”.

Our arrival at the square draws some optics - mostly on me - but the majority of the twelve tanks milling around the square are too busy with various tasks to pay attention to newcomers.

We cross the square and enter the warehouse building. The inside is partitioned by tarp walls, and there's noise coming from behind them. My companions head towards the back intently, where there's a couple crates forming a makeshift counter. Said counter is currently unattended, but as I follow and approach it as well, I spot a piece of paper folded up to serve as a sign with the words “BACK SOON” hastily scribbled onto it.

The room is somewhat dimly lit by light falling in from the open gate; in contrast, a flickering fluorescent lamp that dangles from the low ceiling further in the back of the room - precariously close to the roof of my turret as I pass it - seems to barely contribute any meaningful amount of illumination. Voices and engines can be heard in another part of the building, but the words are muffled, indistinct.

I halt near the counter, joining the two travellers there. They seem perfectly content with just sitting around and waiting for something to happen. Me, I spend a brief while letting my gaze wander across the mostly barren room, then decide to clear my vents noisily. The way my companions flinch at that makes me feel like I just interrupted some sort of reverent silence - but at least it has the intended effect. Somewhere in the back, I hear a voice shout out, “Nel, go check the front desk!”

There's no reply, and it prompts another, slightly more irritated shout, “Nel!!”

Once again, nothing happens. The same voice can be heard grumbling loudly, “Where's that little twerp gone?”, earning some non-committal responses from other tanks inhabiting the building this time.

A few moments later, the rattling noise of tracks draws closer in a hurry, and a portion of the tarp partition is pulled aside by a clawed hand. The tank it belongs to sticks out their front and peeks at us, their expression a squint that clearly shows how inconvenienced they are by having to go check on the new arrivals themself rather than whoever is actually responsible for it.

“Sorry,” the stranger murmurs as they drive out fully into the room. “We could only get one local to volunteer watching the front desk, and he keeps running off.” I now get a better look at the hull and turret; the insignias and decals don't seem familiar, some of them bleached by sunlight or scratched up beyond recognition. Only the pronoun marker and a decal depicting two playing cards - one face-down and the other showing an ace of spades - are well-maintained. He's got a light frame of Allied make, the hull and turret shape that of a barely modified Chaffee model. Of the outwardly visible components, only his cannon has seen an upgrade - it looks a bit too hefty to be considered practical to the typical scout and sports a muzzle brake.

While he drives over to the counter, he wipes his claws on an oily rag, then just casually drapes that over his cannon barrel. Parking himself behind the crates, he picks up the folded paper note on the counter, looks at it with a frown, then puts it back down.

Morris seems to see her cue to speak up.

“No worries! We've only been here for a minute,” she reassures the Chaffee, but then states our business without further ado. “We want to join the hunters, is this the right place to do so?”

I find it peculiar that she feels she has to ask whether she's really in the right place when it would be, in my humble opinion, impossible to end up in the wrong place with how thoroughly it was signposted.

The Chaffee looks Morris and her companion up and down, not looking particularly impressed, so to speak. He doesn't voice any concerns he might have, however. Maybe he's just glad anyone at all is showing up to sign up?

“Gotcha,” he says in a voice that clearly lacks excitement. “I'm Ace. What can I call you guys?”

The other traveller responds first, gesturing at himself.

“My name is Artax. And the charming valkyrie by my side,” he says with a polite bow and gestures at his companion now, “is Morris.”

Obviously flustered by the flattering introduction, Morris makes a scandalized huff and starts batting Artax's arm away. He snickers and turns it into a high-five.

Watching the banter with a raised optic ridge but the hint of a smirk in his tone as he continues, Ace clears his vents to get their attention again:

“Well, welcome to the party, you two. If you need anything you should talk to me about it because I'm the one who's best at keeping track of things and people around here. Not in charge though, Jericho is. You'll meet him in the back - he's the black one who never learned how to smile. Can't miss him.”

Morris and Artax nod dutifully, giving an over-the-top snappy “Yessir!” in unison. Ace doesn't comment on it, but I can see his frame physically cringe. He tears himself away from the sight and I catch his eye next. His posture changes as he has to lean back on his suspension to look up at me. “Oh, Scarecrow? It's you, isn't it?” he addresses me directly.

I don't recognize him at all, but if he's from the area it would be more surprising if he didn't recognize me.

“The same,” I reply in a neutral tone.

“Didn't expect you to come join us as well, but I ain't complaining, that's for sure.”

There's a moment of hesitation on my end where I'm struggling to fathom what part of his statement is bothering me enough to not immediately confirm it. Even Morris turns around and looks at me in a slightly surprised manner, as if she also finds something odd. I don't think I was here to join them. But if I wasn't, why else would I have come here in the first place?

For now, I decide to play along, as to not give off the impression of being as confused as I am.

“I just figured something needs to be done, about... the problem,” I reply vaguely, “...and that I could maybe help, in some way.”

Ace nods, obviously pleased about having me on the team, at least. I'm not sure if he should really be all that glad about it.

“In fact, you're probably the one tank who will be of the most help of all...” he muses.

“...how so?” I ask, with genuine curiosity.

A voice from the back is calling out for Ace, and he sees it as his cue to wrap up the recruitment.

“The boss can tell you more about that part, I'm sure,” he says with a casual nod, “In any case, feel free to come in and,” - he looks at Morris and Artax pointedly - “make yourselves at home.”

We nod and leisurely follow past the tarp curtans as he zooms ahead.

The “hunters-only” portion of the building is not particularly crowded; I see and an equally oil-stained tank recovery vehicle working on some mechanical components, and a plain-colored tan tank is apparently taking stock of a pile of barrels by counting them and noting down their contents on a list. We naturally gravitate towards that part of the room, as it looks to be the buffet. And my steadily decreasing fuel reserve is both hard to forget about and ignore, after all.

Before we reach them, another tank shows themself - having talked to someone until now presumably, a bulky heavy tank with a scratched up, faded black coat of paint emerges from the other side of the barrel stacks. If the color of his paint hadn't already given him away, the very serious and stern air with which he carries himself makes the match obvious; this is the tank that Ace described as Jericho, their leader. He of course notices us and waits at the fuel pile, though I am clearly the tank of greatest interest to him. Morris and her companion attempt to introduce themselves and strike up a conversation with him, also recognizing him as the leader of the group. Though he does acknolwegde them briefly and tells them to feel free to refuel if they need to, he then simply turns towards me instead.

I come to a halt in front of him, and can't help but notice that unlike most tanks I meet, he actually manages to almost stand to my height. Even though the two travelers he just shrugged off are obviously puzzled by it, they seem to catch on that he wishes to have a word with me only, and so they concern themselves with refueling instead.

“You must be Jericho,” I say plainly.

The heavy nods and hands me a fuel can.

“Scarecrow... didn't expect to see you 'round these parts.”

It's impossible to tell from his tone what his feelings about the matter may be, but I for my part give a non-committal rumble of my engine. Receiving the can from him, I start pouring it into my primary fuel tank without further ado.

“I go where my tracks carry me, usually...” I reply in a sprawling tone.

This statement definitely seems to rub him the wrong way.

“A freedom that few can enjoy, in times like these,” he says gravely.

As if the world had ever not been a dangerous place for loners of all makes..., I think to myself.

“Even if it wasn't for the Black Death-”

The mention of that name makes me perk up with a sudden memory coming back to me.

Right, that's why I'm here!

“Can you tell me more about this Black Death individual?” I ask, cutting him off since I'd fear the thought escaping me if not voiced immediately. Jericho doesn't seem to take offense and dutifully fills me in on what everyone here but me seems to know.

“Well, we're the ones aiming to take him down, for starters. There haven't been any other serious efforts to do so yet, to my knowledge. People are too scared to even try.”

“He seems to be a recent...occurence. I imagine there'll be some brave, or at least reckless, souls soon enough,” I throw in with a shrug.

Jericho tilts his cannon, seemingly needing a moment to think and formulate his response.

“Maybe for your frame of reference,” he pensively rumbles then, making me wonder what he could possibly be implying with it, “but as far as everyone here's concerned, each night where he roams free is one too many. We hoped he was gone for good after you dealt with him the first time.”

There's something deeply troubling about his words; and this time, I can even pinpoint what exactly it is: the familiarity of it all. I've heard this exact story before. I suppose this leaves no more doubt about this mysterious Black Death being the same tank that contacted me last night. Which I feel is an event that I should bring up, but I hesitate. Perhaps I'm not fully committed to joining this hunt, yet...

"I don't want to raise any false hopes," I decide to clarify, "In all honesty, I remember very little of that incident. But the same isn't true for him, for..." I trail off, the name suddenly stuck somewhere inside my voicebox. "...for... the Black Death seems to hold a grudge against me specifically." It's anything but a smooth recovery, but the truly frustrating part is that this would have been a great moment for me to contribute helpfully to Jericho's noble cause. Instead, I can only follow up with a serious, "I wish I could help you and the people of this region...but I don't know how. If he crossed my path again, the solution would be straightforward," -I tap my cannon barrel- “, but the problem with us MBTs is, we survive our mistakes more often than the average tank. And to make matters worse, we learn from them, too. I think he's learned his lesson all too well. He probably won't make the same mistake a second time... As long as he continues to elude me the same as he eludes everyone else, there's nothing I can do about it, either.”

Even if Jericho's expression doesn't change at all, it's safe to assume that my words must be disappointing to him. If he somehow assumed getting me to join him would equal an instant solution to this extremely difficult situation, that's on him, though. At least he seems reasonable enough to not try and blame me for it. After remaining quiet for a moment, as if having to keep a firm grip on his composure, he point at my side and asks, “Need another?”

The sudden change in topic throws me off for a moment, and I stare blankly, but then luckily remember the fuel can he gave me just a few moments ago. It's already empty, which I didn't even notice with the conversation being the center of my currently drastically limited attention. I consider politely declining, but decide against it. Who knows when I might get another chance to refuel; it seems like there's even more turbulent days - or perhaps I should say, nights - ahead of me. I nod and thank him for the offer, helping myself to another can this time before he can bother to play barkeep for me again.

While I drink some more and remain quiet, Jericho clearly is still trying to come to terms with my factual uselessness to him.

"I've been gathering information," he eventually goes on soberly, "questioning people, following the news. Anything that could help me understand what I saw....that night. Learning that it's a tank you can hunt down and kill is the only reason why I'm able to sleep again. The others here have been doing their best to help in their own ways, for their own reasons. We have some good leads, and we know what we're dealing with. It's now simply a matter of gathering more guns, luring him into a trap, and putting an end to his terror, for good."

I have already been suspecting that the tanks who are joining this hunting party all have some personal matters to settle with the rampaging stranger; but it's this tank's speech that finally makes it so clear, so real, that I feel like until now I barely comprehended the full extent of the desperate plight the machines of the West have been facing lately...all at the hands of one single MBT.

“I understand,” I reply gently. “I understand how you must feel. If nothing else, I want you to know that I can at least offer you the promise that I'll be doing anything within my power to help.”

He stares at me silently for a while. Maybe he doesn't quite believe me. Even if he probably wants to, maybe he just can't. That's also something I can't help him with right now.

As the silence between us becomes overbearing, the chipper -if slightly anxious- voice of Morris barges into our bleak conversation at just the right time.

“Hey, uhm, I don't mean to intrude, but-” she says with an awkward curtsy into Jericho's direction and then continues to address me, “- Artie and me are about to go set up our tents outside, so I thought maybe you'd want to join us.”

I don't know if she realizes just how grateful I am for this 'intrusion'.

“Ah, I better go help you two, then. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself before the hunt even begins,” I tell her, though my attempt at humour probably sounds as forced as it feels. My gaze falls on Jericho again, who still wears the frown of someone who just got news of their entire team deserting. I murmur to him, “The air in here's a bit stuffy, too. Opening a couple windows or catching some fresh air outside might lift everyone's spirits a little.” He doesn't deign it with a reply, but Morris verbally comes to my aid again:

“Oh, it really is!”, she agrees loudly, emphasising even further by ineffectively fanning herself with three of her arms as the fourth points to the exit, “I'm feeling all gloomy and tired already, and that when it's so nice outside today!”

I discreetly gesture at her that it's okay to tone it down a little, which she completely fails to notice, however. As Artax also appears, gently but purposefully pushing at Morris's rear to get her to actually move instead of just talking about it, I nod at Jericho one last time (a gesture that is reciprocated, albeit curtly) before joining my companions' goofy escape.