The Perfectionist's Craving

Could I do it? Could I really?

"Then… would it be possible to summon that technician again?"

Frederica looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"Have him lay his hands on Vehicle 101… just once more. Nothing else matters. Just… the way it used to be."

I rested my chin on my hand and stared at her for a long moment.

Status Analysis.

An interesting result.

The "perfect machine" she yearned for so desperately was, in the end, the product of my Material Conversion and Weapon Mastery.

Without ever meaning to, I had given this genius officer with her obsessive mechanical perfectionism her first taste of a drug. Just as a gourmand who has dined on the finest cuisine can never again stomach army rations, she had become incapable of being satisfied with the Imperial Army's standard specifications.

Which meant that quenching her thirst right now would be the act of a fool. I needed to let her suffer, to make her more desperate. Only then could I place this proud elite major firmly in the palm of my hand.

"I refuse."

I deliberately shut the folder of documents with a cold expression.

"M-Major…?"

"The homeland's technical team already ruled the vehicle combat-ready. Unnecessary maintenance is unnecessary expenditure."

I spun my pen and eyed her.

"B-But…!"

"A tank is not a work of art, Major. It's a consumable that serves its purpose as long as it rolls and its gun fires. Vehicle 101 is perfectly fine right now. Insisting on wasting manpower and resources anyway — as a commander, that sounds like nothing but a tantrum to me."

"……!"

Frederica's eyebrows twitched.

"A… consumable, did you say?"

Her eyes had gone cold without my noticing.

"Retract that statement. Now."

"Retract it."

I had no reason to oblige.

"Did I say something wrong? A tank is a lump of steel and oil. When it blows up on the battlefield, you abandon it; when its parts break, you swap them out. It's a consumable — nothing more, nothing less."

"That's the kind of thinking fit for an infantryman!"

Frederica slammed her hand on the desk. It bordered on insubordination, but reason had half abandoned her eyes by then.

"A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tank communes with its crew! It responds to the faintest pressure of your toes on the accelerator, to the snap of a wrist on the steering levers. A tenth of a second's difference in reaction speed decides whether a shell ricochets off your armor — or punches through it and burns you alive!"

She went on, breathing hard.

"And you call it a consumable? Vehicle 101 is… she's practically my own child. Sending her out to the battlefield rattling like that — I absolutely cannot permit it!"

"Is that so?"

I shot back coldly.

"Every other tank commander runs that equipment just fine. I hear you're the 'youngest ever' and a 'genius' — so I suppose those grand titles were all down to the machine, were they?"

"Y-You dare insult me—!"

Frederica's face flushed red and pale in turn. I had struck squarely at the pride of a woman bristling with self-esteem.

"Or perhaps it's just a tantrum? A pampered daughter of the House of Kessel finds that common-issue supplies simply don't suit her delicate constitution?"

"Major—!!"

She shouted so hard her voice cracked.

Status Analysis.

Frederica bit her lip until it nearly bled. She knew perfectly well that her demand was an absurd overreach by military regulation.

But her senses had already tasted that drug-like maintenance. Only one path remained.

Her trembling hand slipped into her breast pocket.

"…If it's work outside the regulations."

What she drew out was a checkbook — a nobleman's personal check, embossed with the crest of the Imperial Central Bank in gold leaf.

"Process it as a private commission."

Snnip.

Without hesitation she tore off a check and set it down on my desk with a firm tap.

"It's my personal fortune. Funds guaranteed under the name of the House of Kessel."

I glanced sideways at the figure written on it.

One zero… two, three, four…

Insane. It was more than enough to build a brand-new tank from scratch. The daughter of a noble house truly played on a different scale.

"It's the fee for… bringing in that technician."

A tempting offer, no doubt. All the more so considering my goals were a life of luxury and the accumulation of wealth.

But.

Swish.

I pressed down on the check with a single fingertip and slowly slid it back toward her.

"……?"

Frederica's eyes went round.

"Is it… insufficient? If so, just say the word. I'll contact my family and sell off a villa if I have to. So please—"

"Money, is it."

I leaned deep into my chair and smirked.

"Tell me, Major. What exactly do you take me for — or that technician, for that matter? Some lowly mongrel who runs around for a few coins?"

"That's not what I meant! I'm merely offering fair compensation—"

"That technician is an eccentric. He already has more money than he knows what to do with. The only things that move him are interest… and—"

I fixed her with a steady gaze.

"—communion."

My eyes started at her grey hair, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠traveled down the line of her slender jaw, and came to rest near her chest, where her officer's tunic was stretched to its bursting point.

A lingering, shameless stare.

"Mmh…."

Frederica's shoulders flinched. The tips of her clenched fists trembled.

"What's the matter? Something wrong?"

"N-No, nothing."

She trailed off and averted her eyes.

Status Analysis.

"Major."

I called out to her, feigning ignorance.

"Summoning the technician isn't difficult. But if the price weren't money — what could you pay me with?"

At my question, Frederica bit her lip hard. Her hands squeezed and released her officer's tunic again and again, as if to wring it out.

Silence stretched between us. Her inner conflict was almost palpable against my skin.

The craving for the perfect tank. And the pride of an elite officer.

In the end, she spoke in a trembling voice.

"Do you mean… the same as last time?"

"Last time?"

"That last… operation."

She couldn't quite meet my eyes as she said it.

"In the turret… the, the improper contact you made with me, Lieutenant Colonel."

"Improper contact, was it."

I asked back, as if intrigued.

"Be specific. What did I do?"

"That's…!"

Frederica's head snapped up. Eyes drenched in shame glared at me.

"You know perfectly well! You touched my chest… without permission! You stroked my thighs…! You even pressed… that, that indecent thing against my—!"

She couldn't finish, and buried her face in her hands.

A moment later, she spoke again.

"Is that… the price for summoning that technician?"

Her face was flushed scarlet.

I smirked.

"Major. You seem to think me a utterly shameless lecher."

"A-Aren't you?"

"……."

"Don't tell me you're about to claim it was a tactical necessity—"

Come to think of it, I didn't exactly have an excuse lined up.

"In that case."

I decided to just brazen it out.

"Do you refuse?"

A chance to claim the youngest armored battalion commander. EXP gains on the side, no less.

"……!"

At my blunt question, Frederica's eyes wavered.

"Ha…."

A dry laugh escaped her lips.

"You carry your jokes too far, Lieutenant Colonel."

She slowly raised her head. Her wavering eyes found their footing, then settled into something cold.

"Selling my body for maintenance? That's not the conduct of an Imperial officer — that's the conduct of a prostitute."

Frederica declared, resolute.

"I'll take my leave. I won't trouble you with this again."

SLAM!

The office door shut behind her.

I smirked at the closed door.

How long would she hold out, I wondered.

An open field on the outskirts of Soissons. The 1st Armored Battalion's tactical training ground.

"Again!"

Frederica's shout rang across the training ground.

Tank 101 reversed hard, then braked to a sudden stop. The massive hull lurched.

"Turret traverse! Target, two o'clock! Aim!"

Whirrr.

But the turret swung around half a beat slower than her instincts demanded. The crosshairs in the gunsight drifted past the target before swinging back.

Too slow.

Frederica broke into a cold sweat.

Last battle, with Max alongside her, this maneuver had come as naturally as breathing.

It worked back then. With my skill, it should be more than possible.

She bit her lip and shouted to the driver.

"Full advance! Execute zigzag maneuvers!"

GUH-GUH-GUH!

Vehicle 101 burst forward in a cloud of dust, forty tons of steel rocking left and right.

"Now! Fire!"

But.

BOOM—!

The shell sailed wide of the target — a wrecked vehicle — and slammed into a completely wrong mound of dirt.

"Ah…."

Frederica's mind went white.

"C-Commander…?"

The driver's flustered voice crackled through the radio.

"A-Are you all right? The controls feel a bit sluggish today, but…."

She poked her head out of the hatch.

She could feel the gazes of the subordinates lined up around the parade ground.

'What's wrong with the commander today?''She was hitting everything like a demon last time.''Is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she feeling off? Or was… that a fluke?'

"……Damn it."

Frederica's skill itself was perfectly intact. The problem was that after adapting to that perfect state last time, an ordinary tank simply could no longer keep up with her reflexes.

In the end, Frederica's mounting frustration boiled over onto her maintenance crew.

The basement maintenance bay of Soissons City Hall, in the dead hours before dawn.

"M-Major… this is the fifth time already."

One maintenance soldier set down his wrench, on the verge of tears. His hands were caked in grease, dark circles carved under his eyes.

"I torqued every bolt to the exact regulation value! Any tighter and they'll snap!"

"No. It's not enough."

Frederica sprang up from the commander's seat and dove into the engine compartment.

"Here — this intake valve. The play is off by about 0.05mm. Every time the engine turns over, there's the faintest trace of a metallic note in the sound!"

"0.05mm…? Major, please. That's well within Imperial Army tolerance. Honestly, even a brand-new unit has that much…."

She picked up the wrench herself.

"Move. I'll do it."

I can do this. Machines are honest. They repay every drop of sweat you give them.

She clenched her teeth and twisted the bolt.

Screeeech—.

The metal shrieked.

A little more. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Just a little more precision—Snap.

With a dull crack, the head of the bolt sheared away, leaving nothing behind.