The English sky is as scorched and scarred as the No Man's Land below. On the horizon, plumes of black smoke rise from underground furnaces and crumbled factories, their smokestacks long fallen. That way towards Sheffield. A Slavic auxiliary attaches the fuel hose to your MGP's tank, then punches the ignition, and the V8 on your back sputters and roars to life. All you hear is the hellish drone of its drivetrain, but you can feel the earth shake as the artillery prepares your assault. 5 minutes.
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