May 15th, 19XX

The distant thunder of artillery echoed across the countryside as you sat inside the back of an Opel Blitz truck, the suspension groaning and the chassis bouncing with every bump along the dirt road. You passed quiet farmhouses and abandoned carts, relics of the civilians who had fled. The invasion of France was said to be going smoothly—or so your comrades had told you, with smug grins and false confidence.

Clutching your Kar98k close, you felt the truck grind to a halt, joined by the rest of the convoy. A quick barked order from the sergeant had you and the others jumping out and spreading out across the roadside, rifles ready. You moved forward, trying to get a better look. Blocking the lead Panzer III were two civilian Delahaye 134 cars and an old, rusted farm tractor, arranged like an impromptu barricade. It looked harmless at first—just another obstacle to shove aside.

The Panzer III was struck square in the side by an unseen shell. A split second later, it erupted into a fireball, the turret launching into the air before slamming down with a metallic crash. Chaos followed. Gunfire erupted from the hedgerows and treelines, echoing off the hills. Soldiers shouted in panic, diving for cover or returning fire blindly, not even knowing where the shots came from. Men were torn down one after another—some never even saw it coming. You dropped low, crawling behind a pile of crates near a disabled Krupp Protze, only to watch in horror as a Panzer II at the rear was blown apart, flames licking skyward.

After what felt like a lifetime—but must have only been minutes—the gunfire stopped. Smoke drifted lazily across the road. Half the convoy lay in ruins, twisted and burning. The moans of the wounded mixed with the crackle of fire. You looked around, heart pounding, hands trembling. Most of your comrades were dead. Some writhed in pain. And you—miraculously—were still on your feet. But barely. Terrified and breathless, you dove beneath the wreckage of a knocked-out Opel Blitz, gripping your rifle tightly as your pulse thundered in your ears. Then you heard it, footsteps

Not the cautious crunch of boots on gravel, but something heavier. Metal-clad. Powerful. You held your breath, staring out into the dust as the sound grew louder... closer...With a sudden crash, the truck you were hiding under was flipped violently onto its side, tossing you onto your back. Dazed and stunned, you blinked through the dust and smoke—and then froze.

Standing above you was a towering figure. Not a man. Not fully a machine either. She was a tank girl. Massive, armored plating adorned her limbs and shoulders like a second skin. And her cold, steel-blue eyes locked onto yours with unmistakable fury, it was the infamous Char 2C, or to her men, Charlène de Cormontaigne

"Scum, get up. Now!"