Chapter 2: First Encounter

The campfire crackled softly, its amber light throwing long, dancing shadows against the massive, armored hull of the Tiger tank. Painted across its steel turret was the name Friedrich Der Grosse—a testament to a nation that, for all they knew, no longer existed. Parked amidst the twisted, ancient trees of an alien forest, the seventy-ton war machine looked absurdly out of place.
‎The air here smelled wrong. It lacked the sharp, soot-choked sting of the German winter, instead carrying a faint, sweet scent that felt entirely foreign and ancient.
‎"Hey, snap out of it," Vladimir’s voice broke the silence, steady but firm. "I don't want to see those sorry expressions on your faces."‎His crew looked up from the flames, but the bleakness in their eyes didn't fade. Vladimir couldn't blame them. Despite his attempt to maintain discipline, a heavy, unspoken truth hung over the camp: This was not Germany. This was not anywhere on Earth. They were stranded in an uncharted abyss.
‎Tonight marked the end of their third day in this world.‎They had spent the first day in a state of sheer denial, desperately trying to make sense of the impossible landscape. The second day had been consumed by cold, hard pragmatism—calculating rations, studying the unfamiliar stars, and trying to chart a course to somewhere.
‎By all rights, they should have been stranded or broken down by now. A heavy Tiger tank was a logistical nightmare. It was a glutton for fuel that should have drained its tanks hours ago, and worse, its complex final drives and steering transmission were notoriously fragile, requiring constant, intense maintenance. Hans had spent the last seventy-two hours bracing himself for the inevitable, catastrophic mechanical failure that usually plagued the massive panzers after prolonged travel.
‎Yet, they had encountered a twin miracle that defied every law of physics and engineering they knew.
‎Not only was the Maybach engine maintaining its full seven hundred horsepower while the fuel gauges barely budged, but the mechanical stress on the vehicle seemed completely frozen. When Hans had crawled underneath the hull earlier to check the final drives, he hadn't found the usual leaking oil seals or grinding metal gears. The tracks weren't stretching, and the overlapping road wheels weren't binding.
‎It was as if an invisible, stabilizing hum was vibrating through the Krupp steel, protecting the tank's moving parts from friction and fatigue. They had traveled for hours, but the vehicle's consumption and wear were practically nonexistent—as if the world itself was actively sustaining the beast.
‎It was a terrifying anomaly, but right now, it was the only thing keeping them mobile.‎Beside the fire, Hans stared blankly into the flames, his mechanical mind still trying to calculate a logical explanation for their endless fuel and perfect maintenance. Nearby, Dieter fidgeted anxiously with his radio headset. For three days, the airwaves had yielded nothing but a suffocating, dead static. No German commands. No Soviet broadcasts. Nothing.
‎Werner sat with his broad shoulders tense, his hands resting heavily on his MP40, while Karl kept his Karabiner 98k propped against his knee, his sharp eyes scanning the pitch-black perimeter.
‎Aaaa-ooo-ruhh...
‎From the deep, oppressive darkness of the forest, a sound echoed. It was a bizarre, guttural cry—neither a wolf's howl nor a predator's roar, but a terrifying hybrid of both. It reverberated through the trees before cutting off with an abrupt, chilling suddenness. ‎The forest fell deathly silent, save for the snapping of their campfire.
‎Werner swallowed hard, offering a weak, forced smile to break the suffocating tension. "Yeah, well... at least we're still together," he said, his voice entirely devoid of its usual booming confidence. "Could be worse, right? We could be scattered."‎Vladimir didn't answer. He just looked up at the sky, where two crescent moons stared back down at him.
‎"Yes. I guess so," Vladimir replied, his unreadable expression remaining fixed as he gave a single, firm nod.
‎"Well, that's true. At least we're all together, haha," Dieter chimed in, a soft, weary smile touching his lips as he scratched the back of his head.
‎Vladimir looked at his men, letting out a silent, internal sigh before turning his gaze back to the alien night sky. When he faced them again, his voice carried the absolute weight of command the crew had learned to respect, fear and follow.
‎"Rest up, you four. I'll take the first watch," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We move out at dawn to see if we can find anything useful. We need answers."
‎The crew exchanged glances in the fading light. The dying fire danced across their faces, casting long, harsh shadows that made them look far more haggard than they actually were. Despite their commander's steady confidence, the terrifying reality of being utterly stranded was finally beginning to sink in.
‎"Understood, Kommandant," Hans said quietly.‎Without a hint of complaint, the driver rose from his spot to gather their bedrolls. He, more than anyone, understood the tactical value of rest when tomorrow was a total blank slate.
‎Dieter stretched his arms, his joints popping under the strain. "Don't fall asleep out here, boss. This place gives me the fucking creeps."‎Despite his joking tone, the young radio operator was already settling into a light, defensive doze—the kind of shallow sleep drilled into them on the Eastern Front, where the mind remained hyper-vigilant, ready to snap awake at the slightest hint of danger.
‎Nearby, Werner and Karl began organizing their gear, speaking in hushed, low tones so as not to disturb the others.
‎"You think there's any actual civilization out there?" Karl whispered, his eyes darting toward the impenetrable wall of trees. "Or are we talking about turning the Friedrich into a permanent mobile fortress and living off the land?"
‎"If there is a civilization, let's just hope they speak something closer to German than whatever made that noise earlier," Werner muttered back, checking the bolt of his MP40.
‎As the crew settled into their sleeping arrangements, the oppressive weight of the forest seemed to press even closer. Leaves rustled with a dry, scratching sound, though there wasn't a breath of wind to move them. They had ammunition and fuel, yes, but their standard rations would only last so long. In a world devoid of supply lines, friendly depots, or recognizable landmarks, every consumed tin of food was a ticking clock.
‎Left alone by the dying embers, Vladimir sat in the dark, watching the shifting treeline with eyes that had already seen far too much of hell.‎Timeskip.
‎The next morning came with a quiet, blinding clarity.
From what Vladimir could estimate, it was roughly seven o'clock—perhaps an hour or two since the sun had breached the horizon. The bright, early morning light filtered through the alien canopy, touching the faces of the sleeping crew one by one until everyone was awake.
‎After a sparse, hurried breakfast of their remaining combat rations, it was time to move.
‎The crew gathered at the rear of the panzer while Hans climbed through the driver’s hatch. Starting a cold Tiger I was never a simple task, and Vladimir wasn't about to risk their finite battery life. Werner inserted the heavy external hand-crank into the rear inertia starter. With a nod from Vladimir, Werner and Karl threw their weight into it, turning the crank with rhythmic, muscle-straining effort to spin the massive flywheel inside. The mechanical whine grew higher and sharper, a metallic scream echoing through the quiet forest.
‎Inside, Hans waited for the peak pitch, then pulled the starter lever.‎With a violent, coughing splutter, the 21-liter Maybach V12 engine roared back to life. A thick cloud of dark exhaust puffed from the rear pipes, smoothing out into that deep, rhythmic rumble that shook the very ground beneath their boots.
‎The crew quickly scrambled up the steel hull, dropping into their respective hatches and sliding into their stations. They pulled on their padded leather helmets, plugging the cords into the tank's internal intercom system, and adjusted their Kehlkopfmikrofon—the dual-node throat microphones strapped snugly against their necks.
‎"Intercom check. Report," Vladimir ordered, his voice transmitting clearly through the static of the internal net.‎"Hans, driver. Systems nominal. Ready to roll."‎"Karl, gunner. Optics clear, turret traverse responsive."‎"Werner, loader. Ready."‎"Dieter... radio operator. Intercom working, Kommandant."‎With the check complete, Friedrich Der Grosse lurked forward, its massive tracks biting into the pristine soil. Vladimir popped his hatch, riding torso-high out of the commander's cupola to maintain a visual on their surroundings. He raised his binoculars, pressing the lenses to his eyes as he scanned the horizon, hoping for a church steeple, a paved road—anything.
‎"Verdammt nochmal... I don't see anything," he muttered to himself. There were only miles of lush green grass, rolling hills, and an endless wall of ancient trees. In the far distance, jagged mountains pierced the sky.‎He keyed his throat mic. 
"Dieter, stop sulking over your equipment. I already told you, the frequencies we use don't exist here. Stop staring at the dials and use your eyes."
‎"Ja, Kommandant," Dieter sighed over the net, reluctantly shifting his gaze to his hull periscope.
‎They rumbled onward for another hour, scanning everything the area had to offer and everything that they saw until Vladimir’s binoculars caught a sudden break in the landscape. He blinked, adjusting the focus.
‎In the distance, nestled against the base of a sweeping hill, was a settlement. Judging by the layout and the clustered, primitive roofs, it looked to be a small village. Vladimir leaned forward, his heart tightening as he spotted movement. Several figures were walking between the structures. They were definitely human or at the very least, humanoid.
‎The realization that they weren't alone in this world sent a chill down his spine.‎"Karl, Werner, alert," Vladimir ordered, his voice dropping into a cold, combat-ready clip. "We have a settlement at twelve o'clock. Movement detected. Werner, load High Explosive."
‎"Loading HE!" Werner grunted through the intercom. The heavy metallic clank of a 10.5cm shell sliding into the breech echoed through the turret, followed by the sharp clack of the block locking into place. "Gun is loaded!"
‎As the seventy-ton iron beast rolled closer, the distance shrinking by the second, Vladimir kept his eyes glued to the village. It was only a matter of time before the inhabitants noticed the thunderous roar of their engine. He didn't know if these people were hostile, but he wasn't taking any chances. His crew’s safety came before anything else.
‎The low hum of the Maybach engine rolled steadily beneath them as Friedrich Der Grosse cut across the open terrain, its massive steel tracks chewing through grass and soft earth as if it owned the land. Up in the cupola, the wind brushed sharply against Vladimir’s coat as the seventy-ton titan closed the distance.
Through his binoculars, the details of the settlement finally sharpened.
‎It was a collection of crude structures built from timber, rough stone, and clay—there was no sign of advanced architecture or modern construction. Thin trails of smoke drifted lazily from a few thatched roofs. The movement within the village suddenly spiked; figures were gathering at the perimeter, pointing toward the approaching steel monster.
‎They weren't running.‎They weren't attacking, either.‎They were just... watching. Some of them carried farming tools, while a few others held weapons—spears and simple bows. It was primitive, but undeniably organized.‎"Kommandant..." Hans’s voice crackled through the intercom, quieter than usual. "They see us."
‎*No shit,* Vladimir thought, his grip tightening on the binoculars.‎The distance closed rapidly. Two hundred meters. One hundred fifty. One hundred. Fifty.
‎Now, the figures were fully visible. They were definitely humanoid, displaying slight variations in stature and clothing, but close enough to human. And then, a small group stepped out from the vanguard of the crowd.
‎They weren't charging, nor were they fleeing in terror. One of them, standing slightly ahead of the rest, slowly raised an arm. It wasn't a weapon. It was an open hand—a universal gesture of halt, or perhaps, peace.
‎Inside the cramped hull, Dieter muttered anxiously under his breath, "That... doesn't look like an ambush, Kommandant."‎Karl didn’t take his eye off the gunner's sight, his thumb resting lightly near the trigger block. "Say the word."
‎The massive 8.8cm barrel remained dead steady, locked onto the center of the village. A single high-explosive round would erase that entire front group in a fraction of a second. Up in the cupola, Vladimir had the perfect vantage point. This was the defining moment. It wasn't a battlefield—not yet. But it could become one in less than a heartbeat.
‎Through the static of the intercom, Werner finally spoke, his voice lower and far more serious than usual.‎"...Boss." A tense beat hung in the air. "What's the next move?"‎The village stood entirely still, suspended in a breathless silence, waiting for the iron beast's next move.
‎"Hans, halt," Vladimir ordered.‎The heavy tank groaned as the brakes locked, its tracks skidding slightly before coming to a complete stop, the engine dropping into a low, rumbling idle. Vladimir stared down at the group for a few agonizing seconds, mapping out every variable before keying his throat mic one last time.
‎"Karl, Dieter, cover me. If they try anything funny, or if something happens to me—blow them to bits."‎"Zu Befehl, Kommandant," Karl replied, his voice deadpan and lethal.
‎With a deep breath, Vladimir unhooked his headset, threw his leg over the edge of the cupola, and climbed down the armor of the turret. His boots hit the pristine soil with a heavy thud.
‎The air was quiet, save for the rhythmic purr of the Tiger behind him. Slowly, deliberately, Vladimir raised his hands to chest height, showing his open palms. With a cautious, steady stride, the gray-clad commander began walking toward the primitive assembly.
‎Every man was locked into his station, operating on pure combat instinct. Karl kept the 8.8cm main gun trained dead ahead, the crosshairs of his T.Z.F.9b sight hovering steadily over the center of the crowd. One twitch from the villagers, one wrong move, and he would trigger the firing block.‎"Target in sight," Karl murmured, his voice flat.
‎Werner stayed braced in the loader’s position, his hand already resting on a second high-explosive shell within arm’s reach. His usual boisterous grin was entirely gone, his jaw set tight. Down in the hull, Dieter peered through his narrow periscope, his knuckles white against his equipment.
‎"All eyes on you, Kommandant..." he muttered under his breath.‎Beside him, Hans kept his foot hovering over the clutch, ready to slam the Tiger into gear the second things went south.‎Outside, the air felt starkly different as Vladimir stepped away from the tank. It was cleaner than the smog of the Fatherland, yet it felt heavy with tension. Every step he took toward the assembly seemed to echo louder than it should have against the open field.
‎Step.‎Step.‎Step.
‎He kept his hands raised at chest level, showing his open, weaponless palms.‎The villagers reacted instantly to his approach. Several tensed up, the men holding spears shifting their weight and lowering their points into a defensive guard. 
One figure shifted in the background, drawing a simple wooden bow halfway back.
‎The gray-clad commander kept advancing. Calm. Controlled. Completely exposed.‎A low murmur rippled through the front lines of the village assembly.
‎"...What is that thing...?"
‎"Is it made out of metal?"
‎"No... it moved on its own..."
‎"Is he alone?"
‎Vladimir's ears twitched. He strained to process the sounds cutting through the low idle of the Maybach engine behind him.‎It wasn't German. It wasn't Russian. It was... English.
‎The accent was slightly off—archaic and accented—but it was undeniably a language he recognized from his studies and intelligence briefings.
‎An older, broad-shouldered man stepped forward from the vanguard. He wore worn, patched clothing, but he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone used to being obeyed. A village elder, or perhaps a local chieftain. His eyes flicked briefly past Vladimir, staring at the massive, angular silhouette of the Tiger tank with a mixture of raw terror and forced restraint.
‎The leader raised a hand, mirroring Vladimir’s peaceful gesture.‎"Stop there," the man commanded. His voice was firm, lacking any direct aggression, but dripping with caution.
‎Vladimir halted, now close enough to read the details of the front line. These people had calloused hands, mended garments, and weapons that bore the scratches of actual use. They weren't trained soldiers, but they weren't helpless peasants either.‎The leader studied Vladimir's strange gray uniform, the iron skull insignia, and his rigid posture for a long, agonizing second.
‎"You understand me?" the man asked. He paused, his gaze sharpening significantly. "You're... not from here."‎It wasn't a question. It was a definitive statement.
‎Back inside the tank, Dieter’s voice crackled faintly through the open commander's hatch, hushed and anxious. "...They're talking, right? Please tell me they're talking..."
‎"Commander's still breathing," Karl shot back, his eye never leaving the gunner's optic. "That's a good sign."
‎Outside, the village leader tilted his head slightly, analyzing the German commander's blank expression. Then, choosing his words more carefully, he spoke again.
‎"If you can understand... state your intent." A heavy beat hung over the grass. His grip tightened slightly on his spear—not raising the point, but preparing his grip. "...Why have you come here?"
‎Hearing the foreign tongue confirmed, Vladimir’s face shifted ever so slightly. A flicker of profound surprise crossed his usually stoic features; he had expected many things in this alien world, but English-speaking natives was not one of them.‎Slowly, deliberately, Vladimir lowered his hands to his sides. He cleared his throat, forcing his vocal cords to adjust to a language he hadn't spoken in years.
‎"L-Lost," he said, his accent thick, his English visibly broken and rigid. "Don't know... l-location."
‎He paused, carefully choosing his next words, before slowly raising a hand to point back over his shoulder toward the rumbling, seventy-ton iron beast behind him.‎"V-Vehicle. Safe. No. Worry."
‎The moment Vladimir spoke, the sharp, suffocating tension didn’t completely vanish—but it shifted.‎The villagers exchanged quick, unsettled glances. The raw fear in their eyes was gradually replaced by a profound, cautious confusion.‎‎"...He talks strange," someone whispered from the back of the crowd.‎‎"Not an accent from around here..."‎‎"A traveler?"‎‎Garrick, the broad-shouldered leader at the front, narrowed his eyes slightly. He studied Vladimir with a new intensity—no longer looking at him as an immediate, hostile threat, but as an absolute unknown.‎‎"Lost," Garrick repeated slowly, testing the foreign weight of the word on his tongue.

‎His gaze flicked past the gray-clad commander, drifting toward the Tiger tank once more as Vladimir pointed. Up close, the sight of it was infinitely worse. The sheer, monumental size of the vehicle, the sharp angles of the interlocking Krupp steel, and its utterly unnatural shape defied everything they knew. It was no beast of burden, no merchant wagon, and no siege engine of any kingdom. It was something else entirely.