The sound of diesel engines idling filled the motor pool as Anthony walked through the open garage, his boots crunching against the concrete. Tanks of various shapes and sizes lined the space, from WWII-era Shermans used for training exercises to the sleek, upgraded M1A2 SEPv3 Abrams tanks that would be deployed in the upcoming match. Crews bustled around, performing maintenance and checks, their chatter mixing with the occasional metallic clang of tools.

Beside him was his Vice-Commander, Tyrone Williams, who moved at a much slower pace, hands tucked into the pockets of his L.P.U.A. uniform.

At 5'10" and sporting a laid-back demeanor, Tyrone looked out of place amidst the intensity of the motor pool. His short dreadlocks framed a face that always seemed to carry a faint smirk, as though he knew a joke no one else was in on.

"Yo, Ant, you gotta chill," Tyrone said, yawning as he lazily glanced at a clipboard in his hand. "I swear you're wound up tighter than the engine block on that Abrams."

Anthony shot him a look. "This isn't the time to chill, Ty. We've got less than a week before we face Red Banner, and I'm not leaving anything to chance."

Tyrone shrugged. "Fair enough. But you know you don't have to micromanage everything, right? That's what you've got me for."

Anthony stopped in front of a row of LAV-25s being inspected by the Marine Corps Regiment. Harriet stood nearby, barking orders while gesturing toward a maintenance crew. Anthony crossed his arms and nodded toward Tyrone.

"Alright, Vice-Commander. Let's see that genius of yours in action. What's the status?"

Tyrone flipped through the clipboard, squinting at the details as though the act of reading was physically exhausting. "Alright, let's see... Abrams fleet is good to go—engines tuned, optics calibrated, ammo stocked. The Shermans are running fine, no major repairs needed. LAVs... well, a couple of those babies need their turrets recalibrated, but nothing we can't handle before game day."

Anthony nodded, his gaze sharp as he scanned the tanks. "What about the T30?"

Tyrone whistled low. "Your big boy? Yeah, she's purring like a kitten. That new turbine engine you had installed? Chef's kiss. She's got more horsepower than a drag race lineup."

Anthony smirked faintly at the analogy. "Good. I want her ready to roll. She's going to be our ace in the hole."

Tyrone has an IQ of 210.

As they walked further down the row, they passed by a group of younger recruits struggling with a Sherman's track tension. Anthony stopped, watching for a moment before stepping in.

"You're over-tightening," he said, his calm voice cutting through the noise. "Loosen it a quarter turn and try again."

The recruits nodded nervously, fumbling with the tools. Tyrone leaned against the tank, shaking his head.

"Man, you've got to let the kids figure it out. You can't hold their hands forever."

"I'm not holding their hands," Anthony replied. "I'm teaching them to walk."

Tyrone snorted. "Yeah, and when they fall flat on their faces, I'll be the one cleaning up the mess."

Their next stop was the armory, where racks of ammunition and equipment were meticulously organized. Tyrone took the lead this time, pointing out the inventory as they walked.

"APFSDS rounds? Check. HEAT rounds? Check. Smoke canisters? Check. Rubber bullets for the Marine Corps'... unique methods? Also check," Tyrone listed, his tone deadpan.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Unique methods? You mean taking POWs?"

Tyrone grinned. "Hey, I'm just saying, it's not every day you see a bunch of teenagers rocking LAVs and grabbing 'prisoners' in the middle of a match. It's creative."

"Creative is one word for it," Anthony said, shaking his head.

As they moved through the armory, Anthony noticed a group of Marines loading crates onto a truck. Harriet was supervising, her arms crossed and her expression impatient. She spotted the two boys and waved them over.

"About time you showed up," Harriet said, her tone sharp. "These idiots keep loading the wrong crates. I swear, if I have to explain the difference between AP rounds and practice rounds one more time—"

"Relax, Harriet," Tyrone interrupted, stepping up to the truck and glancing at the crates. "You're too high-strung. See? This one's labeled wrong. It's not their fault they can't read your chicken-scratch handwriting."

Harriet glared at him, but Tyrone just grinned lazily and started fixing the labels. Anthony, meanwhile, inspected the contents of a nearby crate, his sharp eyes scanning for any discrepancies.

"Everything looks good here," Anthony said. "Just make sure those crates are secured properly. We can't afford any accidents."

After hours of inspections, Anthony and Tyrone finally took a break in the school's canteen. The room was bustling with students and crews, the air filled with laughter and chatter. Tyrone slouched in his chair, a burger in one hand and a soda in the other, while Anthony sat upright, sipping from a bottle of water.

"You know," Tyrone said between bites, "I still don't get why you're so worked up about this match. Red Banner's good, but we've beaten schools just as tough before."

Anthony set his bottle down, his expression serious. "It's not just about beating them, Ty. It's about making a statement. Red Banner represents everything we're not—strict tradition, rigid hierarchy, and a refusal to adapt. If we win, we prove that our way works, that Tankery can evolve."

Tyrone chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. "Fair point. But you do realize that means they're going to come at us with everything they've got, right?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Anthony said.

That night, Anthony sat alone in his office, the hum of the desk lamp the only sound in the room. Papers and diagrams were spread out before him, detailing every aspect of the upcoming match. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened, and Tyrone stepped in, still dressed in his uniform but looking slightly more alert than usual. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, which he set on Anthony's desk.

"Figured you could use this," Tyrone said, dropping into the chair opposite him.

Anthony nodded his thanks and took a sip. "What's on your mind?"

Tyrone shrugged. "Just figured I'd check in. You've been burning the midnight oil all week. Don't want you keeling over before the match."

"I'm fine," Anthony said, though the weariness in his voice betrayed him.

"Yeah, sure you are," Tyrone said, smirking. "Look, you've got this, man. You're the best damn commander this school's ever had. Stop stressing so much."

Anthony sighed, setting the mug down. "I'm not stressed. I'm focused. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh," Tyrone said, clearly unconvinced. "Just don't forget to breathe, okay? You're not a machine, no matter how much you act like one."

Anthony allowed himself a small smile. "Thanks, Ty."

Tyrone stood, stretching. "No problem. Now, get some sleep, or I'll make you."

As Tyrone left, Anthony leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The match against Red Banner loomed large in his mind, but with Tyrone and the rest of the team at his side, he knew they had a fighting chance.

The battle was coming, and Anthony would be ready.