The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving the factory yard damp and steaming under a gray, overcast sky. A dozen workers milled about the gravel lot, murmuring in anticipation. The ground was thick with the scent of oil, damp earth, and coal smoke—an odd mixture of old and new, like the factory itself.
At the center of the yard sat a hulking metal creature: the Sanglier Mk I.
It looked nothing like the sleek, cannon-lined visions drawn by Parisian inventors or the naval-inspired blueprints coming out of Britain. No, this machine was angular, practical—brutal. A riveted beast with low-slung armor, thick treads, and a squat turret that jutted forward like the snout of a boar.
Bruno stood next to it, wiping grime from his calloused hands as he eyed the exhaust valve. "If it doesn't explode," he muttered, "it'll be a miracle."
"It's not going to explode," Emil said, pacing nearby. "We ran pressure simulations last night."
"On paper," Bruno snapped. "Paper doesn't scream when a drive shaft shears into the hull."
A few of the workers chuckled nervously. Henriette, arms crossed beneath her shawl, didn't.
"It had better not explode," she said. "Or I'm billing your ghost for the insurance."
Prepping the Beast
The prep team scrambled into action. Coal was shoveled into the boiler's side compartment to assist the combustion startup. The custom hybrid engine had been coaxed into function with spare parts from tractor ignitions and marine batteries. Emil himself had rewired half the system after midnight, his hands still blackened with grease.
Bruno opened the driver's hatch and shouted, "Guillaume, you ready?"
A muffled voice echoed from inside. "Aye! Controls are tight but stable!"
The engine coughed once. Then again. The crowd leaned in. A flicker of blue-gray smoke rose from the rear vent, and then—
CHUG.
CHUG-CHUG.
BRRRRRUUUUMMMM.
The Sanglier roared to life.
The sound was like nothing anyone had heard before. It wasn't the gentle whine of an automobile or the rhythmic pulse of a steam engine. It was a fusion of both—loud, throaty, and angry. A war cry forged in steel.
The First Movement
Slowly, the treads began to rotate. The metal beast shuddered, rattled, then rolled forward—five meters, then ten. Gravel crunched beneath its weight. The turret squealed as it rotated on its mount, jerking to the left, then centering itself with a satisfying click.
The workers erupted into applause. Even Bruno, who had prepared for death by explosion, allowed himself a crooked smile.
"Well I'll be damned."
The Sanglier climbed over a row of sandbags with relative ease. Its angled armor helped it push past low obstacles. The treads adapted to uneven terrain, gripping the earth with a stubbornness that impressed even the doubters.
At the far end of the yard, a shallow trench had been dug as part of the test route. Guillaume brought the tank to a halt just before it.
Emil raised a hand. "Forward!"
With a mechanical growl, the Sanglier dipped its front hull and descended into the trench. For a breathless second, the treads slipped.
Then it surged forward, climbing up the opposite embankment and out.
An Audience of Skeptics
At the edge of the yard stood a black automobile with its engine idling.
Inside stood Colonel Louis Varin, flanked by a pair of aides. His expression was unreadable, arms behind his back as he watched the demonstration.
"It moves," one of the aides muttered.
"And it turns," said the other.
"But will it survive artillery?" Varin asked aloud.
Emil approached, wiping his hands on a rag. "Nothing survives direct artillery, Colonel. But this will get men across trenches, over barbed wire, and past machine guns."
"If it holds up under real combat."
"Then let me prove it."
Cracks in the Iron
That afternoon, the Sanglier was hauled back into the warehouse for post-test inspection. Spirits were high. Workers drank from shared bottles. A few even sang songs from the countryside.
But not everyone was celebrating.
Henriette noticed it first—several rivets along the starboard side had been loosened, barely visible unless one knew what to look for. She ran a hand across the seam and frowned.
"Bruno," she called. "This panel wasn't shaking this morning."
Bruno examined it. "No. Someone loosened it. These were tightened yesterday."
"Sabotage?" she whispered.
He nodded grimly. "A few more minutes and that pressure line might've blown during the trench test."
Henriette's eyes narrowed. "We need tighter security."
"We need to find the bastard who did this."
The Stranger in the Forge
That night, under a half-moon, a shadow slipped through the eastern gate of the compound. The guard had stepped away for a smoke. The intruder moved silently, slipping past idle machines and stacked crates.
He carried nothing—no weapon, no light—but his movements were precise. He stopped in front of the Sanglier, now resting beneath a tarpaulin. He crouched, inspecting the treads. Then the turret. Then the rear axle.
He took something from his coat—a small black notebook—and scribbled down notes.
"Prototype functioning. Armored hull. Rotating weapon mount confirmed. Powered by hybrid engine."
His accent was unmistakable.
German.
Lockdown
The next morning, Emil called an emergency meeting.
"We've had a breach. Someone tried to disable the Sanglier before the test. We're dealing with a spy—possibly multiple."
Henriette slammed a folder on the table. "That's not the only problem. Our Marseille steel shipment never arrived. The rail manifest says it was redirected by someone using your signature."
"I never signed anything."
"Exactly. So either someone's forging your documents, or the Ministry is compromised."
Emil turned to Bruno. "Double our guards. Lock every entry point. No one enters the forge without my seal."
He turned to Henriette. "And we need someone who speaks fluent German."
The Woman in Gray
That afternoon, as rain returned to drizzle over the yard, a woman arrived at the factory gates. She wore a long gray coat, a narrow hat, and carried a satchel of documents.
The guards hesitated, unsure whether to admit her, until she handed them a letter sealed with the crest of Varin's office.
Inside, she met Emil in the blueprint room, where Sanglier schematics covered every wall.
"Vera Klein," she said in flawless French. "Colonel Varin said you'd be needing a translator. I do more than translate."
Emil studied her. She had sharp cheekbones, dark brown hair tied in a braid, and eyes that flicked constantly around the room—calculating.
"Alsace?" he guessed.
She nodded. "Born on the French side. Educated on the German side."
"Which side are you on now?"
"The one building tanks instead of surrendering."