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That night Feodor was turning exactly 100 years old. But he did not know that himself since he was in a coma for months, tangled in wires and tubes, watching an endless dream where he was young, full of strength and hate sitting at the helm of a T-34. Just one last tank to destroy and I’m done, well, maybe one more… And death continued to pass him by.. When the life-support system shut down, the lights went out and no one came, Feodor opened his eyes. He got up from his hospital bed, walked slowly through the corridors littered with debris and bodies into a courtyard, that had always reminded him of a parade ground, and then he laughed. His body was full of energy once again, and there was a whole world around, and his hands missing levers and triggers. He was called Tankman. For his love of tracked vehicles and big guns. And for hatred of everything else.