Legacy of an Alcoholic Tank Commander
Chapter One: A Bottle of Beer
A tremendous duel BANG echoed from the front door. It’s reaching wireframe mesh hazily slammed against the jarred doorframe.
Whoever was knocking, was knocking quite consistently.
A mid-30s, unsanitary light-brown pony with coffee hair, swore to herself in the kitchen, the irksome surprise of having an unexpected visitor at her rural house promoted her to drop a bottle of dry beer.
She gawked vacantly at the puddle of the slimy substance and the fused glass shards on the dusty floor for several seconds—that was her favourite drink.
Repeated hash knocks from the front door snapped her out of a perceived slumber; she was more than irritated.
She turned off the radio and began to trot down the degraded hallway.
A few more hash pounds continued.
“Fucking, I’m comin’. ”
One of the obscure individuals spoke when he noticed the mare briskly walked down the hallway, “Open up!” he squawked at the screen door, “This is Lieutenant Astore Baldovini of the Wingbardian army for a surprise military inspection!”
The mare was able to recognise the darkened shape through the metal mesh—several griffon outlines on the other side—all held some sort of firearm.
Just her luck. Great.
The mare stood at the foot of the door, she looked up at her griffon occupiers.
Her messy, tarnished hair tickled the back of her neck.
She spoke in a moderate, New Mareland accent, “What do yah want?”
Lieutenant Astore Baldovini smiled through the mesh, “We’re here because of some; let’s say—complaints,” he paused, “maybe we come in?”
The mare responded with a deadpan.
He smiled, “Thank you so much, we’ll just, ah—let ourselves in.”
The rickety door stood no chance against the muscled force of a Wingbardiansoldier, he struck the doorway with his elbow, which forced the mare to set backwards and allow them in.
Four imposing figures laced with a camp green suited uniform paced passed the mare, seemingly ignoring her, old Carcano M91 rifles slung across their sides with a leather strap.
The brown-maned pony simply stood there with a sullen expression as they proceeded.
The occupants immediately entered the kitchen/living room to the left. Their boots creaked the floorboards and omitted several muddy imprints in their wake.
Lieutenant Astore Baldovini walked beside her, a sickly sweet smile. He took out a quill and notepad from his front pocket—next to one of his honorary medals.
“I’m going to ask you a couple of questions,” he started, “ready?”
He didn’t give time for response to be formulated.
“Name?”
She sighed, “Half heart.”
Scarring scribbles followed.
The mare rolled her eyes and trudged down the hallway, into the kitchenette. The room was multipurpose, it also connected to the living room where a single stained couch was located.
Baldovini followed.
What greeted her were three total strangers. They systematically tore apart everything—searching for sensitive information. Draws were pulled out, books were taken, and cupboards were opened. They foraged everything, even her limited valuables weren’t safe from this onslaught.
Even the canopy light fixtures on the roof were removed and ultimately scoured.
Most of them stepped around the hazardous glass puddle.
The pony presented irritation, an evident invasion of privacy.
Baldovini stepped beside her, “We’ve received information regarding suspicious activity occurring in this area,” he gestured to himself, “and we; are just doing a routine inspection, don’t be distressed.”
Half Heart was certainly distressed—her beer was broken. A dreadful circumstance.
She leaned against the entrance.
A shatter. One soldier accidentally pushed a porcelain plate onto the ground.
Nobody seemed to care.
The officer inspected the room, “It’s certainly…” he struggled to find any words, “a nice house you have here.”
It clearly wasn’t.
“Right,” he continued, “I heard you were in the original New Maryland army— you fought against us in the initial invasion. Am I correct?”
He received a grunt.
“Why did you join? Was there…any particular reason?”
He held his notebook out, ready to intake answers.
“I just did, 'and that's that.”
He raised an eyebrow, and still grinned, “That’s not… much of a reason.”
“Piss off,” she snorted, “A reason a reason.”
The griffon slammed the butt of his rifle onto the rocketry floorboards, a loud BANG followed.
It didn't seem to affect the mare. If anything, her expression just merged into one of displeasure. Dented floorboards were hard to fix goddamit!
The griffon decided to continue his tirade, “Tell me…whole heart. Wha—“
“It’s Half Heart.”
“Of course,” he smirked, he opened the corner of his beak.
He Paused. Stopped mid-thought.
“Actually,” he beamed, “mind if I call you Hearts? Hearty? I think it would be quite easy on the tongue.”
She briefly looked at the Officer. Facade full of disdain.
“No.”
He either didn’t notice, or care of her reaction, and persisted, “I was wondering…what rank were you in the New Maryland military, Hearts?”
Half crossed her eyebrows together into a frown. This imbecile was beginning to grind on her nerves.
“A Sergeant.”
With the intention to ignore this parasite, she walked passed one griffon transversing through her kitchen utensils and opened a small fridge.
Baldovini hummed with recognition. He hadn’t moved from his original location.
“What kind of company were you in? Infantry, or….?”
Half Heart reached for a bottle of Mareland Bitter.
“Yeah, I was infantry. A digger.”
The griffon innocently smiled.
“But I thought you were a tank commander? Specifically,“ he recited with quotation marks, “of those pathetic ‘Emu’ tanks?”
Her eyes twitched.
With a beer in the hoof, the fridge door closed.
“Then again,” Baldovini shrugged, ”if you were a tank commander, you'd've died from the shells of our AT weaponry.”
Another twitch.
She trekked back towards Astore Baldovini.
Mid smile, the officer took notice of the sweet alcoholic coldie, “Not going to offer me one?”
Half Heart faked a desponded expression.
“Sorry, it was the only one left.”
There were many others. Some would say millions.
She popped the lid off it and took a long swig.
“Of course,” he replied.
Silence.
It was at this point none of the scourings yielded anything—so the ‘inspectors’ moved onto other areas of the house. The two other occupants reminded where they were.
“Just to satiate my curiosity,” the griffon leaned over to get a better look at the mare’s flanks, “What’s your cutie mark represent?”
She ignored the apparent invasion of privacy and quickly answered him anyway.
Another swig.
“It’s a heart,” she deliberately explained, “that’s been halved.”
The griffon didn’t like her sarcasm.
While correct, her backside most definitely did include a picture of ‘half a heart’. It, however, did maintain a sincerely deeper meaning, a meaning; that is quite easy to deliberate when her personality is taken in check.
The officer seemed like he was going to say something until he was interrupted by a voice that echoed from the other side of the house—the garage.
“Sir! I seemed to have found something!”
The officer’s facade transformed instantly. While still grinning, it retained that ‘knowing smile’. The kind of smug smile that you possess when you prove someone wrong.
“Ah, yes. I see.”
He turned towards one of his subordinates that just appeared beside him.
“Please arrest Hearts here and escort her with me to the garage.”
It took less than two seconds for a pair of cuffs to appear around the light-brown pony’s forelegs.
“Hey!”
Her pleas went unanswered.
She struggled.
Another cuff.
“Get your filthy claws off me!”
Even with her determined scrambles, the robust grip from the griffon never faltered, she remained firmly in their captivity.
She couldn’t move.
“Bugger.”
The restrictive cuffs left no room for motorisation; hence, a secure purchase on the beer could no longer be conserved.
“My stubby!”
And she had only taken two sips. A tragedy.
They hauled her body across the floorboards—from a hind leg, similar to a rag doll. Her muzzle squished across the floor, and her already mildly dirty fur became mattered with dust.
Some even got in her mouth. Disgusting.
The soldier pulling her practically lobbed her onto the concrete garage floor.
She had a moment to recollect herself.
Half Heart sat up and rubbed her muzzle.
“Strewth,” she mumbled, “bloody drongos.”
The three other griffons made their way to accompany strategic areas in the room.
Lieutenant Astore Baldovini, while still maintaining that pleasant beam on his stupid face, tapped her with the heel of his black gumboot.
She looked up.
He gestured to the object in front of him.
“Care to ever so kindly, explain?”
A moderately sized vehicle of some kind sat under an old trap—dust collected on it. The machine in question had a rectangular base, and a long tube faced forwards on top.
An outline of a tank.
“It’s, ah,” she struggled to find words, “my golf cart.”
The officer responded incredulously, “A, golf cart?”
His eyebrows could not be any higher.
There was a long pause.
Half Heart replied hesitantly, “…yessssssss.”
“How the fuck,” he swiftly pointed the tube, “is that a golf cart?”
Another lull.
“It’s um, a special design.”
The officer still didn’t fall for it.
“Why would you even have a freaking golf cart?”
Half Heart’s eyes split in random directions, seemingly attempting to gain purchase of any surface.
She briefly paused, “To um, play golf. I sometimes like to go out.”
“In the middle of the outback?” He gestured around him, “There are no courses around here for miles. There's no way you could possibly play golf.”
Half Heart couldn’t formulate a response.
Baldovini smiled, he took that as a sign of victory—he’s finally able to catch someone assisting the rebels.
He promptly turned towards the soldier closest to the vehicle, “Esposito, uncover it, now.”
It was a swift, fluid motion, the material flew away.
The griffons stared at it for an undetermined amount of time, unsure. Baldovini’s smug and superior utterance immediately dissipated.
What remained was an ordinary golf cart—four rubber wheels, with a PVC plastic pipe strapped on top. Truly, a crude example of what one can achieve with duct tape.
Half Heart took their reactions in stride; she couldn’t help but snicker.
The officer revolved towards the pony, his expression, utter disdain.
“Are you trying to mock us?!”
She continued to giggle.
Baldovini’s anger portrayed his face. His brow furrowed, his fist clenched, and his beak spiralled into a scowl.
He kicked the pony. Hard.
The foot engaged with several of her ribs.
“You think this is funny!!?”
Although a severe amount of pain withered throughout Half Heart’s body, she was still able to hide the anguish from her face and simply smile.
He complimented, kicking her again, but ultimately, thought better of it.
There’d be an even bigger uproar if the public found out about this.
“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, “pack your shit and leave. She’s clean.”
They unprofessionally unlocked her picklocks and left. They didn’t even search the entire complex. A mistake, if I ever heard one.
Half Heart shakily pushed herself up, her breath ragged and her mane sticky with sweat.
She leisurely sauntered her way back into the kitchen and noticed something.
A miracle.
The stubby she dropped had somehow balanced itself on the wall—almost no liquid was spilled.
At least she got her beer.
[A few days later]
Half Heart’s second favourite commodity—before alcoholic beverages—was her old couch. Despite its wear and tear. It never failed to provide a luxurious engagement with relaxation. If one were to take into consideration the severe beating this mare received not even two days prior, it wasn’t much of a surprise the light brown pony had taken upon herself to rest on it.
Her eyes were gingerly closed, deep but silent breaths followed. A nasty purple bruise was revealed on the side of her body; under the fur. Nothing seemed to be broken, but that notion didn’t exactly make it any less painful.
This peaceful slumber was momentarily interrupted by the crackle of a radio, a male voice from somewhere in the kitchen.
“Adoration 01 please respond, over.”
Although the old and beaten radio was more than up to the challenge of receiving and transmitting signals—the usability was awful. Static and inconsistent connections were frequent.
Half Heart opened an eye.
“Adoration 01 please respond, over.”
Irritation was the forefront of the mare’s mind.
Cautiously, she pushed herself upwards and reallocated a steady foot on the wooden floors. The pain certainly wasn’t unbearable—it was a minor inconvenience that supplied a steady stream of discomfort.
She glowered at the kitten bench, the radio sat there.
She’s always hated that call sign.
“Adoration 01, get your ass on the radio, or I'll come down there and do it myself.”
This only made her brow furrow further.
She hesitantly made her way towards the device.
Once there; Half Heart picked up the microphone, pressed the button, and held it adjacent to her muzzle.
Her mouth opened to formulate a response.
“What?”
A pause. The operator must’ve been surprised that he received a reply.
“Morning, Adoration 01, nice of you to answer this lovely phone call,” the radio fizzled, “how was your day?”
The mare rubbed her eyelids with irritation.
“What do you want? Get to the bloody point.”
She leaned against the bench.
“Ok then,” the stallion operator continued, “you must’ve heard of the upcoming protest we’ve planned at Sunset tomorrow, right?”
Half Heart pursed her lips questionably, “No.”
“Are you serious?” A figurative eye roll, “Do you listen to the radio, at all?”
“I turned it on this morning, if that counts.”
She received an extensive sigh.
“Right, well, one of the largest protests against the Wingbardianoccupation has been organised to occur tomorrow at Sunset. You’ll need to be there.”
She grunted in response.
She also regrets picking up this radio call.
“We want you to provide your services during the protest,” he announced, “to boost morale.”
Half Heart placed her elbow on the table, “Are you referring to my tank?”
“Please use code when referring to military equipment,” he lectured, “but, essentially, yes. We want you to take it into town.”
The mare doesn’t exactly want to— work is work, and she wants to avoid it.
“Why not someone else?” she questioned, “You’ve literally got hundreds of tanks in storage. Get someone else to drive it.”
“Don’t say that across the radio, Christ,” a touch of anger, “that’s sensitive information.”
She could only shrug, it’s probably encrypted anyway.
“We’ll have a few…other on-hoof armaments, but no tanks,” his tone was artificial, “we don't want the enemy to know our capabilities….Since you’re technically independent, and you’ve maintained your own tank,” the operator pronounced, “We figured you’d be the best option.”
“Bullshit!”
The point was punctuated by a hood slam.
“We both know you have some ulterior motive, what is it?”
Several seconds of silence followed, perhaps they assumed she wouldn’t catch on so quickly?
“We….can’t exactly tell you right now.”
More silence.
“But know this, it’s going to be important to the future security of our nation.”
Half Heart played with her mane.
“If you're worried about anti-tank weapons. Don’t. From our knowledge, they don’t have any,” he expressed, “they seem to be focused on their war with the Griffon Empire.”
The mare scrunched her muzzle.
“I….don't know,” she vacillated, “still sounds a bit iffy to me.”
Another sigh could be deciphered from the radio.
“We understand.”
“But….” The mare teased, a smile faced her lips, “I suppose I could lend a helping hoof.”
You could hear the eye-roll.
“Yes, that’d be very much appreciated.”
A note pad and quill scribble were faintly discerned through the radio, “Please be at Queens Park with your vehicle at ten,” he paused, “and for the love of Celestia, don’t bring any live ammunition. Collateral damage needs to be avoided.”
She innocently smiled.
“Over.”
And with that, the radio’s static cut off.
For the first in a long time, the mare’s facade obtained a genuine grin. Revenge.
After a reasonably short trek of roughly 500m, Half Heart finally arrived at an old, rusted shed. It easily mixed into the broken environment—nothing abnormal.
The building itself was certainly not spectacular. Just a moderately sized structure, with a tin roof, deteriorated brick walls and a large roller door at the fore-front.
Dry concretion earth with the occasional bush was scattered around the domain—no creature to be seen. The only unusual occurrence would be the caterpillar tracks crested in repeated trials on the ground. All originated from the shed.
With a jingle, the biscuit coloured mare retrieved a set of rusted keys and pressed a particular one into the roller door keyhole. She twisted it, a mechanical thunk followed.
Now that the building was effectively unlocked, she bent down—cautiously, hocked her forelegs around the basis of the roller door, and swiftly pushed up.
A loud metal rattle accompanied the upwards movement of the door. A BANG occurred when the resulting metal collided with the top.
What presented itself inside was a moderately sized vehicle of some kind, it sat under an old trap—with very little dust collected on it. The machine had a large rectangular base, and a moderately long tube that faced forwards on top.
An outline of a tank.
In comparison to before, only this time...
Half Hart pulled the material off with precision. It settled in a corner.
It actually is a tank. To say the least, it was majestic.
“I knew those griffons would be gullible,” the mare voiced, “idiots.”
Its dark green exterior shone in the dusty sunlight, scratches, dints accompanied the surface. Its medium barrelled cannon piece stood forwards, unwavering. Several bronze shells and bullet cartridges were scattered around the surroundings.
It was one of the first New Maryland armoured vehicles to have a falconet instead of just machine guns.
Although it wasn’t large by any means, the ‘Emu’ type tank was, for the time, still relatively reliable and competent. With a top speed of 12km/h. Even so, it was mechanically complicated, and the design concept was not developed any further.
Outdated by years, it was considered almost useless and decommissioned among other tanks. By modern standards, it was essentially an overly complicated armoured car.
All these considerations were never taken seriously by Half Heart—to her, this was much more than an armoured car. It was her life. She commanded this tank during the war, some of her best memories were made within it. Her best friends.
They were long gone—executed for military treason by the Wingbardian occupation force. She hates herself for somehow getting away nick free.
This tank was a reminder of that, it served as a tombstone. Each original occupant had etched their names into the metal’s exterior.
Nostalgia flowed through her every time she saw it, it brought her joy.
She was just elated the tank was hidden in time, and not taken away from her.
Nothing will take this tank away from her. Nothing. She’ll make sure of it.
Nodding to herself, Half Heart’s hooves clasped on the cracked concrete floor.
She retrieved her toolbox from the sidewall and initiated a process of basic maintenance. The first course of action; was to check if the bloody engine actually ran.
Depositing munitions inside it would also be essential. A weapon can’t function without its ammunition.
Legacy of an Alcoholic Tank Commander
Chapter Two: Tanks are what you make em'
Half Heart woke from her sleep at 10:28
She hated the early mornings.
Rocks gridded into sediments. The smell of fresh shrubs and the sticky-sweet smell of burned transmission fluid.
The Emu type tank thundered slowly down the dirt road. Fragments of sand, smut and soot kicked up behind as it drove forward, a line of dust wavered in the air, it traversed across the draught.
Despite having been active in the outback for only an hour; a layer of thin soil encrusted on its metal exterior, over the dark green mascara, this blended with the natural surroundings.
Half Heart could feel vibrations from the squealing engine in her chest.
Sheet metal buckled around her, diesel invaded her nostrils, and the heat descended upon her in high volumetric waves.
It was home.
Half Heart’s right hind-hoof sat situated on the accelerator, the other; hovered above the clutch. Her two remaining frontal hooves clasped the handle brakes established on either side of her seat—in preparation for turning. The mare concentrated forwards, her eyes squinted. She could only perceive a rather narrow line of sight down the degraded road but was large enough to notice the occasional sign and tree that rushed past.
A cup holder specially designed and modified by Half Heart to precisely embrace her first light beer, was situated to the right, although crude and the bottle tended to rattle in place; it was more than enough to provide imperative access to a morning brewery.
Occasionally, the mare took a mild sip from her temperate drink.
The road led her through yellowing hills and sandy planes, she was only dimly aware of the scenery. The occasional car sped past; many honked their horns or waved their hooves from the window.
The minutes faded, and with it, her recollection of time. She saw the outlined crescents of emancipated buildings and the faint whistles of shouts and squeals.
Sunset. The Capital of New Maryland.
———
All the stores and retail outlets were boarded up along Allsop St. The thoroughfare was soiled from the hundreds of hooves beating across it, posters depicting various Wingbardian propaganda scattered and trended upon. Ponies, and cars, of all colours, expressed their enthusiasm to utilise this street for transportation measures. All steadily poured past this crescent into the city’s proper.
Two Wingbardian soldiers stood wavering on a pavement, the outskirts of the city, their rifles held tampered to the ground. They scanned the environment for what may be considered as ‘suspicious behaviour’, there was an anticipation a pony would attempt to do something utterly stupid.
To pass the time, both individuals found entertainment reading some of the various signs these protesters grasped.
One such example was; “NO BEER IN A DEAD COUNTRY!”
They laughed.
This seemingly joyful approach was suddenly halted. One griffon caught sight of an unidentified, dark green, suspicious object, it was discerned approaching town.
He poked the soldier next to him and pointed at the incoming speck.
“What do you think that is?”
The other squinted in recognition.
“Looks like a car to me.”
Idiot.
“That,” he exaggerated with another gesture, “Is most definitely not a car, look at the shape.”
The approaching object certainly wasn’t a car. Surprisingly, most cars don’t resemble a giant rectangle and certainly don’t have a barrel on top.
And yet, the only facade the other soldier could muster was expressionless.
A facepalm.
“My God,” he pinched the bridge of his beak, “Just use your binoculars.”
The sound of a leather rustle, his claws gasped the object from around his neck and placed a pair of hyper optical lenses upon his face.
The sensible soldier waited for an answer.
“I think….it’s a tank.”
“You think?”
A hum in acknowledgement could be deciphered.
“Give it here!”
He grabbed the item.
His patience was wearing thin.
“Yes, that is definitely a tank, not a car,” his brow condensed, “And..it doesn’t look like one of ours either. We might want to report this in.”
After the binoculars were stored away, the mentioned soldier picked up the radio upon his waist, pressed the button, and held it adjacent to his beak.
“HQ, this is Allsop,” he stated, “we’ve spotted a possible enemy tank, over.”
Static followed for several seconds.
Eventually, a male voice interrupted it, “Allsop stand by, this is HQ, please repeat, over.”
The operator appeared to have been a little unsure.
“Acknowledged, possible enemy tank spotted heading west, over.”
Another pause of inducted static.
“Allsop, please describe, over.”
The griffon momentarily placed the binoculars upon his face again—the leather strap, still looped around the adjacent soldier’s neck.
“Received,” he started, “the tank seems to be a darkish green colour, relatively small. Probably light. The turret appears to be short, over.”
Conventional noise rattled the radio. No response was proved for the time being.
It wasn’t until 30 seconds later that a return was formulated.
“Based on your description, we have come to the belief that it is likely part of the resistance,” he operator listed, “it could threaten the security of our troops in the region, subdue it immediately. Reinforcements are travelling as we speak, over.”
“It’s a tank!” he tempted, “how the heck are we supposed to stop it?!”
“Just slow it down,” the operator tone was unnaturally cold, “don’t let it get past you, over.”
The radio cut off.
Silence. No comfort.
With their rifles situated slightly upwards, adrenaline pumping through their bloodstreams. They inaudibly waited for it to approach.
A mere four minutes passed—the tank was in clear view. Turret points forward. The various symbols, and phases posted around its body, like; NMAC, were visible. There was no doubt, whoever was operating that mechanical beast; would be a pony.
With strange throbbing noises, and lumbering slowly forward, it came into the entrance of the street with various Mareland onlookers gawking in awe, some began to cheer.
The small tank thundered slowly down the paved road, the tracks, leisurely rotated around. Black gas kicked up behind, it drove forward.
It seemed to convey an aura of absolute beauty and hope.
To the griffons, it was quite the opposite.
“Stay here. Watch the surroundings.”
The sensible griffon flew over to it, no time was given for his partner to formulate a response.
The soldier tensed for the machine gun to swivel towards him.
But it didn’t.
His talons landed on the cold, dense metal.
His claw clenched into a fist and knocked several consecutive times on the turret ring.
“Open up!” he streaked to the driver, “Capitulate your weapon immediately!”
The tank stopped, but the engine didn’t. It’s tracks squealed in protest.
A voice, female and muffled, called out in spite, “What?!”
It was the kind of expression that you yell out when someone is pissing you off.
“You are traversing an unauthorised vehicle into the city’s premise!” he commanded, “Relinquish this tank immediately!”
“The fuck I will!”
The machine’s engine briefly roared with recognition.
“Get off my fucking tank!”
Despite this response, the griffon soldiered on.
“It is illegal to operate or maintain any weapons,” he listed, “surrender immediately, or I will have no choice but to use force!”
A series of mechanical clanks omitted from inside.
In a swift motion, the hatch slams open, it almost collided into the griffon’s shin.
A pony’s head popped up, right forearm, slanted against the surface, she glared fiercely at the offender. Her messy, yet straight coffee hair, and mattered light brown coloured fur were prominent features. A series of bags were also located below the piercing, green pupil eyes.
From his position, she didn’t seem to wear anything.
A left hoof that clutched a bottle of beer followed suit, it ploughed onto the metal’s surface with a moderate BANG.
Luckily, it didn’t seem to crack.
The mare rooted her head to stare up, her muzzle laced with a deep frown. Her brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed, and ears folded backwards.
Did he hear a growl?
“This vehicle is decommissioned,” you could tell she was trying to smile, “this is actually an automobile with tracks. Perfectly legal.”
Her statement was followed up with a crooked, formulated smile.
Honestly, the Wingbardian soldier didn’t seem to expect a response anything like…that.
His brain paused, unable to process the information. Luckily, to make up for his lack of acknowledgement, his mind committed to auto-drive. He promptly trained his rifle towards her.
This didn’t seem to disturb her, if anything, a touch of a genuine smile expressed itself.
She rolled her eyes.
The pone disappeared back into the tank. The hatch closed behind her.
He, once again, feverishly banged on the egress.
“Don’t ignore me, pony!” He screeched, “Get back up here!”
And so she did.
The hatch, yet again, slammed open.
The grin was terrifying.
However, instead of the previous greeting or deadpan stare, the griffon received something else entirely.
A bottle to the face
The pony lobbed a ‘Mareland Bitter’, it slammed with such ferocity into the soldier’s noggin, that it split apart into multiple large shards.
He clutched his face in anguish.
His legs staggered and tripped, his body toppled backwards.
Unlucky for him, the unexpected force was more than enough torque to inspire him to stumble off the roof and land on the rock hard road.
No bones were broken…Probably.
The hatch closed, and the tank began to rumble forward.
Unfortunately, barely any splinters of glass were able to sink into his flesh—most of the particles were quickly, and easily, wiped off.
The griffon briskly pulled himself to his feet and launched to the sky.
His wings beat on a looped cycle of anguish. Droplets of blood bolted down his face.
Evidently, he was able to catch up and fly along-slide the operational, moving contraption.
His breaths were lacerated, his body ached, he was only just barely able to keep up.
“STOP!” He screeched between heavy breaths, “We’ll use force! SURRENDER NOW!”
His commands fell on death ears, he may as well have been screaming into the wind.
In response to this unreasonable outburst, the hatch, once again, opens while driving. A single hoof slowly rose from the depths of the tank.
On it, a crudely drawn version of the middle finger.
She was flipping him off.
The griffon’s eyes peeled from their sockets, he gaped.
In fact, he was so astonished and gawked uncomfortably at the disrespectful symbol for so long that he didn’t seem to notice the fast, encroaching pole.
He slammed into it, head first. The post vibrated. Cracks appeared in the concrete that connected to it.
He fell unconscious. His body, slid down it, onto the ground.
He didn’t move.
Even when the tank dissipated from the street, nobody helped him, not even his partner.
Technically, he should’ve, but one attribute you can’t fix is idiocy.
Perhaps the commands, ’stay where you are,’ and ‘observe the surroundings,’ were taken a little too seriously.
The tank chugged forward. Half Heart had left a brick tied to the accelerator. She sat in the turret’s seat, head popped through the hatch, it vibrated and bounced. A pair of goggles situated upon her head.
The closer she advanced to Sunset’s city centre, the more apparent of a commotion became.
Patrolling Wingbardian soldiers became more evident, many gazed on in horror. Their eyes flicked to their version of a monstrosity. All held a small, digital device to their moving beaks.
Despite this, the concentration of ponies was still limited. Most travelled towards the same, general direction.
Many found it as a great surprise a fellow New Marelander, a pony; was driving a fully armoured vehicle. Most stuck to the footpaths to stop and gawk in awe as the majestic metal beauty rattled forward.
Some even dropped their signs in surprise.
On the corner of one street, she ducked back down onto the driver’s seat and pulled the extra lever backwards, the tank rolled rotated right, down another path.
This seemed to surprise many attending protesters; as intelligible, the tank wasn’t heading in the same direction as them.
And yet; many still followed it.
She told them to fuck off.
It only took a few minutes to arrive at a significant, yet degraded grass field, multiple cracked stone monuments, various rusted metal artworks, and lifeless plants of all varieties littered the environment.
Nothing has been maintained since the invasion.
Queens Park.
Some ponies laid hopelessly around in the weed patches—the only green lifeforms. None seemed to care for the out of place carbon inducing tank that rolled across the dead patches of dirt.
Half Heart sainted her eyes in concentration, her head swirled left and right— in an attempt to find some sort of sign of attention. She assumed someone was waiting for her but wasn't entirely sure.
Only the briefest of orders were issued to her.
At some point, Half Heart’s attention swagged towards an encroaching mid 20s light blue coated stallion, a messy grey mare whispered across his cheeks.
The expression he withheld was all too familiar to her; irritation.
He walked to the base of the tank, he swirled his head to scrutinise the driver.
She blinked questionably at him. Her head is still vibrating in place from the engine.
This premature staring contest didn’t last long.
His crooked muzzle opened, “Are you Half Heart?”
“Yeah,” she raised an eyebrow, “who’s asking?”
“I’m Wavelength Venture,” he induced, “I talked to you on the radio yesterday.”
He pursed his lips in irritation, “You're late. Two hours late.”
She could only look in the other direction.
Ignoring a problem is always the best way to achieve the best possible solution.
What’s done is done.
The stallion sighed.
“May I come up?”
It took a brief second for Half Heart’s intellect to process that sudden change in dietary information. Her eyes strained forward, peering.
“Of course…Just..climb up.”
She was finding it rather difficult to hold in a breath of premature laughter. She knew how strenuous it was to ascend up this monstrosity.
And she was right.
The entertainment value was extraordinary.
He tried and failed, to get a proper grip on the slippery metal surface. Multiple occasions, he attempted to pull himself up. Each time only resulted in more failure.
It takes a veteran to climb this tank. This is said from experience.
Half Heart looked on with amusement.
“Need help?”
A little embarrassing for him if she was honest.
“No….no,” he said, “I’ve climbed one of these before, I can do it.”
And that he did.
On the…1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…seventh attempt! He was able to successfully haul himself upwards…..onto the base.
He collapsed on the metal.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” She pursed her lips, “I can—“
“I’m fine! Geez.”
His current predicament exclaims otherwise.
She smirked, “Of course you are.”
It did take a few minutes, but eventually, step after step, haul after haul, Wavelength was finally able to place his hooves upon the turret, and pull himself upwards.
He paused for a few seconds to catch his breath.
“Do you want a drink of water or—“
“No! I’m fine.”
He waited for a few more seconds and glared at the offending mare closest to him.
“Can I come in?” He snarked, “Or do you want to have a conversation up here?”
Half Heart thought about that for a few seconds. She was worried he’d break something important. Like her seat. Those are irreplaceable.
Yet, it’d be rude to not let a guest inside your wondrous home.
“I suppose,” she temporised, “come on in.”
The mare disappeared into the tank.
The Wavelength soon followed, hind hooves first, he slowly dragged himself into the hole.
Gravity eventually did it’s work and dropped his body onto the turret’s seat.
He sat there for a moment, recollecting his breath.
Half Heart waved him over—she gestured to the space next to the driver’s configuration.
He swung over to it, depositing himself.
The stallion tried and failed to make himself comfortable.
To make up for it, his eyes flicked to the various objects, and mechanical parts littered around—he may have been in a tank before, it still, nevertheless, interested him.
These thoughts were interrupted by the clink of a glass bottle.
The mare held out a Maryland Bitter with her right fore-hoof.
He blinked.
“Beer?” She offered.
“No thanks.”
Half Heart grunted.
She dislikes him already.
Said mare can already tell the situation is going to be unbearable.
She popped off the cap and took a big swig.
“So,” she started, “what exactly are you here for?”
He paused for a moment, "The resistance leaders want me to direct you,” he informed, "the option was given to me, so I took it. The griffons are unlikely to attack your tank, so, I’d rather be in here than out there.”
“Actually, I’ve had one assault me so far,” she corrected, “I saw em’ talking on the radio, more will probably come.”
He paled at the thought.
Perhaps a little context is required.
“Who…exactly, attacked you?”
“Just a griffon,” she shrugged, “I scared him off tho.”
“Huh, how’d you do it?”
“I threw a bottle at him.”
She thought it was kinda funny to see that griffon succumb to her clearly superior intellect.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You mean a beer?”
“Yeah,” she grinned, “Empty, of course.”
Wavelength’s mind churned to process that information.
But eventually, he shook his head, it was apparent this conversation wasn’t going in the intended direction.
He needed to ratify that.
The stallion opened his mouth to formulate a sentence, but paused mid breath.
He noticed a glint of a metallic brown casing.
He squinted his eyes, neck strained.
“Wait…Are those...shells?”
Half Heart immediately froze.
An array of ammo tank casings sat perfectly in a line, concealed in the shadows.
“You're not going to use them,” he narrowed, “are you?”
She should’ve hidden them.
“Nononononono, trust me,” she smiled uneasily, “I would never do that.”
“I find it difficult to trust you.”
Her eyes flicked around, she attempted to find purchase on a surface. Any surface.
“So, um.”
Quick! A change in topic.
…
Half Heart still couldn’t think of anything to say.
She just finished with an uneasy smile.
Luckily, her superior aversion skills seemed to have succeeded, his expression lessened.
Wavelength grunted. He just hopes she won’t do anything stupid. Or illegal.
Which is unlikely.
He sighed.
“Just…head towards the Sunset military garrison. That’s where we need to be.”
The mare nodded.
Half Heart placed her hoof upon the accelerator.
The tank lurched forward. A plume of carbon dioxide kicked up in its wake.
Slowly, it picked up speed, the caterpillar wheels revolved and extorted the ground with crude, repetitive lines.
Barely any of the ponies noticed.
A griffon concealed in a bush darted away.
Half Heart peered through the tank’s driver window. A tiny little slit that provided next to no visual context.
She watched the road conscientiously.
The congestion of walking bodies slowly became more prominent the closer the tank chugged to the Wingbardian military garrison. At this stage, there only appeared to have been a decent amount of other ponies, nothing too prominent.
And yet, she tried in vain to read every sign, and observe the various expressions cheering New Marylanders withheld towards her tank, despite the novelty of it long worn off.
Anything to distract herself from responding to the non-stop gatling questions his pony spat out. The atmosphere had done a complete 180 when the stallion noticed a specific, injury-related, purple mark.
She hates personal questions.
“You're obviously lying,” Wavelength never removed his eyes from the nasty lesion, “what happened?”
“I told you,” Half Heart snuffed, “I spilled purple grapes on myself.”
His muzzle scrunched up.
“That doesn’t even make sense! How can you spill a solid object!?”
The only sound—besides the engine, that resonated throughout the enclosed place was an obscene hum.
“I just did,” Half smacked her lips, “damn, those were good grapes.”
She nodded to herself.
Wavelength could only facepalm.
Best to leave it as it be.
Half Heart leaned forward, she squinted her eyes through the driver’s window, concentrating. On the corner of the street, she pulled the right lever backwards, the tank came to a sudden halt, this jolted the occupants slightly forward.
It rotated and grounded across the asphalt.
The extended vibrations made it quite challenging to maintain a prolonged, constant expression. Something that Wavelength struggled with; he was finding it difficult to maintain a facade of irritation, especially with his gums briefly flapping.
Half Heart shoved the breaks back into position, stepped down on the accelerator. The diesel engine revved, the sashay rattled.
“Quick question,” she asked, “I’ve been wondering…what was the thing you couldn’t tell me yesterday? You know, when I called bullshit on your excuse?”
He froze. The second time that evening.
“Um,” he scratched the back of his head, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you… They want to be pretty discrete about it…”
“Right,” Half Heart rolled her eyes, “I guess there’s no possible way you can trust me, it’s not like I’m literally driving you around in a tank.”
“Well, I guess,” Wavelength stuttered, “when you put it like that…”
“You’ve been drilling me every fucking second since the beginning of this ‘trip’, I think I deserve some answers.”
“Alright! Fine. I suppose it won’t matter if I tell one person.”
She switched her awareness onto the adjacent stallion, ready to intake the desired information.
He opened his mouth, only to close it a second later when he noticed the driver wasn’t paying attention to the road like a healthy, sensible individual.
“Aren't you supposed to be watching the road?”
She revolved her pupils, once again, “They’ll get out of the way,” she paused to glance at the scrambling pedestrians trying to get out from the tank’s path, she turned back to address him, “Now, tell me what I want to know,” the mare paused, “please.”
“Right,” he started, “well, the immense protest and your tank are to serve as a distraction,” he tapped the tank hull, “to lure the attention from the security of the Griffon’s garrison so that some of our unicorns can slip past and gather military intelligence.”
He closed his mouth, finished. It was apparent Wavelength didn’t have anything else to say.
“Is that it?” She hummed, “seems a bit underwhelming to me.”
They do say that ‘Insufficient intelligence is a bird without wings.’ How can the resistance be successful if they can’t adapt to change?
He scoffed, “Well, I think it’s a brilliant plan.”
“Yeah, no doubt about it. There’s definitely no possible way it could go wrong.”
He nodded in agreement, “Exactly. You get it.”
Perhaps he didn’t notice the sarcasm in her voice or her eyes performing a barrel roll.
What the stallion failed to realise, that multiple uncertainties could very well bring the whole stratagem crashing down. Like the mare; she is quite unpredictable after all.
Half Heart turned her attention back to the road with a prevalent eye.
On the corner of another street, she pulled the left lever backwards, the tank came to a halt, rotated in the desired direction, and shuddered forward.
Wavelength would’ve preferred if there was backrest supporting him—he almost fell over. He continued to ponder this, until, not even five seconds later, he had to experience it again.
Half Heart pulled both of the breaks backwards.
Only this time, the tank was brought to a complete standstill. No rotation, no movement. The only response was the consistent BANGS and vibrations from the engine.
Half Heart’s expression had changed, eyes narrowed; she gave an excruciatingly close vigilance at the road ahead of her. This was suspicious—too suspicious. Something was wrong.
Two armoured cars sat on either side of the road, griffons situation on top both had their individual turrets pointing at the tank. It was clear their engines were still running and had arrived not long ago; if the tyre marks were anything to go by.
Protesters just walked past them. Wary of course; they gave a wide berth.
Half Heart knew something was wrong, she could feel it in her gut. Something was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be good.
There was a possibility she was wrong—perhaps they’re doing crowd control? And are only pointing their turrets because of caution? Who knows, maybe this is all just a big misunderstanding.
Wavelength had no idea what was going on, he didn’t have access to a window, and thus, couldn’t recognise the thick tension that unfolded over the environment.
He just sat there, clueless.
He was about to ask the obvious question until the mare beat him to it.
“There’s two armoured vehicles,” she said, “something going to happen, I can feel it.”
He paled, “Should I leave or…?”
“If you wanna get shot—be my guest.”
Half Heart squinted her eyes further, she mumbled to herself, “Maybe if I just nudge forward, I can…?”
She pushed the leavers back into position, she stepped on the accelerator, the engine roared and rocked the tank forward.
The mare was right. Her gut is always right.
The cars immediately began to open fire.
“Shit!Shit!Shit!Shit!Shit!”
Hundreds of bullets pummelled against the metal enforced hull, clatter of bullet casings and gunpowder. Booms and bangs echoed from forty meters away. Griffons at the turret clenched their beak and vibrated with every shot.
Wavelength's expression: o_o
Screams and shouts resounded from the surroundings, civilians and protesters scrambled to get out of the crossfire.
Then, another BANG reiterated from the hull, this sounded different from the deviating bullet tinsels, this one, was deeper, as if a more substantial, solid object was propelled against the tank. A following shhhhhhhhht diverged.
White, irking gas slithered from the confined cracks, it snaked and slowly collected at Half Heart’s heels. It tingled slightly.
The mare came to a sudden realisation; its tear gas, xylyl bromide.
This was followed by a few more THUNKS, more gas escaped.
“Damn it!”
Half Heart reached to the side and quickly grasped a gas mask. She had to fumble a bit to get from under various magazines and empty bottles. She shoved it into Wavelength’s surprised face.
“Put this on.”
Without speaking, he clutched onto the mask and began to situate it on. However, he noticed that Half Heart wasn’t reaching over for another gas mask—she must only have one.
“Wait, what about you?”
The mare quickly snatched the still half-full stubby from her drink holder, and swiftly skulled the remainder. No use wasting a perfectly good beer to contamination. She held onto it.
The mare shrugged, “I have a high tolerance.”
“Are you referring to alcohol or tear gas?”
“Both.”
She swung her body over to the lifted turret seat behind her.
“I’ve experienced a lot.”
She balanced on her hind hooves and unlatched the tank’s hatch. It swung open with such ferociousness, it reverberated a solid BANG.
Half Heart poked her head through it, and quickly scanned the surroundings. She was able to recognise the two armoured cars, whisks of white gas in clouds—likely shot in canisters, and a group of sterile griffons flew towards them—roughly 50 meters away.
The cars were providing cover support.
She was promptly aimed at, the PINGS reverberated against the hatch.
Half Heart ducked back down before she was shot.
“GOD DAMN IT!” she clenched her teeth, “I JUST HAD THIS PAINTED!”
Yes, it would cost a fortune to repaint the entire thing.
She turned back to her companion, “Get your ass up here! You're helping!”
He froze.
“But, I’ve never been in-active combat befo—“
“I don’t give a shit! Don’t make me drag you!”
He hesitantly got up from his position, gas mask situated upon his muzzle. Tear gas had almost filled the bottom third of the vehicle, it was difficult to see.
He deposited himself on the seat, Half Heart stood behind him, she crouched just below the hatch’s hole and ogled the circular markings on the ring.
“Rotate the turret 20 degrees clockwise!”
“But I don’t know how to…”
“Just do it!”
Wavelength briefly panicked, he grabbed the handle on the closest wheel, and power spun. He went so swiftly, he couldn’t pay attention to any of the markings on it.
In real-time, the tank's turret slowly revolved to point at the right enemy armoured vehicle. The driver of said automobile seemed to notice this, and began to back away; very slowly, mind you.
“Stop! You’ve gone over!” She growled.
He stopped spinning it.
“Fire!”
Wavelength froze, “How do you fire i—“
“Pull the fucking leaver!”
And that, he did.
A loud, and powerful boom split apart the airwaves, the intense recoil caused the entire tank to rock backwards, the enduring whistle brought joy to Half’s heart.
That wondrous, fantastic feeling of empowerment ultimately came to a halt once the mare poked her head above the hatch.
It missed.
The shell, missed.
Dirt, dust and fragments of soot kicked up from the building adjacent to the target. The explosion had covered the vehicle with a thin layer of fine gunpowder and dirt.
But nonetheless. It. Had. Missed.
mare.exe has stopped working.
A bronze shell collapsed in the empty space next to the turret.
She stood there, flabbergasted, for a few seconds. How could that shot of possibly missed??!
The ping from the machine guns directed at her presenting muzzle seemed to have reminded her of the current predicament she was in.
She shook her head.
Danger detected, executing source ‘reboot.exe.’
The armoured cars must’ve subsequently discerned they were outgunned, they drove in reverse, shot in rare bursts—at least they were inaccurate.
Half Heart looked up to witness a descending group of griffons in dark green uniforms.
One landed in front of her, all smug, he pointed his rifle down the hatch. It was difficult to see him due to the tear gas, but gained a rough figure nonetheless.
That expression…it seemed awfully familiar.
The griffon appeared to have come to a similar realisation. His superior utterance ultimately—almost immediately—dissipated. His new expression, utter disdain. He almost dropped his rifle in surprise—he couldn't believe it.
“YOU!”
Ah yes, she remembers, if it wasn’t the so-called ‘officer’, Astore Baldovini. The piece of shit that kicked her in the ribs.
She doesn’t like getting kicked in the ribs.
She did something that any average pony would do; with an empty bottle still in hoof, she jumped and smashed the flask on his cranium. Shards of thick glass spread out in an arc. Only the jagged bottleneck remained.
His rag-doll body thunked onto the metal roof, he instantly fell unconscious.
Several Wingbardian soldiers at the base immediately opened fire—one almost hit her. It was apparent more were flying over.
She ducked back inside.
“Fuck.”
She paused for a moment and looked at the stallion, and the distinctly bullet free ordnance.
He stared back.
“Why haven’t you reloaded it?”
“I was supposed to reload it?”
“Yes! You were supposed to reload it!”
“I don’t even know how to…”
Priorities. Ignore it. She’s got other things to worry about.
THUNK
Like the grenade that just landed beside her.
…..
LIKE A GRENADE THAT LANDED BESIDE HER.
SHIT.
The mare clutched the explosive device and hurled out the hole, not a second later, it exploded mid-air, orange fists of flame and shrapnel elongated in all directions. Half Heart’s ears flattened to block the noise.
Whew. That was a close one.
The mare slowly rose from the confines of the tank, the tip of her muzzle and eyes visible.
Two griffons stood on the tank, it was clear both slowly encroached upon her. She was relatively close to them, the mare hurled what remained of the bottle at the closest griffon.
SWOOSH
It spiralled mid-air, embedded itself into the unexpecting chest of the left griffon. He fell over in shock and pain. His body collapsed off the tank.
The other soldier was clearly not happy, his face contracted utter disdain.
Half Heart dropped back through the hatch, that griffon was undesirable and needed to be dispensed swiftly.
“Give me something to throw! Quickly!”
Wavelength panicked, his head rapidly spun his eyes landed on the perfect object.
He hoofed her a pistol.
She snatched it out of his grasp, without looking, swung her arm backwards, and propelled it at the enemy.
The L-shaped black object hit him squarely on the forehead.
He fell unconscious.
A pause, it was only a few seconds after she realised it was a pistol.
“A gun? Really?”
“I thought you’d shoot it!”
“I asked for something to throw you idiot!”
Half Heart shook her head and peered up. What she saw made her heart drop. There were more. More flew towards her tank.
She can’t let them gain proprietorship of the top, it’d be game over.
“Drive!”
Wavelength blinked at her.
“GET YOUR ASS IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT AND STEP ON THE ACCELERATOR!”
He scrambled over the petals and slammed his hind-hoof on—what he assumed—the accelerator.
The tank sped forward.
The griffons followed.
Half Heart swiftly looked around the cabin for something to throw—she spotted the empty tank shell beside the smoked—but still empty—ordnance. She grabbed it and lobbed it at the closest griffon.
The bass casing revolved in the air, opening first, the cartridge lodged itself onto the Wingbardian’s head. His face could not be seen—it was completely encased. The griffon scratched at the shell and quickly nosedived.
DING
He impacted the shell first.
And yet, the others still seemed to be unresolved—they were gaining ground.
“GET THE FUCK BACK!”
An armoured car attempted to block the tank’s path, its turret, still fired.
The tank shook, it smashed straight through, fists of an explosion expanded, the entire vehicle was destroyed. Griffons attempted to escape from the remnants.
The tracks drove over the wreckage.
Half Heart yet again, searched for more shit to throw.
She reached down and grasped her stack of magazines. She considered using her limited selection of beers as ammunition, but thought better of it—she was not going to waste perfectly good beer.
With a technique she learnt in kindergarten from paper aeroplanes, she launched the magazines one at a time—most flopped open and missed, but some hit their marks. They blocked the eyesight of the various griffons, they dropped, some even stared at the magazines with flabbergasted expressions.
Half Heart was running out of things to throw.
From her angle; there only seemed to be one griffon remaining. His eyes were narrowed, arms stretched outwards.
The mare bent down, she was able to grasp a moderately sized bottle with a yellow fluid inside it. She tossed it at the still encroaching griffon, it spun in the air—the pale gold liquid stretched out in a spiral. The soldier gaped with a horrified facade as it sailed through the air—its foul smell invaded his nostrils.
It hit him on the face—it exploded. Glass and liquid lengthened over his grimace. He had attempted to block it, but ultimately failed. He crashed to the ground.
Half Heart was a very happy mare—she solely terminated every one of the griffons, without even firing a single bullet!
She bounded her arms into the air, she cheered.
I’m sure you can tell where this is going.
As it turns out, she hadn’t taken out every griffon—there was one remaining.
“Come here you little shit!”
He came from behind, he had managed to seize Half Heart’s forearms. His claws dug into her flesh, blood was drawn. The griffon slowly began to gain attitude, with the pony struggling in his grasp.
Half Heart—still wrestling—scowled up at her capturer.
She recognised that face—the same griffon that flew into that pole, his countenance, a little mangled with crimson glass shards.
“Put me down!”
He glowered at her, beak clenched, “I will have my vengeance!”
He looked to the sky, wings flapped with such ferocity.
Half Heart narrowed her eyes, “I'd stab you if the air didn’t separate us.”
He scoffed.
Back in the tank: Wavelength seemed to notice the mare’s absence. He stopped the tank and looked to the sky.
He had to do something.
The stallion had gained inspiration from his partner, he noticed a small collection of beers next to the driver’s seat. He grabbed roughly three, popped up from the hatch, and began to lob them one after the other.
They swirled and glided through the sky majestically. Their labels shined in the sunlight.
Annnnnnnnnnd, they missed.
They smashed against the ground.
Honestly, it was kinda pathetic. They didn’t even come close to hitting their mark.
The griffon was laughing. He was laughing so hard at that pitiful rescue attempt, that he didn’t see the wall coming.
THUNK.
Smacked into the building. Cracks appeared in the concrete.
He fell unconscious. His body slid down it, onto the ground.
Half Heart dropped to the footpath in a heap, she shook her head and blinked to clear the haziness.
Although the mare was silently glad she made it out alive—she was not happy.
Beer isn't cheap.
She pushed herself up and made her way back to the tank. Half Heart hauled herself until her head hovered over the entrance.
Wavelength peered up; he was expecting something similar to ‘thank you’, or an appreciative message, but what he endured was quite the opposite.
“Do NOT waste perfectly good beer!” she berated from the hatch, “Do you have any idea how expensive that is?!”
He was flabbergasted.
Half grumbled to herself and quickly slid into the tank, she reloaded the cannon with another shell, sat in the driver’s seat and stepped on the accelerator, the tank lurched forward.
It didn’t take long to reach their destination.
Long, thick concrete walls extended around a compound, several griffons patrolled it. They tensed. Thousands of protesters in a vast, concentrated sea howled at the garrison. Signs of various writings were hauled up and down.
Half Heart had to progress extra slow, around six kilometres an hour, so the protesters could move around the vehicle, it gave the illusion of an ocean.
The tank stopped at an angle to the garrison.
Multiple ponies attempted to climb on it.
Half Heart didn’t care—what she’d about to do would scare them off anyway.
She got out of her seat. Wavelength had decided to sit in the turret’s accommodation—he had the gas mask off.
She pushed him out of the way.
“Move.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothin’ ”
She rotated a wheel, the turret slowly swivelled around.
“No, seriously, what are you doing?”
“Nothin’ ”
She went to grab a lever.
Everything appeared in slow motion to Wavelength, he saw the mare nonchalantly extend her arm towards the firing mechanism. He needed to stop her.
"No! Don't—"
His efforts, however, were in vain.
She pulled it.
The whole tank rocked backwards as it fired.
Half Heart was right, all the protesters fell off.
The projectile sailed through the air, a loud whistle followed in its wake. A deafening explosion rocked across the thin concrete wall—it crumbled to bits.
The remaining griffons attempted to scramble into strategic positions.
Wavelength was startled, he actually believed the mare wasn't this stupid.
They had a plan. A brilliant plan. And she ruined it.
He gave the look.
“What?” she asked, generally puzzled, “This is a distraction.”
He grinded his teeth, “The tank was the distraction! You've ruined everything!”
She smiled uneasily and pawed at the ground, "Oops."
"We were going to use the information found for the seeds of an uprising!”
“Pfft!” She exclaimed, “No matter! We'll just take the bloody intelligence by force!”
Ponies of all colours flooded into the opening, some, although initially surprised, wiped out various hidden firearms and began to systematically shoot—few were clearly veterans.
Griffons attempted to hold the onslaught back, but the limited manpower and the overwhelming force proved too significant.
The tank persisted forward—there was no stopping it.
[A Few Weeks Later]
Two Alicons sat opposite to each other, they sat at a large, round, crystal table. A small cardboard box sat upon it, several photos of smiling New Marelanders in various poses spread out across the surface. Most incorporated a specific, unknown mare.
“The New Marelanders are reclaiming their country from Wingbardy,“ Celestia started, “apparently, they're suffering from a shortage difficulty, and would like our help.”
Luna’s ear twitched, “Of what? Do they want weapons?” she paused, “We…suppose a few could be spared from the Changeling invasion.”
The white alicorn princess peered at the letter in her magical grasp. “They say they’re, ‘suffering an extreme shortage of alcohol, and would like some sent immediately.’ ”
They looked at each other.
Author's Note
I hope you enjoyed! Please leave any comments for constructive criticism.
