Molly’s - Chapter 1 [Tankiverse Fanfic]

[Hippin_in_Hawaii 639]

Molly’s - Chapter 1
Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii

 
Molly’s Reclamation & Salvage. That’s what the sign said at the head of the driveway. Well, it had said that, in its prime. Years of exposure to the elements had faded the colors; the right side was broken off, probably hit by a passing vehicle trying to maneuver off the skinny lane and into the gravel ruts. What it actually said was “Molly’s Reclam & Salv.”

The driveway lead between two fairly prosperous-looking warehouses and up to a chain-link gate, which happened to be chained shut. Beyond the tattered fenceline rose pile after pile of broken cars, stacked tall to the clouds, forming a secondary fence. If I leaned and peered and craned my neck, between those columns I could see the husks of maybe half-a-dozen tanks busily turning into rust, possibly the most heart-rending sight I’d ever beheld. And beyond that, a warehouse that had once been solid green. It had been patched often and the patches covered with whatever paint the owner had handy, so it looked like something from a hippie’s nightmares, beat-down yet still psychedelic.

Looking left and right, the fence stretched off in the distance. It was a junkyard, alright. But it seemed to be a pretty big junkyard. I sighed. Deeply. To say I was disappointed doesn’t really come close. But I was here and still had a fair amount of my Saturday left, so I decided to see what there was to see. The ground to the left looked rougher, and there were briars growing through the fence, so I went right.

The fence wasn’t exactly straight, and had clearly seen better days, which seemed to be the theme of Molly’s in general. It leaned out, then in, then out again as it meandered, the corpses of cars piled high against it. There were holes in the fence, many of them. Some maybe even large enough for me to squeeze through, but the wreckage piled just inside was a pretty effective deterrent had I felt so inclined. Which I didn’t.

The corner, when I got there, was only a few hundred meters from the gate, which I couldn’t see because of the not-straightness of the fence, bulging then retreating. Rounding the corner and following the raggedy fence, I passed the backs of several warehouses. Molly’s was tattered, but it was really, really big. By the time I got to the next corner, I felt like I had probably walked a kilometer (I ended up pushing my bike because the rough path was not what my racing tires were designed for!)

Following the back fence, I came across another gate. This one was closed, but not chained. I looked around; not a soul was in sight. Just another gravel driveway, the backs of featureless warehouses marching into the distance, and this unmarked, unlocked gate. My heart beat a little faster as I let myself in. I mean, it’s not trespassing if there’s no “Keep Out” sign, right?

The gravel driveway was even less conducive to riding, so I continued to walk, pushing my bike along. The path meandered between towers of discarded cars that seemed to lean in over me, nearly blocking the sunlight and lending an unnatural gloom to this already-creepy landscape. My imagination ran scenarios of cars falling to crush me, junkyard dogs chasing me, rats biting me, even me getting lost and wandering lonely for the rest of time, but I never really thought of turning back. I’d spent years on this quest, and I was going to see it through, regardless of how disappointing it was certain to be.

I emerged from the forest of debris to a relatively open area, easily the size of a giant parking lot, and suddenly, I could not breathe. Tanks, dozens of tanks, hundreds of tanks, sat around me. Most were wrecks, clearly the losers of pitched battles. All were rusted, some even had plants growing through them. But despite their tragic condition, I was actually standing beside tanks! I slowly walked up to the first and laid my hand on it. It was a shell, the treads and engine removed, the gun taken, but still recognizable. This had been a Hunter, and judging from what was left of the paint, had once belonged to the Coalition, probably before I was born.

As I wandered through the field, I began to feel a sense of majesty. Every tank here had a story, and regardless of how those stories had begun, they all ended the same way: “Now, I am junk, and I am Molly’s.” Over and over and over again.

As I continued wandering inward, following the driveway, a change began to occur. The tanks were getting newer. Less rust, more paint. Most of them were still pretty thoroughly beat up, but fewer were completely gutted. Many still had intact treads; several were still sporting their weapons.

The space between them was opening up as well; they weren’t crammed together nearly as tightly. Then, without transition, I was in the open. There was a ring around the warehouse, maybe 30 meters wide, that was nearly clear; only two tanks stood there, and they both looked good. Not new, definitely not that. But intact, not rusty, still proud. I ran to the first, eager to touch something so beautiful and powerful. The armor was hot from the midday sun, which now shone down on me again. It smelled of oil and steel and ruthlessness. It was a monster, a mammoth, the barrel of its gun looked nearly large enough for me to crawl inside (I didn’t try). I walked around it, crawled over it, even tried to open it, but the hatches were locked.

If the first was a mammoth, the second was a wasp. It was a third the size, a quarter. I’m not sure; fractions were still new to me. While the first tank screamed “DOMINATE!” this one whispered “speeeeeeeed.” It was low to the ground; its angles were severe. Its gun was tiny, barely large enough for my young fist (I did try). It, too, was locked.

I don’t know how long I spent fawning over those two tanks before something moved in the corner of my eye. I froze and turned. There, just outside an open door, a woman leaned against the building, watching me. She wore filthy mechanic’s overalls and lifted her grease-stained hand to her face to take a drag from a cigarette. That’s the movement I had finally seen. How long had she been there?

She dropped the butt and ground it out beneath her boot, then turned and went inside without saying a word. She left the door open behind her, though. My first thought, of course, was to run. And my second. Actually, all of my thoughts were to run. But instead, I found myself walking to that door, pulled by the lure of mystery. Who was she? Was that Molly? Was she working on a tank inside?

I didn’t even hesitate as I pulled the door shut behind me.

Mahalo (thank you) for reading; I hope you enjoyed! This story is part of a series. Information on the series, and links to the other stories, can be found here.

[LOLKILLERTOTHEDEATH 1,921]

Approved!

 

Not much editing to do here. Quite enjoyed reading it and I'll be waiting for the next installment.

[thethiefofvictory 339]

Great job as always! I'm intrigued, waiting for more!

[Viking4s 10,791]

Good start