Zan-ryū Heiki (残留兵器) 

Day 1 of deployment, 7 May

Unit designation: Kröte 13, Mortis Kompanie

Origin: Strahl Democratic forces, Tegel factory

Deployment: Western edge of Sector 14, Allemania, fortified position 143

Remote piloted by: Sergeant Jeremiah Stahler, located in facility 11B, Krakovia

Order: Hold position, scan ridgeline, familiarise with surroundings

Pilot daily report: Took up position at 143, scanned surroundings; no enemies detected, supplies incoming, had five cups of Jacobsons Finest Ground today. 

Status: active, fuel and ammunition full

Day 8 of deployment, 15 May

Order: Hold position and destroy all advancing enemy formations.

Pilot daily report: The IMA sent out probing attacks today, four scout units were detected and successfully destroyed, possibly before position of Kröte 13 could be relayed to enemy command. 

Status: active, fuel at 90 percent, ammunition at 70 percent

Day 9 of deployment, 16 May

Pilot daily report: The IMA attacked with several units, position 143 was discovered by enemy, enemy attack failed to gain any meaningful territory. Two cups of Jacobson’s were needed after that one.

Status: active, fuel at 85%, ammunition at 23 percent, requested ammo supply will arrive in two hours.

Day 15 of deployment, 22 May

Pilot daily report: all quiet in the sector

Status: active, fuel and ammunition full

 Day 22 of deployment, 29 May

Pilot daily report: heavy artillery strikes on position, damage to thermal scanner and left leg, request repair.

Status: damaged, fuel and ammunition full

Day 23 of deployment, 30 May

Pilot daily report: The IMA attacked in full force, position 143 was held. However, supply and repair troops were not able to reach Kröte 13. Will try again tomorrow.

Status: damaged, fuel at 50 percent and ammunition at 32 percent.

Day 24 of deployment, 31 May

Pilot daily report: Another large-scale attack by the enemy was repelled, supplies were still not able to be delivered, request immediate repair, fuel and ammunition. 4 cups of Jacobsons.

Status: damaged, fuel at 25 percent, ammunition at 9 percent

Day 28 of deployment, 4 June

Pilot daily report: Repair and supply crews finally managed to reach positions. Damage was repaired as well as was possible in the entrenched position, fuel and ammo fully restocked. Only 1 cup today, supply issues.

Status: minor damage, fuel and ammunition full

Day 29 of deployment, 5 June 

Pilot daily report: IMA attacked drone pilot facility 10A, four Kröte pilots lost, facility unable to function in the foreseeable future. All quiet in sector 14. 

Status: minor damage, fuel at 95 percent and ammunition full

Day 35 of deployment, 11 June

Pilot daily report: Massive rocket strike om facility 11A, all lives lost, 15 Krötes out of action as last orders could not be transmitted in time. Precaution: Transmitting order to Kröte 13 to hold position and automatically engage enemy. No Jacobson’s anymore. What is the world coming to?!?

Status: minor damage, fuel at 78 percent and ammunition full

Day 36 of deployment, 12 June 

Pilot daily report: Strike on facility 11B, four pilots dead and I am severely wounded. Reports of a thermo-nuclear explosion over Warsawia, unable to access Kröte 13’s  scanners due to electromagnetic interference. Alarm for incoming missile strikes. 

Status: minor damage, fuel at 74 percent and ammunition full, seismic event detected, radiation spike. 

Day 37 of deployment, 13 June 

Pilot daily report: - 

Last order: hold position, engage enemy autonomously. 

Status: minor damage, fuel at 72 percent, ammunition at 83 percent. Checking for pilot handshake. 

Day 68 of deployment, 14 July 

Pilot daily report: - 

Last order: hold position, engage enemy autonomously. 

Status: minor damage, fuel at 51 percent, ammunition at 45 percent. Checking for pilot handshake. 

Day 131 of deployment, 15 September 

Pilot daily report: - 

Last order: hold position, engage enemy autonomously. 

Status: critical, fuel at 12 percent, ammunition at 45 percent. Checking for pilot handshake. 

Day 176 of deployment, 30 October 

Pilot daily report: - 

Last order: hold position, engage enemy autonomously. 

Status: critical, fuel at 3 percent, ammunition at 45 percent. Checking for pilot handshake: failed. Finalizing data dump... Signal lost. End of log. 

'Victor'

‘They are right over there! Behind that wall!’ Victor cried out, his voice a shriek of a pre-pubescent boy, his stubby finger pointing down the street, his posture nonchalant with his left hand in his pocket. Commander Henrik Bauer, callsign ‘Frogleap’, had opened the armoured hatch as soon as the boy had appeared in front of him. Bauer, torn between disbelief and nervous anticipation, shook his head and raised his binoculars with a sigh. Was the boy a survivor? A lure? Or just a boy? 

This routine patrol was quickly turning into a possibly dangerous encounter with IMA forces and frankly, his P.a.k. Kröte – a field-modified, piloted unit- was poorly equipped to deal with such a situation. It had been built for tank duels, not city streets and narrow alleys. The long barrel made it difficult to manoeuvre in tight spaces and the anti-tank ammunition was mostly useless against stone and flesh. Worse, the ambush two nights ago had left him half blind, both long and shortrange scanners severely impeded, leaving Bauer with barely more than his binoculars. 

‘Frogleap to mission control. Possible enemy positions in Wittenburgstrasse, Sector Q9. How to proceed? Over.’ Bauer was silently hoping that command might give him the permission to sit this one out and send forces better suited for the situation. He knew that he was a sitting duck, a duck misplaced in a pile of rubble and with a big gun, but a sitting duck, nonetheless. 

The city had largely been destroyed by weeks of bombing and artillery strikes. Most houses had partially collapsed under the constant bombardment, bricks, timber and debris jutting into the streets. The air was saturated with dust and ash. Large swathes of the once populated area had been emptied of life. Many people decided to leave once the leaflets warning of the imminent attack had been scattered, many of them still littering the streets. And once the first bombs started dropping, the more determined had their hopes of being spared shattered. Only the very resilient stayed on. Bauer couldn’t decide whether he found their resolve admirable or downright stupid. 

The house to his left had surely once been a place of joy, laughter, love and homeliness. Now it was a ruin, the upper floors had collapsed, the rubble crushing everything and everyone, the dust burying all the memories of the living and the dead. 

The radio clicked into life and the lightly distorted voice answered: ‘This is Forward Command Dispatch to Frogleap. You are advised. There are no reports of enemy presence in sector Q9. Press on and secure objective. Over.’ Henrik sighed. ‘Flogleap to Dispatch. Request surveillance to detect possible enemy positions in this sector. How copy?’ The answer came almost instantly. ‘Request denied. Secure objective Bravo immediately. Transmission over.’ 

Bauer cursed under his breath, then looked at the boy, who was still standing there vaguely pointing towards the collapsed buildings down the road, smiling. That smile could mean anything, everything or nothing. 

In silence Bauer sealed the armoured hatch and the Kröte lurched forward, going past the abandoned position lined with sandbags, the empty boxes, discarded jerry cans and rubble littering the street devoid of life and towards a future uncertain. The heavy footsteps echoing in the streets. 

Behind him, Victor mounted his bicycle and pedalled off into the ruins, a smirk still lingering on his face. 

'Dancing Shoes'

‘Hey, mechanic! Come over here and get my bird ready! I need to be in the air as soon as possible. The IMA needs a reminder of whose planet this is!’ barked the pilot, strutting towards Howard, his oxygen mask dangling from his clean-shaven, hard face. The pilot’s spotless equipment was a stark contrast to his surroundings, the dirty floors and the rusty canteen door betraying that the base had clearly seen better days. 

‘Oh, good!’ thought Howard, ‘Another tough guy who actually believes in the cause. We definitely need more of those morons.’ That though provoked a smirk in his face as he took a deep drag of his cigarette, smearing even more engine oil on his cheek. 

‘What are you laughing about? Did I say something amusing? Wipe that grin of your face! You’re talking to an officer, and I am giving you an order!’ shouted the pilot. ‘And get cleaned up before you go anywhere near my plane. I don’t want to sit a greasy seat later on.’ 

He had a point there as Howard’s formerly light grey overalls were now positively dirty and had been for a good while. Getting a break was a rare thing around here, not to even mention new and clean work clothes. Howard’s worn, stained, old tanker jacket, several sizes too big for him, hung on an ammo crate. It was the only thing he had left of his days as a Mk 44 Ammo Knight mechanic and had been a gift from his friend, Pilot Corporal Jürgen Ehlers, who had long been missing in action, last heard of clearing trenches somewhere in no man’s land. The only clean thing about Howard were his shoes, which he kept painstakingly polished, and they somehow never seemed to attract any dirt or oil, in contrast to the rest of him. 

Moreover, they were his only good shoes, and he needed them for the dancing on Saturday night. The chef, the only decent officer for miles, as far as Howard was concerned, organised a fortnightly dance in the cafeteria. No other officers were invited or even notified of the event. In truth, this information was even carefully withheld. It mattered not that it was common knowledge among most staff and even some of the higher ranks. The open dislike to their presence was a bone of contention for many officers, including call-sign ‘Moron’ standing in front of him. Howard didn’t care, he just wanted the pilot to be gone and in the air, so that he could have a drink or five to numb the painful memories of all the friends he had lost along the way, dance with the cute nurse and forget about the war… at least for a while. 

'On the Fringe'

 The Falke drifted into the hangar like a wounded bird, hovering a meter off the ground before finally sputtering to a rough landing with a hiss of the overheated antigrav-field giving out. Dust and grime kicked up from the concrete floor as the battered Armored Raider Pfk. 85 slammed onto the yellow dolly, it almost giving out under the sudden increase of the weight. The air smelled like scorched circuitry, cordite, and a faint tang of ozone. 

Its once-pristine frame was scorched with plasma scoring and pockmarked with shrapnel wounds. The sleek panels bore the scars of too much debris hitting the hull and too many sorties flown—new scars complementing the old ones after each mission. 

Inside the canopy, the pilot was slumped forward, as though sunken in prayer. Corwin Kaeler, callsign ‘Silvester’, thirty-five standard cycles old, though the war had aged him far beyond the count. Veteran of the IMA, second mobilisation. The kind of guy who kept a Lucky Strike tucked behind his ear even if he hadn’t lit one in weeks. 

He gave a lazy thumbs-up before his body gave out and he slumped again. 

“Damn thing’s held together with hope and duct tape,” muttered Harlan as he started pushing, straining. The wheels of the old dolly squeaked under the weight as the Falke rolled forward inch by inch toward the middle of decrepit tank factory ‘Halle B', that barely passed for a service bay. 

Sitting atop the Falke, cross-legged, resting her right hand on the fuselage, was Mina. Her cargo pants and green top streaked with grease. She touched the airframe softly as though it were a wounded animal. “You know, I told him the left-side coolant array was going to blow if he pushed it past 550 klicks. And what did he do?” 

“He definitely pushed it past 550 klicks,” Harlan grunted, carefully guiding the Raider past the beaten-up interface and old tools like they were sacred bones. 

Mina rolled her eyes. “Idiots make the best pilots. Too dumb to let fear slow them down.” 

The factory had once been a place of war-born industry, once built and run by the Strahl Democratic Republic, the enemy, and later claimed by the IMA. Now, it was a forgotten ruin of dust, rusty steel and broken dreams. The high, vaulted ceiling was stained from years of plasma exhaust and welding slag. Old gantries creaked above them, the defunct crane hung limp like a forgotten relic. What power still flowed through the place came from salvaged generators stolen off abandoned convoys and rigged cables that lay on the ground like dead snake. The sickly green lights of wall-mounted control panels flickered nervously.

But the factory still bore the colours of the IMA—worn and tattered blueprints, ammo boxes and supply crates marked with supply codes from command. They weren't deserters. Just... on the fringe. A dirty little cog in the machine barely functioning.

Mina jumped down with a clang, boots hitting the floor, the crack reverberating through the empty building. “We’ll need to pull the whole jet engine assembly. Maybe strip the afterburner from the Hornisse in Hall A. She won't fly again, but she might keep this here heart beating.”

Harlan nodded, then climbed the rusty dolly and peered into the cockpit. Corwin’s gloved hand moved slowly, wiping grime from his visor before flipping it up. His face was hollow-cheeked, blue veins shining through the pale skin, and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. 

“Hey,” Harlan said. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“Not yet,” Corwin rasped, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did we win?”

Mina leaned into view. “You made it back. That’s as much winning as we get around here.”

He laughed, then winced as pain ricocheted through his ribs. “Tell command I want hazard pay and a week off.”

Harlan grinned. “Command has even forgotten we exist. Maybe on purpose.”

“They will,” Mina muttered, running her hand along the battered hull. “Once they realize half the field ops out here only keep going because of ragtag crews like this.”

Corwin, still half-lucid, muttered, “IMA doesn’t pay for miracles... but they sure as hell expect them.”

There was history in his voice—unspoken, leaden. He’d worked on this bird since before it had a name. Corwin had brought it to them two years ago, direct from a forward recon unit near the Ziegler Line. Not stolen—issued. They were IMA, just... off-book. Dispensable.
Useful. Unknown to but a handful of people in command.

Mina looked to Harlan. “You ready to pull an all-nighter?”

Harlan gave a tired nod. “You take the engine. I’ll try to get the gun shooting straight again. Not that we have a lot of ammo for it though.”

She tossed him the wrench. “Let’s bring her back to life.”

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance—another storm, another engagement. Inside the old factory, the light of distant explosions barley illuminating through the dirty windows, the work on the Falke began.

'Worm'

In the desolate frontier, known as the Black Forest before the great war of 2807, the charred smell of burnt wood and the sweet, sickly smell of putrefaction still hung in the air. Former Strahl Democratic Republic heavy reconnaissance mech KRÖTE no. 815, known as ‘Worm’, trudged through the muddy, barren landscape. Worm had defected from the SDR forces two years into the war with the Independent Mercenary Army (IMA) after the pilot, once hailed as a Lieutenant Sarah Webber within the SDR ranks, witnessed first-hand how the SDR treated ‘their’ settlers, trying to reclaim earth as their home. After the massacre of Katyn, Sarah had shed her allegiance like an old skin, and her KRÖTE 815 ‘Worm’ had become a symbol of her newfound conviction. 

The scene unfolded like a tragic tapestry woven by the cruel hands of war. Worm came upon what remained of a small settlement, where only one hut had stood. The wooden structure was now nothing but a burnt-out ruin, its blackened bones jutting out from the earth like the ribs of a fallen beast. The waters of a small lake, once the lifeblood of the settlement, were stirring restlessly. Its waves, tinged with the ash of destruction, were murky and splashed against the shores in anger, willing to swallow any careless being. 

In the restless shallows of the lake, Worm discovered the remains of another reconnaissance unit, FIREBALL no. 43. Most of its parts had been stripped by scavengers, only a few unusable parts remained. The pilot of 43, known in the IMA logs as Sergeant Felix Strauss, had apparently met his end on this very spot. Sergeant Strauss had been sent on reconnaissance on 4 May 2885 and had not been heard of since. There lay his bones, clad in of what remained of his uniform, the dark waters as his final resting place.

As Sarah surveyed the scene, the turbulent sky above and the troubled waters below mirrored her turmoil. Dark clouds gathered, a brewing storm threatening to unleash its fury upon the land. A chill wind swept through the valley, carrying the scent of damp earth and the promise of rain that might one day wash away the stains of war. In this moment, Lieutenant Webber felt the weight of her choices. However, within her heart, the resolve to fight for a better future remained unbroken. 

The story of KRÖTE 815 was far from over; it was merely the beginning of a new chapter in the annals of the Independent Mercenary Army.

Callsign 'Penguin'

The setting sun cast long shadows across the remote desert base as a lone Lunadiver Stingray of the ‘Kanonenvögel’ Squadron, callsign ‘Penguin’, finally docked the station, its thrusters kicking up clouds of sand. The craft's metallic hull, scorched from battle and the intense heat of atmosphere re-entry, reflected the orange glow of the horizon. Inside the cockpit, Captain Eric Falk wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling the fatigue of endless missions seep into his bones.

He powered down the engines and shields, and the hum of the machinery faded into the arid silence. Erich unbuckled himself and leaned back, letting out a long breath. His mind wandered to the countless sorties he'd flown for the Strahl Democratic Republic, each mission blending into the next in a haze of conflict and survival.

Outside, two Fireball units approached the Lunadiver. Their pilots, Lieutenant Mara Fischer and Sergeant Jakob Rheinhart, had escorted Eric back to base. As they drew near, their mechs' optical sensors glinted in the dying light, a reminder of the ever-watchful eyes of the SDR.

Mara's voice crackled over the comms. "Captain Falk, remain in your cockpit. Standard inspection protocol."

Eric acknowledged with a tired nod, though they couldn't see it. He'd been through this routine countless times, but the SDR's strictness, their suspicion of spies, their relentless pursuit of control was starting to wear him down. For the first time, Eric wondered whether he was fighting on the wrong side.

Mara and Jakob's Fireball units flanked the Lunadiver, their systems scanning for any anomalies. 

"Long mission?" Mara asked through the comms, though it was more of a statement.

"Too long," Eric replied, his voice rough.

"Any encounters with the IMA?"

"Plenty," Eric said. "They're getting bolder."

Jakob's scanner beeped, signalling the end of the inspection. "You're clear, Captain. Welcome back."

As Eric was getting ready to open the cockpit, his mind churned with conflicting thoughts. The weariness of battle, the strict oversight of the SDR weighed heavily on him. For now, he was still a pilot for the Strahl Democratic Republic, but the line between loyalty and doubt was growing thinner with each passing day.

The desert wind picked up, shaking the Lunadiver ever so slightly, sending shivers down its battered frame. 

The Fireball units still stood guard, their sensors ever watchful, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the base into the shadows of night.

'Ram' 

Last night’s rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained a sickly gray and heavy. Pilot Corporal Jürgen Ehlers, callsign ‘Ram’, stared at the dull reflections on his visor as his Mk44 Ammo Knight trudged through the mud. It groaned and hissed with each step, the mechanical joints straining against the filth. In the cockpit, the air was thick with sweat and the acrid tang of burned electronics. Outside, the world was cold and dead. 

The trenches were a scar on the land, cut deep and festering from months of war. Once, these dugouts had teemed with soldiers from both sides, locked in desperate combat between the Strahl Democratic Republic and the Independent Mercenary Army. Now, the trenches were quiet, but not peaceful. On top, bones littered the earth, poking through the ground like forgotten debris. Rusted razor wire and the occasional half-buried body were the only signs that anyone had ever fought here. 

‘Ram, advance’, came the order over the comms. 

Jürgen grunted in acknowledgment, shifting in his harness as he nudged the controls forward. The Ammo Knight lurched onward, its heavy footfalls sucking into the mire. A series of booms echoed faintly in the distance—artillery fire far behind the lines—but here, in this trench, it was just him. Him and the ghosts. 

The mission was simple on paper: sweep the trenches, clear out any remaining IMA forces,  dismantle traps, and secure the zone for Strahl reinforcements. But the reality was far worse. The trenches were a labyrinth and the IMA did apparently not leave behind any soldiers, but instead tripwires, mines, and who-knew-what kind of improvised explosives. Every step felt like it could be his last.

Although his Ammo Knight was built to withstand heavy fire, with layers of armour thick enough to defeat most rounds, it was cumbersome. It was a slow, lumbering beast that could easily be outflanked by infantry. In these tight, twisting trenches, it felt more like a prison than a weapon.

Jürgen’s eyes scanned the murky ground through his cracked visor. No movement. No signs of life. His HUD flickered with static, the sensors struggling to differentiate between old ammo crates, debris and the potential threat of buried mines. Nothing. 

Why was he even here?

The SDR and IMA had been locked in this war for so long that no one even seemed to remember why it started. It was no longer about borders or politics or freedom. For Jürgen, it had become about one thing: surviving. There was no victory to be had here. Only survival.

Another step, another squelch of mud. The Ammo Knight shuddered as it pushed through a narrow section of the trench, the bulk of its armour scraping against the walls. His heart hammered in his chest. He hated these narrow corridors. Too easy to get stuck, too easy for the enemy to set a trap.

The IMA weren’t here, not physically but the signs of their presence were everywhere—booby traps, makeshift barricades, and the occasional barrel. No bodies, though. They had vanished, leaving behind only their ghosts and the promise of death in a ball of fire and shrapnel. 

Jürgen hated this job. He hated the war. He hated the rain, the mud, the endless grind of it all. But most of all, he hated the waiting. The uncertainty. The creeping paranoia that every corner, every step, might be his last.

His nerves were frayed, worn thin by weeks of endless missions like this. The war had drained him of any sense of purpose or hope. Now, it was just a matter of going through the motions. Completing orders. One step at a time.

Jürgen clenched his jaw and pressed the Ammo Knight forward. It wasn’t about winning, not anymore. Victory didn’t mean anything out here. It was only about surviving, about making it to the next trench, the next battle. About enduring, for as long as the machine could keep walking, and for as long as he could keep dragging himself through the mud.

The Ammo Knight marched on. Behind him, the trenches swallowed the last echoes of life.