An incoming radio transmission reaches me. The voice on the other end is that of a stranger, and it speaks to me in an abrasive singsong.

«Are you there? Are you listening?»

This is not the tank who badgered me for my frequency. It leaves only one other possible sender - the tank he collected this frequency for.

“I hear you,” I reply quietly, calmly. “You are...” As the name of the tank whose call I've been expecting escapes me, I trail off. But the stranger makes sure to help my memory along.

«Talon.»

Unfortunate. But inevitable, I suppose. I don't know what to tell him, but there's something I have been meaning to ask.

“Are you the MBT who's been harassing this region lately?”

«I'd hardly call that harassment,» the other tank points out, «In fact, you of all-,»

One thing we can establish right away: It seems that this fellow is a bit too fond of hearing himself talk. And he's missing the point, too, which I make sure to emphasize by cutting him off:

“If we're both MBTs, why don't you speak normally? I'm a bit out of practice, but I'll manage.”

«Firstly, I doubt that. Secondly, my dear copain is listening. You've met him already, so I'm sure you know he's a bit dull like the rest. I want him to be able to follow our conversation, too.»

Talon clearly understands what I'm hinting at, and even if his answer could be seen as evasive, I doubt he's bluffing. The way he's obviously struggling to pace his speech, cramming entirely too many words into a much too short timespan to say them, is telling of his core's nature. It suggests that not only he actually is an MBT, he also hasn't spent much time of his life talking to non-MBTs yet. I feel that probably complicates matters even more. And it also puts his statement into a puzzling context.

“Your... who?”

«You've met him. You've met Yasha. I promised him your body. It will make a fine gift...» Talon explains, his voice gaining an almost fond purr while keeping its strangely flat intonation. It sounds sinister in ways I can't fully put into words. But I'm sure it goes without saying that I do not like the idea of my frame being seized by force to be 'gifted' to someone else at all, and that the mood of the conversation has become a lot more disturbing at once. «He said that you claimed you don't remember anything of the incident. Is that true, Scarecrow? Have you forgotten what you did? Already?» he goes on, the harshness returning to his tone.

“I don't know,” I respond truthfully. “Letting him have my frequency was a mistake, that I know for sure.”

«Not your worst one yet, by far,» Talon growls.

I take a moment to sigh and consider the best way to resolve this unnecessary conflict.

“Look, I told Yasha multiple times already, but I suppose I'll have to tell you again, as well. I don't remember any incident. I don't remember you.”

He doesn't seem to realize just how unrequited his issue with me is. Or maybe he does, but doesn't care. Maybe he wants to get back at me no matter what, no matter if it makes sense or is justified.

«How convenient for you,» Talon replies, his voice somehow growing even more vitriolic than before. I didn't realize that was possible. It may be due to the way his speech is picking up pace rapidly now - as he starts ranting, he seems to forget about his intentions of showing restraint. «Aren't you making it easy for yourself? Going about your days like a mindless animal, not a care in the world? No conscience of the consequences of your actions? You don't know what it's like, do you?»

His words start chasing each other with not a split second of silence between them, even the individual words becoming forcefully compressed until they're just barely recognizable as their meaning, yet his tone and volume remaining completely unchanged. Tanks who cannot not speak in this way nor understand it call it 'torrent'. I've never witnessed an example more deserving of the nickname than this one. Even I struggle to keep up.

«Have you ever been trapped in a godforsaken forest for months? Unable to move? Unable to take care of yourself? Dependent on being fed watered-down fuel by a machine so pathetic you wouldn't even consider it worth the shell to eclipse its wretched core? Has your frame been defaced? Disfigured? Mutilated by the cheap trash they patch themselves up with? Tell me Scarecrow, has anyone ever forced you to survive in such a pitiful way?»

I don't know how to reply, even though the split-second pause in his rant would be my cue to do so. It's possible that I was the cause for the suffering he claims me to be liable for. I can't confidently deny it without claiming a potential lie. But the fierce hate behind his accusations catches me off-guard; no one, in all my lifetime, has ever held me responsible so extraordinarily for the entirely ordinary consequences of barely surviving a fight. The sheer madness behind trying to blame me for something that is simply an everyday part of our lives is making my mind spin too much to respond.

«You really don't remember?» Talon concludes bitterly. He slows down considerably as he finishes up his rant, and with that, a cruel fondness returns to his tone. «Well, I'll make sure to teach you a more memorable lesson, then. Be on your guard. Don't fall asleep. Look behind you always. I'm close. And any moment I could decide to end your worthless existence, if I feel like it...»

As much as I don't want to, I have to acknowledge that he's right. The fact that he's able to reach me via radio at all means that he is also definitely within a distance where his cannon could reach me just as easily. And not just me - even if he didn't mention them, it's safe to assume that he's aware of the other tanks travelling by my side. His words aren't trivial. Simply carrying on like nothing happened is not that easy when I just received a serious death threat from a tank who is most likely able, clearly determined, and definitely nearby enough to actually carry it out. I can't just shrug off this encounter. I would love to just tune out of the frequency right now and act like this conversation never happened. That won't help in any way, however, so I need to at least ask him one last thing before I do tune out. He's made himself abundantly clear about his intentions, but a threat needs an ultimatum. Without an ultimatum, it's not a threat. It's just a promise. And what he told me sounds a lot like just that - a promise. I just need definitive confirmation that negotiation is not what Talon is after.

“What do you want me to do? I'd rather our paths remain separate, so what would it take for you to drop your petty desires for revenge?” I ask, putting all the self-restraint I can muster into keeping my tone neutral.

But as I should have expected, my attempt at diplomacy is completely lost on this tank. Accompanied by bursting into an implacable laugh, he jeers, «Get a load of this guy!» before ending the transmission abruptly.

In the remaining, sudden, total silence of the radio channel, I can almost hear an echo of his laughter.

Much to my dismay, I end up doing exactly what he told me to do. I stay awake. I force myself to keep my systems fully alert, even though I know that no amount of vigilance would save me or my companions from the instant death of a cannon fired kilometers away. Until the horizon starts to brighten again, I sit completely still and abide in this suffocating uncertainty. Even as nothing moves and nothing makes a sound, through my growing mental exhaustion I convince myself that only through my strained observation of my surroundings I can continue to keep the danger dormant.

When the first rays of sunlight awaken the completely oblivious travellers, I feel an intense need to inform them of the threat. Yet, I can't bring myself to speak of it. I watch the two tanks stretch and yawn heartily, not a single worry clouding their conscience, it seems.

Morris finishes putting away their tent while her fellow traveller approaches me and looks up at me expectantly. I return Artax's look blankly for a moment before I understand what his extended hand means. Trying to shake off the tiredness by shaking my turret slightly, I proceed to take off the borrowed tent and return it to him.

“How'd you sleep, Scarecrow?” he asks casually, certainly not expecting an elaborate answer. My answer is anything but elaborate, indeed.

“Barely.”

If he thinks anything of it, he doesn't say it out loud. He just nods and trundles back to Morris's side, who asks him if we're ready to leave. Another nod follows, and we return to the road to continue our travel.