Legacy of an Alcoholic Tank Commander

by PoniesMine

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.

Comments

[Smug Anime Girl]

My one gripe is that the story shifts from present to past tense at reckless abandon

[PoniesMine]

10165931
Thanks, I'll try to fix that.

[JustAnotherHistoryBuff]

Panzer Rollen en Afrika Vor

[TerribleSpeller]

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.’ ”

Truly the most important war material

[JustFalcon]

I have a feeling Half Heart may or may not have become the face of the rebellion if alcohol is that important.

[MLG Hard]

Nice story.

[MrNelg]

Mareland Bitter? Nah mate, what they really need is Pon XXXX!