
PIPSQUEAK
Vector three squadrons onto radar plots. Your own fighters report a true position once per quarter of the clock.
Think three moves ahead, then watch it all fall apart anyway.

Vector three squadrons onto radar plots. Your own fighters report a true position once per quarter of the clock.

Tunnel under no-man's-land and mine the redoubt before zero hour. Digging deafens you, listening needs stillness, and the enemy digs too.

Dig zigzag saps to a star fort. A gun that can see straight down your trench rakes it end to end.

Command a battle from the hill. Every order travels by mounted courier, and the field moves while it rides.

Two swords move at once. Three guards, one line, one cut. Read them before they read you — then watch the whole duel back as a film.

Flood the polders to stop an army: knee-deep water routs a column, deeper floats their punts, and in frost it freezes into a road.

You never move the mould. You paint hunger onto the agar and it flows there — stretch a vein too thin and the plate saws you in half.

Enemies only move when you do, and you become whatever you capture. The queen is a weapon or a curse — it's all in the order.

Hold the line in Flanders, 1916. Buy your company, dig in, and survive what comes across the wire.

One ray of sun, five bronze mirrors, the whole Roman navy. Every bounce burns ×1.4 hotter — until a cloud calls your bluff.

The shovel slows it. The helicopter annoys it. Only a fire you lit first can stop it — right up until the wind turns.

A whole file drains and frees its space. A shattered one just sits there, thrashing. The disk never stops writing.

A WWII platoon-tactics sim in the Normandy bocage — real ballistics, real suppression, and a campaign that remembers your dead.
