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"Another round!"
Gunner barked to loader as a master to its hound, even as the shell was already entering the breech. Casings clattered to the floor as acrid smoke filled the cabin, clamping down those claustrophobic walls even further. Beyond the tight confines of this solitary fighting vehicle lay an industrial park; at one time belching the smog of Bretonian industry, now the atmosphere could only be filled by the choking fires of war. Gallic starfighters screamed overhead as lumbering behemoths tore through mud and trench, the anachronicity managing to be even more stark than cavalry charges against machine guns or the chariot against the footman. Such musings were beyond the consideration of the average Sheridan gun team, however -- for they had a trench to take, a planet to save, a war to win. After all, there was always...
"Another round!"
The bar erupted into hoots and hollers as father clapped son on the back. "I'm proud of you, son. I really am. I know ma ain't gonna take this whole Marine business easy, but don't you worry about that." With a warm smile, the burly scrap-tender threw his arm around the lanky teen, sliding over a glass of foamy Liberty Ale and nudging his son. "Best enjoy while you can, moment you ship out it'll be dry from there on." The boy could only help but smile as he grabbed the glass, sipping gingerly as he awkwardly glanced around. Warm faces of genuine joy and appreciation surrounded him, all co-workers of his father or friends from school. Most had taken the opportunity merely as an excuse to get drunk on a work night, but that didn't mean the feeling wasn't there regardless. Deciding to let loose for the final time, he slung the foamy drink back and joined his father in yelling...
"Another round?"
Sweat dripped from his brow as he caught his breath, knees shaking beneath his palms as he tried to work up his strength again. Across from the lanky marine stood a six-foot-and-change brick wall of a man, sporting a pearly white smile that disguised just how hard they were pushing each other. "Come on, you think you're gonna sling shells for the Corps with those noodle arms?" Weights clattered against the rack as the two grunted at each other, spouting all sorts of slur and swear between fits of laughter. Sore and tired, the new kid had to settle for second best against his would-be commander, though certainly not for lack of effort. If Sarge was a gym rat, then, he'd just have to live there. He'd need to, in order to be able to handle...
"Another round!"
Another casing clattered against the floor. Scrambling over the brass and through the smoke, the new kid ripped the last shell from the ready rack and practically hurled it into the breach. He didn't even wait for the familiar thump of the barrel recoiling backward, casing tumbling to the floor - he simply needed to get another round. And another. And another. The Sisyphean effort could be stopped only by two things; their own stowage running dry, and the battle being won. It would seem far more likely the former to strike than the latter; as the infinite industrial wastes of Leeds opened up in front of them, the task seemed simply insurmountable. So what if they took the next trench, if there were fifty more beyond?
As if divinity itself came to answer the question, the clouds broke to reveal low-flying Gallic destroyers, struggling against the smog-choked atmosphere to keep themselves in the air. White-hot lances tore through the smog beneath them, scouring Allied and Royalist positions alike. There was no order to fire, nor to retreat; through mud-covered viewports the crew could only watch in horror as the landscape churned around them...