Confession: My English wasn’t strong enough to translate this story, so I let the internet do the heavy lifting. If it sounds a bit weird… blame the web, not me! ;D The first time I saw the “Stormbeetle Type 1,” I thought a carnival had exploded somewhere. A vehicle that looked like someone had armored a garden shed and then screwed in some really bad ideas. If you walk into a workshop in the morning and see a contraption that looks like a cross between a stroller, a steam engine, and medieval depression, you know: today someone will write a report using the word “regrettably.” My first thought: some machines are obviously dangerous. Cannons, for example, or teapots with turbochargers. And then there’s this. This wasn’t built. It happened. Like mold in a bathroom or terrible decisions after too much eggnog. Official name: “Mobile Steam-Mechanical Advance Vehicle, Medium-Range Flexibility.” Translation: Four wheels, two of them oversized and fitted with perforated plates like a Gothic carriage designed by Satan. The engineer proudly explained: “For terrain optimization.” The military loves words that sound like there’s a plan. At least in theory. In practice, the vehicle looked like a cheese grater on wheels with murderous intent, or a kitchen slicer with a weapons license. At the back, a steam boiler made from a retired brewery tank. On top, a roof that could open so the driver could enjoy fresh air and possibly his last words. And in between: a suicide attempt made of metal with the turning radius of a dying continent. A design where you can’t tell whether it was built for war or if a drunken engineer had just been locked in a barn too long. Unofficially, it was a steam-powered metal chicken on wheels, controlled by a man in a helmet, steel mask covering his face with eye slits, probably seeing about as well as through a mail slot in fog, and wearing a chest plate that looked like a vault door had changed careers. The point was clear: if bullets came, at least the face should be surprised later. And this one man had to do everything alone: drive. Steer. Monitor the steam pressure. Shoot. Reload. Watch where he was going. Not die. The military calls this a “multi-purpose crew.” In normal life, it’s called “not enough personnel.” Basically, they had armed a janitor and put him in a boiler made of industrial scrap. The poor guy sat in something that looked like an aggressive kitchen appliance on wheels. In front, man-high steel spikes jutted out like the teeth of a mechanical vampire. The military called it elegantly a “breach device,” engineers euphorically: “optimal effect against enemy barriers and morale!” In reality, the spikes were about as effective as a shopping cart on ice, a child’s bike on the highway, or an inflatable digger in a sandbox—and theoretically, they could even skewer a garden gate post. Perfect for a vehicle whose sole purpose was: “just drive through anything.” Then came the actual presentation. The canopy closed, a hemispherical metal mesh construction. The engineer demonstrated proudly: CLACK. Folded down. “Maximum all-around view!” And it was true. The driver could see everything: the enemy, the terrain, the sky, his own death. Protection offered by this wire thing? About as much as a colander under artillery fire. But theoretically, maybe small stones could bounce off. Or aggressive chickens. The military was satisfied. With this wire mesh canopy, the driver looked like a very nervous caged bird in the service of the nation. Then he started the machine, which made noises as if it hadn’t yet decided whether to move this hamster ball from hell or just explode. The entire hall vibrated like a nervous pudding. Steam shot from multiple openings, two of which weren’t supposed to exist according to the plans. Black smoke billowed from the chimney at the back in such amounts that it looked like the vehicle was burning its own dignity from the inside. Then it got warm in the hall. Then hot. Then “you shouldn’t leave small animals here”-hot. Outside, the general saluted. The driver pulled a lever. The boiler at the back worked bravely enough to let the vehicle roll forward slowly. First hesitant, like a child on a first bike. Then he pulled another lever—and suddenly, the thing practically exploded forward like a cat on meth: wheels drumming, smoke puffing, the bowling-ball-of-doom vibrating, engine and boiler screaming in chorus. Somewhere inside, it sounded as if cutlery were dying in a washing machine. The general jumped aside like a startled deer with medals. The vehicle charged across the field. And I mean: charged. Nobody expected it. Least of all the machine itself. → To be continued in Part 2: Will the Stormbeetle stay under control, or will it turn the training field into a disaster zone?