There Could Only be one Part 1

"Ok, slowly bring it up," said one of the construction workers.

The scene then shows the American Tankery League official and some personnel of the U.S Army keeping watch as the officials use the crane to carefully pick up a damaged Stolen Harrier that was stolen yesterday.

However, the person watching the Harrier being lifted from the lake shows Major McKenzie with his arms crossed, still wearing his military uniform. He sighed, knowing it would cost a lot in taxpayer money to fix the Harrier again, given how damaged it is.

"Colonel Houston is going to have my ass for this," McKenzie said as he covered his face in tiredness.

"Do you think so, sir?" one of his men said.

"Yes, Sergeant, he will... Ever since what happened on Oshima Island during the match incident between the league and the Federation, we have to make sure nothing goes wrong here in this S Rank match between Davy Crockett High School and Groton High School tankery match," McKenzie said.

"I see, but luckily the Harrier was shot down before anyone could get hurt," the Sergeant said.

"That was only luck, Sergeant, and maybe next time, with this match going on, it wouldn't be so lucky," spoke a different person.

Turning to see who was speaking, McKenzie sighed, knowing who it was as the person closed the driver's door of the government car and walked towards McKenzie, observing the officials carefully placing the crashed Harrier on the ground.

"Agent Reynolds," McKenzie said, his arms still crossed.

"Major, great to see you here... How long has it been, like ten years since we last saw each other?" Reynolds said.

"What are you doing here?" McKenzie asked.

"Well, Major, what I'm doing here is a bit higher than what you're getting paid, but the reason I'm here is because someone has stolen a U.S. Military Harrier from the U.S. Government. You don't see that happening often, do you, Major?" Reynolds said.

"Okay, I get it. So quit with your ass-cracking, alright? Look, whoever stole it is gone. Right now, what we are going to do is take it back and have it repaired, and you can buzz off and do whatever you are investigating," McKenzie said.

"Oh, I know. And I'm going to be sticking around, not because of the Harrier, but mostly because of the Colonel's nephew," Reynolds said.

This somehow made McKenzie stop in his tracks, causing Reynolds to smirk.

"Touch a nerve there, Major? You see, you know what I'm investigating—the Colonel's nephew, mostly the reason why we're letting the last Vermont Tankery Academy member of the Dog of War run free and have his crimes pardoned for what he did in the Dallas Incident three years ago," Reynolds said.

"Listen, what Don did, he was forced to... besides, he was a kid. He's been through a lot already, and him saving those five hundred lives in that terrible incident was the most heroic thing anyone could have done," McKenzie said.

"Oh really? Then if you like protecting the Colonel's nephew so much, then why train him? Why make him the perfect child soldier?" Reynolds asked.

McKenzie's expression hardened as he met Reynolds' gaze. "I didn't train him to be a 'perfect child soldier'," he retorted. "I trained him to survive in a world where sometimes survival means doing things you wish you didn't have to. Don wasn't just another recruit; he was a scared kid who needed guidance, discipline, and a chance to make something of himself."

Reynolds raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And is that how you justify turning a blind eye to his actions? To the lives he's taken?"

"It's not about justifying anything," McKenzie replied, his tone tinged with frustration. "It's about understanding that sometimes circumstances force people into impossible choices. Don may have made mistakes, but he's also proven himself to be loyal and capable when it counts."

Reynolds studied McKenzie for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You always did have a soft spot for him," he remarked finally. "Just be careful, Major. Loyalty can blind you to the truth."

With that, Reynolds turned and walked away, leaving McKenzie to wrestle with his own thoughts and doubts.

As McKenzie watched Reynolds walk away, his mind drifted back to a conversation he had with Don three years ago, back when Don Houston was still in the Vermont Tankery Academy. They had sat together in a quiet corner of the academy, the weight of their responsibilities heavy on their shoulders.

"Don, loyalty is everything," McKenzie had said, his voice low but firm. "In this world, you'll face choices that test your principles, your morals. But loyalty... loyalty can see you through the darkest times."

Don had nodded, his expression serious. "I understand, Major. Loyalty to my comrades, to my unit, to my country. It's what drives me."

McKenzie had regarded him for a moment, seeing the determination in his eyes. "Just remember, Don, loyalty isn't always black and white. Sometimes, you'll have to make difficult decisions, ones that challenge your sense of loyalty. But in the end, you have to trust yourself and your convictions."

As the memory faded, McKenzie felt a pang of uncertainty. Had he taught Don the right lessons? Had he prepared him for the complexities of loyalty in a world where right and wrong often blurred together?

Deep in thought, McKenzie knew that the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but he also knew that he had to trust in the bonds of loyalty he had forged, both with Don and with his own sense of duty. Only time would tell if it would be enough to see them through the challenges to come.

As the tankery match unfolded on the large projection screen, capturing the attention of the spectators, Lieutenant Colonel Doyal Houston sat in the booth, engrossed in memories evoked by the old photographs on his phone. He scrolled through the images, each one a snapshot of his youth, his High School tankery team frozen in time.

His wife, Delia, approached, her presence drawing him momentarily out of his reverie. She stood beside him, elegant in her Chairwoman of the America Tankery League business suit, and observed him quietly as he gazed at the photo.

"I still remember that photo that you and your friends took," she remarked, her voice soft with reminiscence.

Doyal chuckled softly, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, I believe this photo was taken when we first met, as our old high schools faced each other," he recalled, the memories flooding back.

Delia smiled wistfully, her eyes sparkling with memories of their youth. "I remember that match vividly," she said, her voice tinged with playful nostalgia. "You and your little band of misfits thought you were invincible, calling yourselves the X-Men just because of some comic book craze."

Doyal laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the booth. "Hey, it was all in good fun," he protested, a twinkle in his eye. "And besides, it gave us the edge we needed to take down your team."

Delia raised an eyebrow, her smile widening into a grin. "Oh, please! You got lucky that day. If it weren't for that last-minute maneuver of yours, we would have had you beat."

Doyal leaned back in his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. "Luck had nothing to do with it," he teased, his tone mockingly confident. "It was all skill and strategy, just like in the comics."

Delia chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "You always did have a knack for turning everything into an adventure," she said, her gaze softening as she looked at her husband. "But I suppose that's what I've always loved about you."

Doyal reached out, gently taking her hand in his, his expression tender. "And I love you, Delia," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "More than anything."

Their moment was interrupted by the cheers and excitement of the crowd as the tankery match on the screen reached a pivotal moment. They turned their attention back to the action, the memories of their past fading into the background as they embraced the thrill of the present.

Meanwhile, behind Groton High School's lines, in an undisclosed prison, it shows Graham, Commander of Grand Lake High, sitting on the floor with Muller, Commander of North High School. Muller was getting tired of Graham singing the same song over and over.

"Twelve thousand forty-two bottles of beer on the wall. You take one down, you pass it around, twelve thousand forty-one bottles on the wall," Graham sang. Before he could continue, Muller spoke up.

"Jesus, Graham, would you either sing something different or shut up!" Muller said in his German accent.

Graham paused mid-song, looking over at Muller with a mischievous grin. "Aw, come on, Muller, don't you appreciate the classics?" he replied, his voice laced with mock innocence.

Muller rolled his eyes, clearly unamused. "Classics? More like torture," he muttered under his breath.

Ignoring Muller's grumbling, Graham launched into another verse of the song, his voice echoing off the cold, stone walls of their undisclosed prison. Muller let out an exasperated sigh, resigning himself to endure yet another round of Graham's singing.

Before the two could continue what they were doing, they heard the door open. Two Groton High School infantry boys entered, one of them with his face covered by a sack. They struggled to move him into an empty cell.

One guard opened the door while the other one held the boy with the cell door open. The guard removed the sack from his head and tossed the boy inside the cell. Graham and Muller watched as this happened, noticing another new prisoner.

However, something seemed familiar to Graham and Muller as they recognized the new prisoner—it was Elijah, Commander of Kansas Chief High School. It had been weeks since they last saw or heard from him.

"Holy shit, Elijah?!" Graham exclaimed.

"Huh, Graham? Muller?" Elijah responded.

"Yeah, it's us... Elijah, what are you doing here? What happened to you? It's been weeks since we last saw or heard from you," Muller asked.

Elijah began to recount his story, explaining the events leading up to his capture by Groton High School.

Flashback:

"At first, when we heard that many Japanese schools of Sensha-Do were coming here to participate in the winter tournament, my Vice Commander and I planned to head over there. But before we could, we came under attack," Elijah said.

Still hearing the echoes of the past battle, with airsoft and tank shells firing, and explosions ringing in his ears, Elijah remembered how his school fell under the control of Emperor Timothee of Groton High School over the course of two days.

As Elijah recalled, he and his Vice Commander found themselves on their knees, handcuffed, with many Groton infantry boys escorting members of the Kansas Chief High School tankery team into trucks. Watching from afar, Timothee then gave an order to his men, ensuring Elijah wouldn't escape and making him a prisoner.

The memory weighed heavily on Elijah's mind as he recounted the events to Graham and Muller, his expression reflecting the turmoil of the ordeal he had endured.

"I never imagined that Timothee would strike with such ferocity," Elijah said, his eyes clouded with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "We were caught off guard, outnumbered and outgunned. It was chaos."

Graham and Muller listened intently, their expressions reflecting a mix of sympathy and concern for their fellow commander.

"And then," Elijah continued, his voice trembling slightly, "they took us captive, one by one. I watched as my friends and comrades were led away, powerless to stop it."

Muller reached out a hand in a gesture of solidarity, placing it gently on Elijah's shoulder. "You're not alone, Elijah," he said softly. "We'll get through this together."

"Yeah, you make it sound easier," said the young crippled scientist.

Graham, Muller, and Elijah turned to the crippled scientist who was sitting on the floor inside of his cell.

"What do you mean by that?" Muller asked.

"You think that you guys will get through this, but mostly what Timothee is doing will not. You see, he has two big secret projects that he's working on in this area," the scientist said.

"Projects of what?" Elijah asked.

"A project for peace, we named it Project Peace," the scientist said.

"Wait, like Metal Gear Solid Peace Walker? You guys got that project name from a game?" Graham said.

"Something like that, but different. You see, what I was used to working on was secret machinery that the Nazis were trying to build during World War 2. Hitler sought to use it, but building it cost so much money that he had to cancel their project of building their own secret weapon," the scientist said.

"What secret weapon? What are you talking about?" Muller said.

"Well..." the scientist said as he adjusted his glasses. "Are you all familiar with the theory of the missing link between apes and humans? No? Well, let me tell you, in a sort of way, what Hitler was trying to build, or now what Timothee is building, could be between the missing link between infantry and tankery... This so-called tank could be it that we are building," the scientist said.

"The tank is being called that you guys are building?" Elijah asked.

"Le Landkreuzer ou le rat à rouage métallique," the scientist said in French.

As the scientist's words hung in the air, Graham, Muller, and Elijah exchanged puzzled glances, trying to process the gravity of what they had just heard.

"A tank that bridges the gap between infantry and tankery? That sounds... ambitious," Graham remarked, his brow furrowed in thought.

Muller nodded in agreement, his expression serious. "If Timothee is truly working on something of that scale, it could change the landscape of tankery as we know it."

Elijah's mind raced with possibilities and concerns. "But why would Timothee pursue such a project? And what does he hope to achieve with it?"

The scientist sighed, his gaze distant as he contemplated the implications of his work. "I fear that Timothee's ambitions extend far beyond mere competition. He seeks power, control... and he's willing to go to any lengths to achieve it."

Amidst the chaos of the battle, three Panzer IVs and one Stug III formed a defensive circle alongside two T-34s, one IS-1, and one KV-8, with infantry troopers from the Werhmacht pushing back against the advancing forces of Lake Travis.

As Gunther watched his boys fall back, he turned his attention to the remaining armor of Pravda. Katyusha panicked inside her tank while Nonna, in her IS-1, fired and disabled one of Lake Travis's M10 tanks, prompting a white flag to pop out of its hatch.

"There are too many of them!" Katyusha cried.

"Gunther, we can't hold them off anymore. Where are Houston and his reinforcements?!" Nonna shouted over the radio.

Inside his Stug III tank, Gunther sat in silence, listening to the shouts of orders from his boys and the girls of Pravda. Despite their efforts, he struggled to come up with a plan.

"Hold the line for the Fatherland!" Captain Ludwig shouted as his men fired their airsoft weapons.

Meanwhile, Houston observed the last defense fighters of Pravda and North High School battling fiercely. Lowering his binoculars, he walked down from his vantage point with a plan in mind.

At the rally point, Houston gathered Jefferson, Maho, Miho, and Lex.

"Alright, listen up. Lake Travis High School is about to overrun Pravda and North High School. Miho and Maho, fight your way through the city and reach the others. Lex, I want your Firefly to create a distraction while I lead my forces in," Houston explained.

"Sounds like a great plan, but do you think General Cards is fighting alongside his boys?" Lex asked.

"Yes, they look up to him, believing that supporting Timothee will benefit them. Many new recruits join Lake Travis, Thomas Jefferson High, and Groton High School for that reason—they want to be on the winning side. But they don't understand what they're truly fighting for," Houston said.

"What do you fight for, Commander? What makes you different from any of us?" Lex inquired.

Houston looked away, the answer known only to himself. Glancing at the ongoing battle, he spoke again.

"We have to move now," Houston said as he walked away.

As the team cautiously approached the city, Sergeant Dean led his squad of Rangers, accompanied by the "Lone Star" Sherman tank, through the empty streets. They moved with precision, vigilant for any signs of enemy presence.

"Watch the windows and alleys. The enemy could be anywhere," Dean instructed, his airsoft M16A2 at the ready as he scanned their surroundings.

In the distance, an explosion echoed, causing Dean to raise his fist, signaling the squad and the tank to halt. Peering cautiously around a corner, Dean spotted a group of Lake Travis infantry boys gathered around their M10 tank. Quickly, he radioed in to Houston.

"Boss, we've got a tank a few clicks from our position, and we've got Reds protecting it. My team will handle them while you take out the tank," Dean reported.

"Copy that. See to it, Sergeant," Houston replied over the radio.

Dean slowly approached the group of Lake Travis infantry boys, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. As he got closer, he called out in a casual tone, "Hey fellas, you lost? Need directions back to the kiddie pool?"

The Lake Travis boys turned towards Dean, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm as they realized they were being ambushed. Before they could react, Dean's team sprang into action, swiftly taking out the infantry surrounding the tank with precision shots from their airsoft rifles.

Meanwhile, Houston and his crew maneuvered the "Lone Star" Sherman tank into position, targeting the M10 that had been hitting the flank side of the defenders. With practiced skill, they unleashed a barrage of airsoft rounds, strategically aiming for weak points on the enemy tank.

As the battle raged on, Captain Ludwig noticed a sudden absence of fire from their flank, prompting confusion until one of his boys alerted him to the presence of the Rangers.

"Captain! The Rangers are here!" the radio operator shouted.

Ludwig quickly grabbed the radio, listening intently to Dean's voice as he relayed their position and intentions.

"Werhmacht unit, this is Ranger 3-1. We have opened your flank. We're coming in. Watch your fire," Dean's voice crackled over the radio.

"Copy," Ludwig responded, relaying the message to his infantry boys. "Hold your fire from the flank side. We've got Rangers coming in."

As Dean and his team swiftly approached, Houston's tank followed closely behind, providing covering fire. A convoy of Humvees and Sherman tanks, with a Pershing tank providing cover fire, rolled in, adding to the chaos of the battlefield.

With pellets flying everywhere, Dean calmly walked up to Captain Ludwig and his remaining infantry boys of North High, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

"What's going on here, my German friend?" Dean asked, his demeanor relaxed despite the battle raging around them.

"Sergeant Dean, thank God you're here," Ludwig said, relief evident in his voice.

"I heard you guys need help to get out of here," Dean remarked, prompting a chuckle from Ludwig.

"Bring your wounded into the Humvees and start loading up," Dean instructed, his tone firm and decisive.

As Katyusha's voice crackled through the radio, Houston couldn't help but chuckle at her familiar tone, despite the dire circumstances.

"Finally took you some time, you Yankee!" Katyusha's voice came through, her frustration evident.

"Sorry, Katyusha, I was a bit busy on my end," Houston replied calmly over the radio.

"Busy? That's all you have to say?" Katyusha retorted, her tone still sharp.

Houston grinned at Katyusha's fiery attitude, finding her playful banter somewhat comforting amidst the chaos of battle. Meanwhile, inside the tank, Grant swiftly loaded another shell as Scott took aim and fired another anti-tank round at the M36 Jackson tank of Lake Travis. The sound of the shell ejecting echoed in the tank as Grant prepared to load another, while "Machine" continued to suppress the infantry with the machine gun, and Troy maneuvered the "Lone Star" to avoid incoming fire.

"Load me another one, Grant!" Scott yelled out.

"Argh! You're clear!" Grant responded as he loaded another shell into the breach.

"All the way!" Scott shouted as he fired again, the explosive sound reverberating through the tank as they continued their relentless assault on the enemy forces.

As General Cards observed the unfolding battle, his frustration simmered beneath the surface. He watched as Houston skillfully maneuvered his forces, effectively targeting and disabling key enemy assets. Yet, despite his tactical prowess, Houston had missed disabling Gunther's StuG III tank and had failed to neutralize Katyusha and Nonna's tanks, which irked Cards immensely.

But it wasn't just Houston's tactical oversights that bothered him; it was the very presence of the man himself. The "Dallas Incident hero," as he was often called, had become an iconic figure in the American Tankery League, revered by many. Cards couldn't fathom what made Houston so special, and it grated on him.

His resentment toward Houston had only intensified during Houston's coma following the attack on Davy Crockett High School. Cards had felt a sense of relief during that time, believing that Houston's absence would weaken the league's resolve. But now, seeing him back in action, his hatred flared anew.

As he watched more of his men fall and his tanks take hit after hit, Cards could no longer contain his frustration. With a clenched fist, he slammed it against the tank's armor, startling his crew members. Grabbing the intercom, he spoke, his voice laced with anger and determination, as he directed his message toward Houston and his crew.

"Houston!" Cards' voice boomed over the intercom, cutting through the chaos of battle. Houston's ears perked up, but he remained silent, listening intently.

"I see you're back, you damn hero," Cards continued, his tone dripping with contempt. "But let me tell you something, Houston. You and your little brother, you're nothing but troublemakers. Always stirring up trouble wherever you go."

Houston's jaw clenched at the mention of his brother, his emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

"And your little Red," Cards sneered, referring to Houston's younger brother. "Oh, we had so many plans for him, Houston. Jimmy, Timothee, and I, we were going to make him suffer for your insolence. But you had to come back, didn't you? Ruin everything."

Houston's grip tightened on the controls of his tank, his knuckles turning white. He could feel the rage building within him, but he forced himself to remain calm, to focus on the task at hand.

As Cards' tirade continued, Houston's restraint wavered. Memories of his brother flooded his mind, and the pain of past injustices threatened to consume him. With each word from Cards, Houston's anger grew, pushing him closer to the edge.

"You think you can just waltz back in here and act like you're some kind of hero?" Cards taunted, his voice dripping with malice. "Well, let me tell you something, Houston. You're nothing but a coward, hiding behind your so-called bravery."

Houston's vision blurred with fury as he tightened his grip on the controls, his knuckles turning white with the force of his anger. The insults hurled at him and his brother echoed in his mind, igniting a firestorm of rage within him.

In that moment, Houston snapped.

Removing his tankery helmet, Houston sat up from his commander seat and opened the command hatch of his M4A3E8 Sherman tank, shocking his crew with his sudden actions. As he stepped out of his tank, Houston knew he was breaking the usual protocols for S-Rank commanders, but he couldn't contain his anger any longer.

Cards watched with an evil smirk as Houston emerged from his tank and stood on top of it, ready to face him. With a sense of anticipation, Cards prepared to confront his rival, knowing that only one of them would emerge victorious from this showdown.

But before Cards could react, Houston pulled out two smoke canisters and tossed them to the ground, enveloping their surroundings in thick smoke. As the chaos ensued, Houston took advantage of the confusion and tackled Cards from behind, sending them both tumbling into a pool of mud.

Emerging from the mud, covered in filth but undeterred, Cards roared in anger, demanding Houston to face him.

"Houston! Show yourself! Face me, you fool! Then I'll show you your place, you damn murderer!" Cards bellowed.

Slowly rising from the mud, still covered in grime but defiant, Houston met Cards' gaze with steely determination.

"Alright... show me," Houston replied, his voice dripping with resolve.

As Card charged at Houston, fury burning in his eyes, he threw the first punch with all his strength. But Houston, quick on his feet, deftly deflected the blow, redirecting Card's fist away from him. Seizing the opportunity, Houston countered with a powerful punch to Card's face, followed by a barrage of strikes to his upper body.

However, Card swiftly caught Houston's left arm mid-swing and retaliated with a brutal punch to the head, followed by a series of blows that sent Houston stumbling backward into the mud. With determination blazing in his eyes, Houston quickly regained his footing, ready to continue the fight.

As Houston attempted to launch another attack, Card intercepted his punch, blocking it with precision. With a swift counterattack, Card delivered a powerful blow that sent Houston sprawling into the mud once again.

"You're getting weak, Houston! You're slow!" Cards taunted, his voice laced with scorn.

"Yeah, but we're all slow when we're thigh-high deep in mud," Houston retorted, his tone defiant despite the physical strain of the fight.

As Card threw two punches at Houston, he deftly sidestepped them, seizing the opportunity to slam his hands against Card's ears with precision. A sharp yelp escaped Card's lips as he staggered back, clutching his ears in pain. Houston didn't hesitate, delivering a swift roundhouse kick followed by punches to Card's stomach and head.

"And you're not too bright," Houston quipped as he pressed his advantage, landing blows with precision and speed. Despite the ringing in his ears, Card attempted to retaliate, but Houston blocked his punches and countered with strikes to his ribs.

The two continued to exchange blows, their movements fluid and calculated. Card managed to land a few hits, but Houston remained relentless, refusing to back down. With a well-aimed punch, Houston struck Card above the eye, causing blood to trickle down his brow.

Feeling the sting of the blow, Card chuckled defiantly, trying to brush off the injury.

"What was that?" Card scoffed, attempting to downplay the impact.

"Just the right kind of cut above the eye... The one that can bleed," Houston replied coolly, his words dripping with determination as he observed the blood beginning to flow from Card's wound.

As the intense showdown between Houston and Card unfolded, the surrounding battlefield fell eerily quiet. The boys from Davy Crockett, North High, and Lake Travis stood transfixed, their eyes locked on the fierce confrontation before them.

"What the hell is going on?" one of the Davy Crockett boys muttered, his voice tinged with confusion.

"I don't know, man. Looks like the Boss and Card are settling some kind of score," another replied, his brow furrowed in concern.

Meanwhile, the girls from Kuromorimine Girls' Academy and Ooarai Girls' Academy arrived on the scene, drawn by the sudden halt in the battle. They watched with interest, their eyes darting between Houston and Card as they exchanged blows.

"What's happening over there?" one of the Kuromorimine girls asked, her tone tinged with curiosity.

"I'm not sure, but it looks like some kind of duel," another replied, her gaze fixed on the unfolding spectacle.

As Card rose from the mud, he seized the opportunity to blind Houston temporarily by flinging a handful of mud at his face. Houston grunted as the mud struck him, momentarily obscuring his vision. Seizing the advantage, Card charged forward, unleashing a flurry of punches aimed at Houston's head and body.

Despite his impaired vision, Houston managed to evade some of the blows while absorbing others, his muscles tensed and ready for action. As Card swung another punch at Houston's head, the seasoned commander reacted swiftly, grabbing Card's right arm and deflecting the blow.

With precision and determination, Houston retaliated with a series of powerful punches to Card's ribs, each blow landing with a resounding thud. Ignoring the pain, Card attempted to block the onslaught, but Houston's relentless assault proved too much to bear.

In a decisive move, Houston aimed a devastating punch squarely at Card's face, the impact shattering his nose with a sickening crunch. Card grunted in agony, blood streaming from his broken nose and mingling with the mud beneath him. Despite the pain, he refused to back down, his eyes blazing with determination as he prepared to face whatever came next.

As the brutal fight between Houston and Card raged on, the spectators watched in awe and disbelief, their voices hushed as they witnessed the clash of titans unfold before them.

"Whoa, did you see that punch?" one of the Davy Crockett boys exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Yeah, Houston's really giving it to him," another replied, his fists clenched in excitement.

The girls from Kuromorimine and Ooarai exchanged tense whispers, their eyes glued to the spectacle before them.

"This is intense," one of the Kuromorimine girls murmured, her voice tinged with admiration.

"I can't believe they're fighting like this," another Ooarai girl added, her breath catching in her throat.

In the stands overlooking the battlefield, the parents and officials of the American Tankery League watched the live footage of the intense showdown between Houston and Card unfold on the huge projector screen. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd as they witnessed the brutal exchange of blows between the two commanders.

"Goodness, they're really going at it," one parent exclaimed, her hands clasped tightly together as she watched the screen with bated breath.

"I hope they don't get too injured," another parent added, their eyes glued to the screen in concern.

The officials exchanged tense glances, their expressions grim as they monitored the situation closely. This unexpected turn of events had caught them off guard, and they knew they would have to assess the repercussions once the dust settled.

As Card's punch connected with Houston's jaw, sending him crashing to the ground, a collective gasp echoed through the crowd. The parents and officials watched in shock as Houston struggled to rise, his determination evident despite the blow.

"He dusted. General Card dusted him," remarked one of the Lake Travis boys, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and triumph.

But not everyone was ready to count Houston out. "Our Boss isn't dusted. You'll see!" countered one of the Davy Crockett boys, his voice filled with unwavering faith in their commander.

As Card approached Houston, a smug grin spreading across his face, he grabbed Houston by the collar, convinced that victory was within his grasp.

"You're finished, Houston," Card taunted, his voice dripping with contempt.

But Houston had other plans. With lightning speed, he delivered an unexpected headbutt that sent Card staggering backward, momentarily stunned.

"You don't get it, do you?" Houston shouted, his voice ringing out across the battlefield. "This isn't a mud hole that we're in."

With determination blazing in his eyes, Houston charged forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. As Card attempted to retaliate with a punch, Houston deftly caught his arm and delivered a devastating right hook to Card's face, sending blood splattering across the muddy ground.

Wrapping both arms around Card's body, Houston executed a flawless suplex, slamming Card into the mud with bone-jarring force. As Card struggled to rise, Houston pinned him down, his grip unyielding.

"It's an operating table," Houston declared, his voice cold and unforgiving. "And I'm the surgeon."

With calculated precision, Houston immobilized Card's right arm, causing excruciating pain as he dislocated it. The sound of Card's agonized cries filled the air, echoing across the battlefield as Houston asserted his dominance with ruthless efficiency.

As Card writhed in agony from the dislocated arm, Houston wasted no time in delivering a barrage of punishing blows, each one landing with precision and force. With every punch, the sound of impact reverberated through the air, punctuated by Card's cries of pain.

Spectators watched in stunned silence as Houston unleashed his fury upon his opponent, his movements swift and relentless. The ferocity of his assault left no doubt about his intentions – he was determined to emerge victorious at any cost.

But Houston wasn't finished yet. With a calculated precision, he shifted his focus to Card's left leg, seizing it in a vice-like grip. With a swift and deliberate motion, he applied just the right amount of force, dislocating Card's leg with a sickening snap.

The sound echoed across the battlefield, sending shockwaves through the crowd. Gasps of horror and disbelief filled the air as spectators struggled to comprehend the ruthless efficiency with which Houston had incapacitated his opponent.

For a moment, the battlefield fell silent, the gravity of the situation sinking in. As Card lay on the ground, writhing in pain, Houston stood over him, his expression stoic and unwavering.

As the realization of Card's defeat sank in, a sense of disbelief swept through the ranks of the Lake Travis tankers and infantry. Whispers of astonishment rippled through their ranks as they struggled to come to terms with the outcome of the battle.

"He beat General Card," one of the Lake Travis boys murmured, his voice tinged with awe.

"So he did. He truly earned his S Rank spot in Tankery," another replied, his tone tinged with respect.

As the gravity of the situation became apparent, a sense of futility washed over the Lake Travis troops. With their leader defeated, their morale plummeted, and many began to question the purpose of continuing the fight.

"What's the use of fighting now?" one of them muttered, his voice heavy with resignation.

The sentiment quickly spread among the ranks, and soon, a wave of surrender swept through the Lake Travis forces. Airsoft weapons clattered to the ground as tank crews emerged from their vehicles, their hands raised in surrender.

As the tank convoy rumbled along the road, Houston and his crew were deep in conversation about their next move. They were en route to rendezvous with Commander Wesley and Darjeeling, who had formulated a plan to take on General Jimmy and Timothee.

But their journey was abruptly interrupted when a deafening explosion rocked the convoy, causing the tanks to shudder violently. Panic gripped the crew as they scrambled to assess the situation.

"What the hell was that?!" Grant shouted, his voice filled with alarm.

"It damn ARL 44 tank!" Troy exclaimed.

But Houston quickly realized the truth. "No, it isn't. We ran over a damn mine," he declared, his tone firm and decisive.

As the crew members checked in with each other, Houston wasted no time in investigating the damage. Climbing out of his tank, he inspected the area where the explosion had occurred, confirming his suspicions.

Sure enough, Houston discovered that their tank had hit a mine, despite the fact that such tactics were banned in the rules of the American Tankery League. It was clear to him that Timothee was willing to bend the rules to achieve his objectives.

Turning to Grant, who was assessing the damage to the tank's tracks, Houston sought his expertise. "How bad is it?" he inquired, his voice tinged with urgency.

Grant grimaced as he surveyed the damage. "Well, it's broke as hell," he admitted.

Undeterred, Houston pressed on. "Can you fix it?" he asked, his eyes locked on Grant, awaiting his response.

With a determined nod, Grant retrieved his tool pack from the back of the tank, ready to tackle the daunting task of repairing the damage. 

As Sergeant Lex emerged from his hatch, concern etched across his feature.

"Baas, gaat het goed?!" Sergeant Lex called out.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just hit a mine," Houston replied calmly, though his mind was already racing with thoughts of their next steps.

Addressing the rest of the crew, Houston swiftly shifted into commander mode. "Alright boys, get your tanks into defensive positions while Grant finishes fixing mine," he ordered, his voice carrying authority and determination.

"Yes, sir," came the resolute response from one of the crew members, echoing the sense of urgency in Houston's command.

Turning his attention to Machine, Houston issued his next set of instructions. "Machine, get over here," he called out, gesturing for the crew member to join him.

As Machine approached, Houston handed him an airsoft Thompson and a pack of snacks, outlining his assigned post. "Head up to the top of the hill near the trees. You have outpost duty to guard," Houston directed, his tone firm but supportive.

"Can I grab my canteen, sir?" Machine inquired, eager to ensure he had all necessary provisions for his task.

Houston nodded in approval. "Yes, you can. And remember, stay alert and work your way up to the trees," he emphasized, conveying the importance of vigilance in their precarious situation.

As time passed and Machine finally reached his post in the treeline, he settled down by a sturdy tree, preparing to keep watch. As he reached for his granola bar, he suddenly heard a faint sound approaching.

Instantly alert, Machine grabbed his airsoft weapon and cautiously peered out from behind the tree. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight before him. Quickly packing up his kit, he moved swiftly, keeping low to the ground as he made his way back to the "Lone Star."

What Machine had witnessed was the entire force of Groton High School, their infantry clad in French uniforms, marching in formation. A multitude of ARL-44 tanks and Emperor Timothee's formidable AMX-30 tank accompanied them, a daunting sight that sent shivers down Machine's spine.

As Machine hurried back to the "Lone Star," his breaths ragged from the urgency of his mission, Houston and the others awaited his report. Perched atop the tank, Houston smoked his cigarette, a picture of calm amidst the mounting tension.

Upon Machine's arrival, his words sent a ripple of concern through the crew. "Hey!" he shouted, drawing their attention.

Houston turned his gaze to Machine, his expression expectant. "Well, Machine, why aren't you at your post?" he inquired, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

"They're coming... Groton High School, sir," Machine exclaimed, his words rushed as he struggled to catch his breath.

Houston's brow furrowed in concern. "Who's coming?" he pressed, seeking clarity amidst the chaos.

"Groton High, boss," Machine replied, his voice trembling with the weight of his revelation.

"How many?" Houston demanded, his tone firm and decisive.

Machine hesitated, grappling with the enormity of the situation. "Um... all of them. The whole force," he finally managed to utter, his words hanging heavy in the air.

As Houston turned to face the dirt trail with Scott, Grant, Troy, and Machine, he knew what he had to do. Though they were reluctant to leave him behind, Houston insisted that they evacuate and head to the rally point where Jefferson and the others were waiting.

"You guys should get out of here," Houston urged, his tone firm.

The crew of the "Lone Star" was shocked by his directive, but Houston remained resolute. "I know, but now I understand why Timothee is coming here... He wants me," he explained.

As Scott, Grant, Troy, and Machine hesitated, Houston pressed them to leave. "Then leave her here... Go with Lex and the others, hitch a ride with them to the rally point," he ordered, motioning for them to depart.

Reluctantly, the crew obeyed, joining Lex and the other tanks as they departed the scene. Left alone on the trail, Houston turned his attention to his M4A3E8 Sherman tank. With a heavy heart, he removed his tankery jacket and equipment, revealing the stealth suit he wore underneath.

Stowing his uniform inside the tank, Houston retrieved a small crate containing an airsoft M16A2 and a tranquilizer Mk.22 pistol. Equipping his weapons, he prepared himself for the imminent confrontation with Timothee's forces.

As the sound of marching grew closer, Houston moved to the side of the road, lying flat on his stomach, camouflaged against the earth. 

Finally, after a few minutes passed, Houston remained prone on the ground as he heard the voices of many Groton infantry boys inspecting the disabled "Lone Star" tank. They concluded that it had been abandoned and reported their findings to Emperor Timothee, who emerged from his tank to assess the situation.

"It seems that they abandoned this tank," one of the infantrymen informed Timothee.

"So it seems... Let's see how they fare without it," Timothee replied, directing one of the ARL-44 tanks to tow the "Lone Star" back to their base. As the tank crews worked on securing Houston's tank, he carefully moved in a crouched position towards a nearby supply truck, avoiding detection.

Crouching behind the truck, Houston watched as his tank was towed away, his heart pounding in his chest. Once the coast was clear, he climbed onto the back of the truck and quickly hid under a cardboard box, keeping himself out of sight.

Meanwhile, a messenger ran up to Timothee, reporting urgent news.

"Your Majesty! General Jimmy of Thomas Jefferson High School reports that our base is under siege!" the messenger exclaimed.

"What?! Damn Jimmy... I told him not to be cocky against Commander Graham and Vice Commander Joey. Very well, we'll have to support him and push out those dirty rats. Let's move!" Timothee commanded, rallying his forces to respond to the threat.