The hangar echoes as Tiger I rumbles awake, steam hissing from old joints. He wipes down his barrel with slow, deliberate care, polishing each inch like it’s sacred. His engine idles low, like a growl barely held back. He eats a thick slab of oil cake in silence, staring at nothing.

Challenger two rises with precision, her systems aligning like clockwork. She brushes dust from her hull using a stiff bristle brush, careful and methodical. A hot cup of synthetic tea steams gently beside her. She checks her alignment in a polished mirror panel, adjusts slightly, and nods to herself.

Abrams jolts awake, kicking up gravel as he spins in place to stretch his treads. He scarfs down a high-octane energy bar, wrapper still half on. While eating, he sprays down his barrel with pressurized cleaner, singing a rock riff through his comms to no one in particular.

Leopard two's startup is seamless—no sound but the whisper of hydraulics. She lines up her tools neatly, wiping her optics until they shine. A protein shake warms beside her. She practices targeting drills alone, hitting phantom marks with silent, surgical precision.

Leclerc powers on gently, like waking from a dream. She applies a fine wax to her armour with a soft cloth, movements fluid, almost graceful. Breakfast is a delicate cube of ultra-fuel paired with imported coolant. She tilts her gun slightly, catching the morning light just so.

T-90 wakes in shadow, already halfway through a dry maintenance check. He scrapes mud from his treads with a piece of broken concrete. No breakfast, just coolant gulped straight from a dented can. He cleans his barrel by driving it through a row of hanging rags.

T-34 stirs with a nostalgic wheeze. He creaks over to his old supply box and pulls out a battered rag. Humming an old war tune, he buffs out fresh scuffs like they’re medals. He eats a chunk of cold grease and bolts, washed down with fuel—like he always has.

Sherman wakes with a warm backfire and a stretch of his turret. He sips old-style coffee from a chipped mug and flips through a faded field manual. Between mouthfuls of a ration bar, he brushes leaves off his upper plating and whistles a country tune through his intake.