Night fell heavily on Leclerc Works. The forge, usually humming with late-night welds and hammering steel, stood in eerie silence. Emil sat alone at his office desk, his oil-streaked hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed on the schematics of the Sanglier Mk II.
The prototype had survived its trial. Just barely.
But what haunted him wasn't the mechanical strain—it was the loosened rivets, the forged shipment documents, the intrusion in the dead of night. Someone wanted the project to fail. Someone already had eyes inside the walls.
And now, a stranger was in his office.
Vera Klein
Vera sat across from him, back straight, coat still on, gloved hands resting on her satchel. She had been vetted, at least partially, by Varin's office. Fluent in French and German. Trained as a translator in Strasbourg. Her file mentioned interrogation assistance during the border expulsions of 1912.
But Emil had seen people lie through dossiers before.
"Let's begin," he said simply.
She tilted her head. "With what?"
"With why someone like you requested a post at a factory, instead of the front."
Vera didn't flinch. "Because a translator at the front dies with the first shell. A translator here—on the edge of a revolution—might live to write the next one."
Emil frowned. "You think this is a revolution?"
She nodded slowly. "What you've built is more than a weapon. It's a future. And futures are never born quietly."
The Factory's Pulse
Over the next week, Leclerc Works transformed from a desperate forge into a disciplined operation. A private security detail now patrolled the yard. Every exit was guarded. Warehouse entries required Emil's signature and Henriette's countersign.
Bruno oversaw engine construction with an iron hand. Every gearbox was rechecked. Every seam was rewelded. The men worked twelve-hour shifts, driven not by hunger, but by purpose.
For the first time, they weren't just laborers—they were pioneers.
Still, not everyone welcomed the changes. Rumors swirled: that the army would nationalize the factory, that Emil was recruiting mercenaries, that Germans were hiding among the engineers.
The worst of it came from within.
The Sabotage Deepens
Henriette arrived one morning with ash on her coat.
"Blueprint room. Second floor. Someone set it alight around dawn."
They ran together, boots pounding up the stairs. Smoke still clung to the air, and the charred edges of several schematics crackled under the faint breeze through a broken window.
It wasn't just papers—they had taken copies of Sanglier turret revisions, prototype engine models, and fuel-efficiency charts. Someone knew exactly what to target.
Bruno cursed. "Not amateurs. No one's that precise without understanding what they're burning."
"Which means it's someone on the inside," Emil muttered.
Henriette turned to Vera. "This is where you earn your keep."
The Watch Begins
Vera's methods were quiet. She didn't interrogate or threaten—she observed.
She joined the welders for lunch. She "accidentally" knocked over tool chests to see who flinched. She asked casual questions about shipments, about relatives in Alsace, about how much German some of the workers could speak.
Each night she returned to Emil's office with a summary:
Three men had family in Metz and received suspicious packages.
One foreman had a second set of keys—claimed they were backups.
A recent hire in the inventory department had lied about his last job.
She drew a diagram of worker connections, color-coded by region and political leaning. Emil stared at it.
"You've built a spy ring out of a factory roster."
Vera smiled faintly. "It's easier than translating contracts."
The Mole
Her net paid off.
Late one night, a warehouse assistant named Jacques Monet was caught trying to copy schematics onto rice paper. He carried no identification, and his satchel contained forged Ministry letters. When confronted, he bolted—only to be tackled by Bruno and two guards in the yard.
He refused to speak. Not a word. Even under pressure, even when shown evidence, he stayed silent.
It was Vera who broke him.
In a quiet office with the blinds drawn, she asked him one question—in German.
"Who is your handler?"
He looked up, eyes wide. The language betrayed him. His tongue twisted the vowels too sharply. He answered in a dialect only a native might understand.
"He comes from Zürich. We use the consulate drop."
It was enough.
Emil slammed his fist against the desk. "He's not just a thief. He's Abwehr—German military intelligence."
Lessons in Paranoia
They turned the agent over to Varin the next day, along with the forged documents. Varin seemed less surprised than Emil expected.
"We've had whispers of this for months," he said. "You were just the first bait worth biting."
Emil scowled. "You used us?"
Varin gave a tired shrug. "Every good project needs a trial by fire. You survived it. That's more than most."
As he left, Varin handed over a leather-bound authorization packet. Rail access. Steel requisition privileges. A confidential authorization code for encrypted telegrams.
"You're no longer a civilian project, Dufort," he said. "Welcome to the military-industrial machine."
The Price of Progress
The next morning, Henriette brought troubling news.
"We're behind."
Emil looked up from the Mk II design. "How far?"
"Two weeks. Labor shortages. The new armor plating technique is stalling."
"Then we hire more."
"With what money?"
Emil rubbed his temples. They had liquidated almost everything: personal savings, farm contracts, even Henriette's half of their father's inheritance. Every franc now went to steel, wages, and coal.
Then a telegram arrived—marked from Paris.
A request from the Office of Armament Procurement. A formal presentation. A showcase of the Sanglier.
"They want proof we're real," Henriette said.
Emil stared at the page. "We'll give it to them."
The Gathering of Wolves
Three days later, Emil stood in a marble hall near the Sorbonne, surrounded by aristocrats, generals, and industry magnates. They wore silk lapels, medals, monocles. The air reeked of cologne and cigars.
His machine, of course, was not invited.
Instead, he presented on charts, photographs, and a detailed model of the Sanglier. Some laughed. Others whispered.
But when he unveiled the test footage—grainy but clear—the room went silent. The tank climbed trenches. Crossed obstacles. Turned its turret.
A general leaned forward.
"Can it fire?"
"Soon," Emil replied.
One of the magnates scoffed. "Even if it does, who will build them? You've one factory."
Emil smiled.
"For now."