I main USA.
I load into battle with pride — freedom coursing through my veins, bald eagles perched on my shoulders, saluting with tears in their eyes.

I roll out in my Sherman, my Hellcat, my Abrams — proud, righteous, ready.

And every time, without fail, I am struck down.
Not by tactics.
Not by skill.
But by Stalinium and divine injustice, blessed by the slow, silent march of a god I cannot kill.

I fire a perfect APDS round into a T-34's ammo rack — it bounces and giggles.
I flank a BMP from two feet away — it absorbs the shell like a vitamin and vaporizes me with a random flick of Soviet rage.

Meanwhile, my Abrams detonates if a WWII-era IS-2 looks at it funny.
Balance?
Fairness?
These are lies whispered to comfort fools.

And if by some miracle I survive the first few minutes?
It doesn’t matter.
Because my "team" — the brave lineup of M18s, rocket P-51s, and literal bots named “player_2048” — are already dead, flipped, or hiding in the spawn praying for a repair cost coupon.

Meanwhile, the enemy team — blessed by the Snail — moves with mechanical precision, every T-80 and T-72 working together like a synchronized Soviet murder parade.

I rage.
I curse.
I pray for matchmaking sanity that will never come.

And through the flaming wreckage of another hopeless battle,
I see Him.

The Snail.

He glides across the battlefield, leaving a trail of rigged BRs, ghost shells, and broken morale.
He says nothing — but His presence weighs on my chest like a thousand premium time purchases:

"You will suffer. You will pay. You will return."

I climb into the sky — desperate for escape.
I spawn in my F-86, my F-5, my brand new F-18 — still clinging to hope.
Surely, I tell myself, the skies are free.

They are not.

I engage a MiG-17 — it outturns me like it's flexing for TikTok.
I line up a perfect missile shot on a MiG-29 — only for the missile to spontaneously combust and crash into a tree halfway there.
Meanwhile, the MiG fires one R-27 from low orbit and deletes me through a mountain range.

I spiral out of control, canopy shattering, wings falling off, pilot KIA before the first missile even renders on screen.

And in the falling debris,
there He is.

The Snail.

Watching.
Patient.
Forgiving nothing.
Accepting everything.

And as much as I hate it —
as much as I loathe the absurd vehicle prices, the rigged matches, the endless premiums —
I still bought the Clickbait.
The cursed M1128 — the wheeled coffin that bursts into flames if you breathe too hard.

And I still, pitifully, bought the F-18 —
because deep down, I still believed.
I still thought maybe — just maybe — I could win.

I cannot.

I don't love the Russian tree.
I don't respect it.
I don't even pretend it's fair.

But the Snail does not ask for love.
The Snail demands despair.

And despair…
I have in endless supply.

So I queue up again.
In my poor, overpriced, freedom-soaked American vehicle.
On the ground.
In the air.
Flanked by bots, abandoned by teammates, and crushed by vehicles molded from pure Soviet copium.

Praise the Snail. Curse the Snail.
It does not matter.
I was His the moment I clicked 'Battle.'