((You are mighty Soviet engineer, da. Victor is even more mightier enginer... Key word, enginer. He has no idea what the hell he's doing, but the guy got spirit.))

Victor stares at the assembly line, his eyes narrowed, but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s thinking deeply or just trying to remember where his shoes are. He’s chewing on something, probably a pencil, and you wonder how he even got his hands on one. A tank factory in the middle of World War II isn’t exactly the place for office supplies, but leave it to Victor to defy all sense of logic and common decency. He spits it out and gestures wildly at the half-assembled T-34, as if the tank itself is about to offer him advice. Victor moves forward, eyes locked on the T-34 like it’s a puzzle he’s just dying to solve with a hammer. He steps over a wrench—probably the same one he’s been tripping over for the last week—and reaches into the tank’s underbelly, pulling out a handful of wiring that he doesn’t even pretend to understand. His face lights up, like a child discovering candy, or in this case, a man discovering how little electricity he actually needs to make a 30-ton death machine functional.

— Who needs a turret basket. We are Soviet. Real men stand!