The Sanglier Mk V sat half-born in the dim belly of Warehouse C, its armored flank still unpainted, its turret bare like a knight missing his helm. Around it, Leclerc Works thrummed with sleepless intensity. Sparks flew from grinders, welders stitched seams shut with white-hot arcs, and engineers argued over exhaust port placements in clipped, exhausted tones.
It was day one of four.
"We finish this," Emil said, tightening the collar of his soot-streaked coat, "or Paris will fall before summer."
No one questioned him.
They had seen what the last Sanglier could do. And what the German Feuerschreit had done in reply.
A Machine Awakes
Marianne oversaw the engine bay integration, her arms black to the elbows with grease and molten sealant. The new combustion core—Emil's hybrid design, years ahead of its time—was installed into the Mk V's hull under a shroud of paranoia. Every bolt was inspected. Every gasket cross-checked. Roland paced the testing gantry with a revolver tucked beneath his coat.
At 10:17 a.m., the ignition coils lit for the first time.
The Sanglier Mk V rumbled.
"Still rough," Marianne shouted over the rising growl. "But it's alive."
The sound was different—lower, angrier, deeper than its predecessors. Emil stood near the control panel, his palm pressed to the steel.
"This isn't just a tank anymore," he murmured. "It's a declaration."
Henriette's Mission
Meanwhile, Henriette rode south with a military convoy under false orders to Rouen, disguised as a logistics supervisor for the Ministry of Agriculture.
They passed checkpoints with forged documents, bribes, and a forged requisition form stamped with the seal of General Joffre himself.
The objective: a private oil depot controlled by the Deveraux Consortium, known for hoarding fuel stocks in secret contracts with American buyers.
"We'll need three tankers," Henriette told the convoy captain. "Petrol grade above 92. Any less and the Mk V doesn't move."
"And if they refuse?" the man asked.
Henriette tapped the pistol beneath her cloak. "Then we nationalize them. By force."
At the depot gates, Deveraux guards raised their rifles.
Möbius Returns
Back at Leclerc Works, Emil returned to his office to find Möbius sitting behind his desk.
"You'll want to lock your windows better," the agent said, sipping tea like he owned the room.
"You have thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn't hang you by your boots from the smokestack."
Möbius chuckled. "Because I'm the only one left who can broker a deal that keeps Berlin from flattening this factory."
He slid a dossier across the desk. Inside were maps, schedules, and a list of assets marked for sabotage—including Emil's own home address in Caen.
"A man like you," Möbius said, "doesn't fear bullets. But everyone fears fire."
"Get out," Emil said coldly.
"Think it over. My offer stands."
He left the way he came—like smoke slipping through stone.
A Clash in Rouen
Back in Rouen, Henriette and her convoy faced off with Deveraux's private guards under a cloudy sky.
"This is Ministry property now," she shouted, brandishing her forged documents. "In the name of the Republic."
"You don't have that authority," the depot foreman said.
"Then go fetch someone who does. You have ten seconds."
When the guards raised their rifles, her men raised theirs faster. A brief standoff. Then a shout—"Stand down!"—from inside the depot.
Deveraux himself emerged, cigar in hand, his expensive coat spattered with grease.
"So," he said with a sigh, "the Iron Widow comes for my barrels."
"Your hoarding ends today."
"And if I call your bluff?"
Henriette pulled the trigger on a flare gun. A bright green light arced over the depot.
Within minutes, the convoy rolled in. Three tankers siphoned the fuel. By nightfall, Leclerc Works would have enough high-grade petrol for five Sanglier units.
"You'll regret this," Deveraux said.
"Only if we lose," Henriette replied.
The Assembly Race
Back at Leclerc, time moved like a hammer.
Day turned to night. Night to morning. The Sanglier Mk V began to resemble something terrifying—its hull reinforced with angled deflection plating, its modular suspension allowing for trench traversal, and its main turret housing a dual-feed autocannon designed by Emil himself.
On day three, Emil slept for forty minutes in a folding chair and woke up mid-dream, shouting orders.
"Fuel mixture has to run leaner," he told Marianne. "We'll never reach operating temp otherwise."
"I already did it," she muttered, handing him coffee. "Go yell at someone else."
By the end of day three, the Sanglier moved under its own power for 500 meters across the test yard.
It was loud.
It was imperfect.
It was ready enough.
The Philosophy of Iron
That night, Emil gathered his core team in the upper catwalk overlooking the vehicle.
"This is the last one," he said.
Everyone stared.
"No more models. No more lines. No more revisions. This tank wins us the war or dies trying."
Bruno lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. "It's a beast."
"It's not a beast," Emil replied. "It's a promise. We don't build machines to conquer. We build to outlast. Understand that."
Henriette nodded, her eyes heavy but burning with pride.
"If this doesn't work," she said softly, "they'll bury us under the rubble."
"Then let's leave them steel to trip on."
Deployment Orders
At dawn on day four, Colonel Varin arrived with a sealed envelope.
"Confirmed sighting of the Feuerschreit convoy. Crossing near Vitry-le-François. Five days until they reach Paris rail lines."
He looked at the Mk V, then back at Emil.
"You only finished one?"
"We only need one."
"You'll have no support. No artillery. Just that thing and your engineers."
"Then tell Berlin to bring more than one dragon."
Varin paused, then handed him a rail pass, stamped with emergency wartime priority.
"The last time I gave one of these," he said, "it was for food relief. Now it's for a tank."
"Not a tank," Emil corrected. "A turning point."