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 Wingbardian soldier, 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 Wingbardian occupation 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.