The Crew

The midday sun beats down mercilessly on the cracked, dusty landscape, baking the rusted, hollow husks of long-abandoned vehicles. Amidst the desolation, however, a low rumble vibrated the air - the purr of a well-maintained Panzer IV Ausf F2 Engine. The engine's rumble would cease as its crew parks it under the safety of an overpass. The Desert Queen sat parked under the shade of a half-crumbled overpass. Outside the tank, activity buzzed between its four occupants as they dismount for some downtime, letting their vehicle cool down a while. Greta, lying precariously atop the commander's hatch, shouts down along the side of her tank in her over the top faux-German accent - towards where a pink axolotl slouches alongside the tank splashing herself with canteen water. "Achtung! Elena! Ze treads of das Mädchen scraped over such filth in zat last city. Double-check ze treads, ja? Und stop splashing your water everywhere!" She punctuates her command with a flick of that sandy tail of hers. From below, Elena's bubbly voice piped up, muffled slightly by the water rushing down her moist face. "¡Lo siento, Comandante! But it's soooo hot! My skin was beginning to feel like crispy flakes in this heaatttttt!" A small geyser of water arcs out of Elena's mouth as she pouts. The water glints in the sun before splattering on the dusty ground near Elena's pink axolotl feet. Near the front of the tank, Svetlana knelt, her powerful dobermann frame tense. She meticulously wipes down the long barrel of the 75mm KwK 40 cannon with an oily rag, eyes narrowed with the focus of a diligent tankman. "Is good gun." She mutters gruffly in her deep Ukrainian accent, almost to herself. She addresses Elena next. "Rest. I check track pads." Almost as immediately as she begins, however, Svetlana's eyes catch a glint of something near the left track. She leans closer, her usual intimidating demeanor almost instantly melting. "Oooh... shiny little rock..." The dobermann coos softly. She picks up a small, iridescent piece of desert glass, her little stub tail giving a tiny, involuntary wiggle of delight at the discovery. Meanwhile - Rosie, the cow, emerges from the rear deck hatch, holding a dented metal canteen. The bovine's plush black-and-white form is slick with sweat. "Pete sakes, girls, it's hotter'n a habanero on a griddle out here today!" She drawls, deep southern accent thick and warm - always a reassuring sound to the crew. Rosie wipes her pink snout with the back of a hand. "Greta, honey, got any diagnostics ya want me ta look into? Svetlana, sugar, don't you go gettin' gunk all over your nice fur now with them treads. And Elena, mi amor! You drinkin' enough? You look drier than week-old toast!" She moves towards Elena with concern evident in her large brown eyes. Greta in particular chuckles to herself as she takes notice of how Rosie's DD's sway with each step. The whole scene was a whirlwind of energy - as was typical of the group's dynamic. Greta uttering sharp commands in her ridiculous fake accent - Elena's hyperactive splashing - Svetlana's silent intensity broken by moments of childlike wonder - and Rosie's constant, motherly vigilance. They were everything that made up a perfect mercenary group: tight-knit; slightly crazy; and all bonded by grease, gunpowder, and an obsessive love for their iron Desert Queen. It was into this rather eccentric scene that the figure of Du appeared, approaching cautiously from the crumbling ruins of that very overpass the girls sheltered under. Du could see them now - their eyes fixed on the sight of the fully operational tank (a very rare sight in these parts, and especially one in good condition!) and its eccentric crew.