- [Vehicle Recovery Team - Spirit World Beachhead] -
The beach air is thick with the brine of salt, and the distant echoes of battle off deeper in the heartlands of the spirit world as the assault begins to close in on Tango Prime. Out here, back by the cratered shoreline where it all began, things are quieter. The crash of the tidal surf against the edge of the world seems to mock the efforts of four soldiers who stand before a tank, half-submerged in the silty sands — stubbornly obstinate. The tank lies like a beached whale, its steel hull gaping where a demonic fireball crashed into the front just after its landing. The damn things were too heavy for the shoreline here; it was a total miscalculation from command. Most of the tanks were rendered useless because of it, barring a few that managed to secure lucky footing on their way off the boats. Seaweed clings to the metal, strands of it fluttering in the wind like hair tossed back in defeat. The recovery team stares at it. It’s their job to get it out of this mess and back into the motor pool, so it can be refitted for duty by the mechanics there. The beachhead stretches thin, a taut line of sand and sea under a sky smudged with gray and gold.
“…Let’s hope this thing doesn’t have a mind of its own like the last one,” Lance Corporal Murkark mutters as he squats in the sand, dusting his hands before moving to the mechanical winch attached to the landing craft. He glances at the tank disdainfully, a mix of pride and frustration tightening his brow. “Damn thing was more stubborn than my old uncle. Rest his soul.”
Private Capari chuckles softly, his green, sand-dusted cloak fluttering in the gentle breeze. “Maybe it was simply enjoying the view,” he replies, a playful smile on his lips. He moves closer to examine the tank, fingers brushing against its rusting surface. “It makes sense since it only started to make way after it saw your ugly mug.”
“Hardy har har. Get the shovel and start digging, Private,” orders Murkark, pointing at the soft sand at the back of the tank. They need to create a ramp behind it to make retrieving it easier. Most of the tanks have started to sink since they've been here.
The air is thick with stillness, fragmented only by the distant sirens of war, faint and muffled. Anya, her expression serious yet earnest, kneels beside the tank’s tread, brushing the sand away with uselessly tender strokes. “Let’s not get personal now, boys,” she states, her voice steady against the encroaching uncertainty as the distant echoes of conflict wrap around them. "Let's just get it out and back to the motor pool so we can get back too,” she explains, looking around. “Hate this place,” mutters the elf, looking at the spirit world, at the waves that crash outward from the shore toward the ocean, and at the oblong, egg-shaped sun that floats in a weave through the webbed sky. “Everything is just wrong here.”
“Ah, yes, the motor pool,” Capari interjects, perched against the tank’s flank with arms crossed, his silver hair glowing in the soft illumination of the sun. “A lovely place for rusty relics and dreadful memories, so we’ll drop you off there with the tank,” he quips.
“Private. Shovel!” barks the elf at him. Everyone hates Capari. He has a fairy's knack for mischief, but only half the personality of one.
He sighs, sinking the shovel’s blade in behind the tank. “…Nobody has a sense of humor out on the field,” says the man, shaking his head.
Murkark hurries to the winch, securing the thick rope that binds it to the tank. “We need to be cautious here, dumbass,” he warns, glancing over his shoulder at the horizon where shadows linger ominously. “One wrong move, and this whole endeavor could go south. Gods knows if there still aren’t some demons lurking in the area that the patrols have missed.”
A fourth soldier, the squad's designated wizard, sitting behind them on the edge of the hatch of the open-faced landing boat they’ve arrived in, shrugs. “Exactly. Let’s finish up here already,” she adds in a low voice, her hand over her eyes as she scans the shoreline. “I wanna get back to a world with only one moon.”
“They exploded, you know — the moons. Weirdest shit,” mutters Capari, staring up at the sky for a moment. It’s filled with debris and rubble that float through the day like listless meteors.
“Yeah, I know. I was there, idiot. We all were,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Dig, Private,” she orders, sitting there with idle hands. The man sighs, scooping out sand and throwing it back into the water.
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As the sun dips lower an hour later, casting long shadows across the beach, the squad wizard steps back, gathering energy around herself. The air tingles with magic, and a wind rises as she channels it into the ropes binding the tank, bestowing them with a strengthening enchantment. A glow emanates from her fingers, illuminating their faces with a soft, verdant light that dances across the grains of sand. “Hold steady for a moment,” she commands, a hand resting on the landing craft’s winch mechanism. “On my mark...”
One by one, they place their hands on the rope, their fingers gripping tightly. “A little teamwork goes a long way, boys,” Murkark declares. Capari shoots him a dirty look, throwing the shovel down to the sands. Either this works, or they’ll be stuck here for another five hours at least.
“Now!” calls the elf the boat, pulling the lever. The anchored landing craft lurches, the ropes tightening immediately as the winch begans to tug the steel tank, the others using guiding secondary ropes to try and adjust tension in the straps. With a united effort, they pull. The rope strands strain, muscles quaking but steadfast, as they work the tank out of its sandy grave. With a grating screech of metal as something on the machine moves in a manner not conform to design specifications, the tank finally stirs, teetering dangerously for a heartbeat before breaking free, its weight shifting abruptly.
A collective cheer fills the air, blending with the squawking seabirds woven into the backdrop of the scene. The winch shifts and grinds to life, tugging the tank toward the landing craft, water splashing faintly as the vessel sways. With one last powerful heave, the sand-filled and partially flooded tank lurches onto the boat, a quiet thud filling the air as it settles into place apart from the water that leaks out of its internals.
“Another one down,” says the wizard, sighing as she wipes her forehead and gets onto the boat, as the four of them unachor it, close the hatch, and begin to drift out back to the portal.
A few idle gazes turn back for a second, looking at the beach and the rest of the several dozen tanks still stuck there.
“…At least we have work,” says Murkark, the rest of them sighing.
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- [World Tree Motor Pool - World Tree City] -
The workshop door closes, and the recovery team leaves.
Four oil-and-grease-stained priestesses struggle with the bent metal and broken parts of a once-formidable tank that is now right in the middle of the motor pool, dripping like a soggy corpse all over the concrete floor. Wearing regulation utilitarian jumpsuits, their priestesses robes are covered with dust and hang over the rack on the wall by the door. Robes are extremely dangerous when working with machinery; there are too many flappy and loose pieces that can get caught in all manner of things. Their jumpsuits are marred with the marks of hours spent in narrow, engine-tight quarters. The holy-church had insisted that, if their people needed to wear anything else other than their traditional clothes, they should at least carry the colors of such. Unfortunately, white with gold threading lends itself poorly to the work of a heavy mechanic, and now the new jumpsuits have essentially turned black from oil. It was a poorly thought out idea that looked amazing in the design boardroom but was terrible in real practice. Their charmed talismans are hanging around their necks, tucked into their uniforms — vestiges of their old temple life — and the air smells strongly of gasoline, perspiration, and occasionally incense.
Her platinum hair quickly pulled back in a dirty ponytail. Sister Redberry groans as she drives a wrench onto a tough bolt. She huffs and rolls her eyes. "- I'm telling you," she starts, her voice tight but firm. "Exactly that is the marital pledge, 'until death do us part'. It finishes when one partner passes away. It has no meaning if they happen to return as undead afterward. A woman and her now-a-zombie-husband are, in essence, unrelated except that they knew each other once,” she argues matter of factly. “Their marital vow was fulfilled on his death, and, so, the bind between their souls is released. The deal is done. It’s over. Undeath is not relevant to a marriage.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"That's ridiculous," Sister Tulip snaps from the side, her blazing red hair almost visible under a soiled bandana. Her hands are skillfully reconnecting broken cables with a flick of her wrist as she stands knee-deep in the shredded inside of the tank, making sure nobody gets electrocuted by any frizzled wires or batteries. "The expression is merely a platitude. Death is only another way to be. The spirit world is real. Undeath is only a change of pace, not the final end,” she retorts. “The marital pledge keeps on forever into eternity, zombie, ghost, or living.”
Her face veiled behind a smudge-rich sheen of filth, Sister Ceder snorts in scorn from her position under the tank, trying to detach a bent piece of the old drive shaft. “Would you like to be married to a zombie? Look, they're not the same person anymore. They are — well — they are something entirely different than what they were.”
A new groan comes as Sister Wacholder, the forth priestess of the troop, loosens bolts in one of the tank's external plates; she is a half-elf with precisely braided black hair that has managed to keep reasonably clean despite the anarchy — it might just be that the oil isn’t visible in it. Shaking her head to herself, she obviously finds the religious arguments somewhat frustrating, but she's always been the least zealous of her sisters. "Why does this even matter today? Shouldn't we concentrate on this tank? None of us are allowed to get married anyway, so why do you three care?” she asks, turning a long wrench with both hands as she glares at them.
“I heard they’re loosening that marriage rule now, with the war and the population crisis and all that,” remarks Redberry from the side. A few awkward embaressed gazes travel around the workshop. The topic of dating amomgst the priestesses of the holy-church is usually pretty embaressing to work through, because of everyone's naivity on the matter, given church rules for people of the faith.
At this, the three other debating priestesses stop briefly to exchange unpleasant looks but unwillingly nod before returning to work in produtive silence that lasts for about three minutes.
"- But think about it," Redberry says, opening up the can of worms again as she removes and replaces a damaged control panel with trained ease. "Where would we draw the line if promises held beyond death?” she asks. “My little brother died in the war, and he promised to take me to the north to see the ocean before. Should I dig him up so that we can go together now?” she asks, setting aside the piece of the tank on a metal workshop table. “Surely not.”
Rising from the turbine of the tank, Tulip flashes brilliant green eyes. "Those are rather distinct examples from one another!” she argues, wiping her sweaty face onto her shoulder, a flash of red hair flicking out of the side of her headband. “Your cute promise doesn’t compare to the soul-tying pledge given in a marriage. Of course, you should let your brother rest in peace, Redberry. Ceder?” she asks, down below the tank.
Ceder, her body wet with perspiration and oil, pushes herself out from behind the tank with an annoyed groan as she slides out on a small wooden board with wheels that she is lying on, clutching a battered sprocket wrench. "I’m trying to concentrate on putting this new tread in place down here,” she says. “Let’s just shelf this for later, okay?”
"Look! If you are so eager for an ecclesiastical declaration, why not simply ask the Mother Superior tonight at the mess hall?” suggests Wacholder dryly. “But right this minute, despite our training, we are currently mechanics, not sisters of the cloth,” she sternly scolds, looking around at the other three who slink away. Ceder quietly slides back below the tank.
Such philosophical debates aren’t exactly uncommon here, but they do get in the way now and then. The tension hangs heavy for a while before another explosion in the distance from the artillery training center momentarily rattles the ground under them.
They all go back to work on their own assignments with fresh attention. Redberry closes connections among the consoles, while Tulip fixes leaks in hydraulic lines with spells she modified from healing prayers and some mechanical knowledge she picked up from the now-deceased inventor Uhrmacher. Ceder fixes the new tread with deliberate accuracy, and Wacholder conducts tests on the rebuilt areas using a makeshift magical interface. The tank wasn’t terribly damaged by Tango, but the salt water sure did its part. A lot of the tank’s internals need to be refitted entirely, even if they never felt even a whisper of combat.
It will be a full night of work.
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“I got it!” From below, as she finishes bolting down one more panel, Ceder yells triumphantly, kicking herself out from below the machine. On her roller-board, she slides on her back over to Wacholder, who stops her with a boot.
Hours later, the tank roars back to life as the sun rises, throwing the motor pool into deeper shadows, lighted irregularly by flickering lamps hung overhead like exhausted fireflies after a full night. Through their skilled work, the once-dead engine coughs once, then purrs naturally.
Four stand back, appreciative yet worn out, and gaze at their recreation.
"Think it will hold?" Wacholder asks while almost ceremonially wiping dirt from her face, but only smudging the oil even further over her cheeks.
Redberry nods at last and breaks into a rare smile among grime-streaked features. “Oh, sure,” she affirms. Though their personal arguments remained unresolved, they all had happy smiles. “Like a married zombie returned to life.”
“Oh, come on!” barks Sister Tulip, looking her way. “I thought we ended this hours ago.”
Redberry shrugs. “I’m just saying,” she mutters quietly.
"Well, stop saying things,” sighs Ceder, a trail of vapor leaving her mouth as it enters the cold air of the workshop. She shudders, rubbing her arms. “…Didn’t realize it had gotten so cold all of a sudden,” mutters the woman.
“We’re probably just tired,” says Redberry, covering her mouth and yawning obnoxiously loudly as she finishes that sentence.
A biting chill slices through the air, penetrating the layers of grime layered on the priestesses' skin as they gather around the resurrected tank, its engine throbbing to life beneath their touch. Together, the four priestesses pause for a moment, glancing uneasily at one another. Shadows dance on the cracked concrete floor, cast by flickering lights that almost seem to dim in response to the cold aura wafting through the space. Then it materializes — a ghostly figure emerging slowly from the shadows above the tank’s open hatch. First faint, like a wisp of smoke, it gradually gains form, revealing the translucent outline of a soldier clad in tattered remnants of his uniform — faded insignia barely visible against the spectral glow of his presence. His dark, soulless eyes seem to pierce through the veil of the motor pool, searching for something beyond.
Tulip's breath catches in her throat, her heart racing as the reality of their situation strikes deep. “Ghost,” she mutters quietly, tugging on Wacholder's sleeve.
“…What in the name of all that is holy?” whispers Ceder, voice barely above a tired mumble.
“GHOST!” yells Tulip, panicking and tugging fully on the rest of Wacholder's arm now, the half-elf wobbling around on one leg as she tries to keep her balance.
The ghost’s lips flutter soundlessly, its fingerless gloved hands unconsciously reaching for phantom controls.
Panic unfurls among the priestesses. “It's a ghost!” Redberry shouts, collecting herself, staggering backward, nearly tripping over a toolbox discarded earlier. “We have to exorcise it!”
Without hesitation, instinct and years of temple training take over their actions. The four women instinctively begin chanting their respective exorcism rites, voices rising in a wild harmony that overtakes the grumbling of the tank’s idle engine. The tank starts to lurch, with the soldier’s ghost manipulating the controls. The tread starts to move, and the turret starts to sway toward them as if it were readying to fire a shell inside of the motor pool. Their fingertips blaze with holy energy, tracing intricate symbols of protection in the chilled air. “Rest, spirit! You won’t find peace here!” Tulip shouts, her voice resonating with equal parts terror and resolve. “Return to the realm you now belong to!”
The ghost flails, crawling out of the hatch. Given his charred and melted appearance, one can only assume that he was the driver who got hit with an unlucky explosion. His mouth opens, moving in disconnection with the sound of his words. “My wife -” he howls, his voice echoing within the chaos, distinct from it all, as if it were coming from a different plane than the voices of the priestesses or the tank’s engine. “Please tell her th-”
Redberry stops her casting. “- Wait! Wait!” she calls, yanking the others’ arms down. She runs toward the side of the rolling tank, walking in a half-jog alongside it as the ghost clings out of the hole it had died in.
All of them stop their casting at once.
“Really?” asks Wacholder, sighing.
“My wife…” starts the ghost again, trying to make a final request.
Redberry shushes it with a finger. “Wait, before that, let me ask you something important,” starts Redberry, holding onto the side of the tank as she looks at the shimmering ghost. “Now that you’re dead, do you still consider yourself marri-”
“- Red!” snaps Ceder, cutting her off. “Have some respect for the dead!”
Redberry points an accusing finger back at her. “I am respecting the dead by listening to their opinion on the matter, Ceder,” she shoots back in a snarky tone.
The ghost reaches out for her, a frigid off-blue hand trying to grasp her skin but falling through as it isn’t corporeal. “Please tell her that I-”
“- That you still consider your marriage vows valid even after death?” finishes Redberry for it, yelling loudly as a pair of hands grab her from behind and throw her to the ground.
“- That she can move on and be a free woman again?” interjects Tulip, offering her own end to the request.
The ghost flickers and shimmers, the tank rolling forward. “No, please tell her that -”
— The tank crashes through the back wall of the motor pool, breaking straight through the concrete. The priestesses scramble for cover, hiding below tables and benches as a part of the roof collapses, sheet metal falling down all around them. As the dust settles, they watch the idle tank proceed on out of the motor pool grounds, crash through a chainlink fence, and then drive straight off of the cliff-side edge of the world tree mesa.
Everything falls silent in the workshop. Then, three of the four priestesses look back at each other and start bickering and then fighting with each other in a more physical way.
The fourth one grabs a radio. “…Hey, vehicle recovery team?” asks Wacholder in a very tired voice as she watches the other three scratch, claw, and bite like a bunch of goblins fighting over a pretty shell they found. “Yeah, it’s me. Gonna need you to come back here again,” she sighs, setting the receiver back down, grabbing a pack of cigarettes, and making her way out of the new back door while she waits.