Thanks! I'm trying hard to work those links in!

Deer Hunting Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Team Greenway had taken over an outlying pavilion in what had been the parking lot for Ostacor’s football stadium. It gave them cover from the dew as they lay on their sleeping bags in the dark. The vehicles were lined up in a tidy column nearby as the soldiers discussed and debated which departing convoy to try and guard next. “That’s two lost under our watch,” said Fred, talking as much to himself as to the team. “One literally from under our noses; the other while we were busily guarding the wrong one. This is not working.” “We need numbers,” said Georgina. “The captain needs to send a batallion down here, maybe get us some air cover.” “That’s what the Mongs are hoping for,” said Al. “The more resources we devote to finding this marauder, the less resources we have flowing to the borders of the liberated zone.” He pondered a moment. “Fewer resources?” “How sure are we that there’s only one?” asked Phil. “Only one resource? That makes no sense,” complained Al. “No, only one marauder,” snarked Phil. “Pretty sure,” said Chip. “Look at the pattern of attacks. The intervals and the distance between them. If there were multiple hostiles, they could engage a lot more targets, and provoke the hoped-for response more quickly.” “And we’re sure it’s a tank? Not a soldier with an RPG, or an insurgent with explosives and a trigger?” “Nah,” said Chip. “The I.E.D. idea doesn’t hold water; no one could be that lucky with placing a booby trap to successfully and completely demolish five vehicles with one hundred percent precision. And a soldier with an RPG would have been spotted. If not the soldier, then the rocket trail leading in.” Chip paused to take a drag from his cigarette. “No one has seen or heard anything. So it’s not artillery; that would be heard incoming. It’s not a common tank weapon, the report would be heard before the shell reached the target. Whatever it is, it moves faster than the speed of sound, and doesn’t produce a smoke trail. Gun like that, it’s attached to a heavy machine.” “But the muzzle flash would be huge!” said Nienna. “You’d see it for miles!” “That’s why they fire from out of the sun,” Chip replied. “Sneaky buggers, very clever. Gotta admire them ****ing Mongs.” “Even if we pick the right convoy,” Fred mused, “we probably won’t stop them from taking their shot. We didn’t last time. And if we go charging blindly into the sun, they’ll certainly have time to gut at least one of our tanks, if not all three, before we find something to shoot at. I am not seeing a way to handle this without help.” “Ever go deer hunting?” came a voice from the dark, one of Georgie’s Dozen. “Ever use a tree stand, or hunt from a blind?” “No, said Fred, searching the darkness for the speaker then giving up. “No, can’t say as I’ve done that.” “It’s easy enough,” came the voice. “If you know where the deer are gonna be, and when they’re gonna be there, you just have to sit and wait. Find a game trail, and find a spot to watch it from. Not too close, and be careful about the wind. Deer mostly move in the early early morning and the late late evening.” Fred chewed this over in his head. “We know they’re getting intelligence.” “Yep,” drawled the voice. “They know where we’re gonna be, and when.” The inflection of the voice made it clear that the speaker felt he knew something obvious, something everyone else was missing. “Frank, spit it out!” snapped Georgina. “Well, now, suppose I wanted to attack...unh…” there was a grunt as Frank shifted his position to look towards the field. “Yeah, convoy three four one, departs at sixteen hundred tomorrow, heading to Millhaven. Sunset tomorrow is, what, about nineteen thirty? Figure they make an average of seventy kph on a nice road like that. I can tell you what stretch of road they’ll be in come sunset, give or take half an hour. You give me a map, I can tell you where I’d hide to take that shot.” “So we set up to ambush the ambusher. I like it. Now, we just have to figure out which convoy.” “Seems to me,” replied Frank’s disembodied drawl, “that you got a coupla choices. You can map out all the likely spots for the next few days and take your chances, or you can change the departure schedules to limit their selection.” Fred pondered. “Those schedules are made weeks in advance. If we start changing things, it will be a clear warning signal to the marauder that we’re on to him.” “Hell, sir, ain’t but two days’ schedule up on the boards. Could be that’s all he knows.” Fred stood up and walked over the edge of the pavilion, looking over the rally point. The former football field, and the surrounding parking, had been marked off in a grid, with different assembly areas. On either side of the former field of play, spectator bleachers still stood. And behind those, towering against the night sky, stood two electronic scoreboards, now repurposed to display information about upcoming convoy departures. “Designation: 341. Assembly area: ECHO. Destination: MILLHAVEN. Departure 16:00” was currently displayed in electronic letters across the top of the screen. Below it was a list of upcoming convoys, in order of departure. “Has it occurred to you…” started Al, unexpectedly behind Fred’s shoulder. Fred jumped. “Jesus Christ, Al, don’t sneak up on me like that!” “Has it occurred to you,” repeated Al, “that those are mighty nice scoreboards for a community football field?” Fred looked at Al, then back at the scoreboards. “Those are pretty nice, aren’t they? And anyone here could be taking pictures of them, sending texts to the Mongs.” “Those are really nice scoreboards,” said Al insistently. “They had to cost tens, if not hundreds, of thousands.” Fred felt a little lost. It seemed to be his theme for the night. “So, what, wealthy donor?” “Really nice. And new. As good as what you’d see in a professional stadium. Bright. Crisp. High-definition. And probably fully integrated into the local network.” Fred’s jaw dropped. “No…” He reached for his phone, opened a search engine, and typed “Ostacor football field”. Seconds later, there it was, a page dedicated to the field, completely mobile-friendly. It obviously hadn’t been updated since the liberation; the schedule of games and events was still posted. Apparently Ostacor’s youth league was supposed to be playing Millhaven right now. There was a banner thanking Mr. Edmund Wraghten for his generous donation of the new scoreboards in loving memory of his wife. And there, at the bottom of the page, a link to webcams. Fred clicked the link. Three choices presented themselves: midfield east, midfield west, and scoreboard.

Thanks! I did catch one capitalization error that eluded me until after posting, even after I made two passes through specifically to check for such things. Something about seeing it on the forum makes my eyes fresher!

Wounded Beast Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii The small campfire flickered fitfully, a welcome companion to the chill of the night. Even inside the dilapidated barn that offered them some cover and, more importantly, concealment, the wind found its way through cracks in walls and clothing alike. Dwight poked the fire with a stick, stirring the embers and sending up sparks. “They sent a patrol today.” “Yes. It was to be expected. If not today, it would have been tomorrow.” Auschun stretched and tried to get comfortable, lying on his blanket beside the fire. “Quit with the poking; you’ll set me alight!” “Next time, we will fight?” Auschun lifted his head to stare at Dwight. “We have already had this discussion, Tactical Officer. We will not fight until we are found. We strike, we hide, we move. One shot only.” Deila joined in. “That patrol today, we could have destroyed. First shot to disable the heavy. Kill the two scouts as they tried to close range. Finish off the heavy, then pick off the convoy.” “This we know, Deila. No one doubts your skill or courage. But for such an assault, they would respond in force. We would be of no more use.” Deila stared into the flames. “It galls me.” “It galls us all, Deila,” grunted Auschun. “Except, possibly, for Peter.” As if on cue, the enormous blanket-covered lump spread beside the tank’s tread snored violently. The others all laughed. “Maria, tomorrow, when the sun returns, you will inspect the treads, yes?” “Of course, Commander. But it will be as I told you. The steel from which we made the replacement links was not hardened. It is mild steel, and it will not last. The links will break again, and the harder we use them, the sooner that will happen.” “Peter has been very gentle. We will see that he continues to be so.” “Still, Commander, they will break. And if we are lucky, it will take only hours to replace them.” “Understood. You will inspect them in the morning. If they are badly worn, we will stay here and replace them preemptively. If not, we will wait until the cover of darkness, then move to our next point of attack.” “Sir!” rang out from around the fire. “Dwight, our fuel reserves?” Dwight gestured at a flatbed farm truck, a fuel tank mounted on its bed. “After refueling, we’re down to under 200 liters reserve.” “Very well. In the morning, you will leave us, and go buy fuel. Meet us at the abandoned grain silos in three days’ time.” “Get some fresh meat if you can!” chimed in Deila. “And beer!” added Maria. “How you can drink that Gak piss is beyond me,” growled Auschun. “But if you can bring us such things, we will all be thankful.” “I can but try, sir,” responded Dwight. “Although the Gaks have not yet started rationing fuel in the occupied areas, panic buying has caused a scarcity of luxury goods. Meat and beer may be hard to come by. Still, it is no effort for me to try!” Breakfast the following morning was the same as had been every other meal for the past four weeks: concentrates and freeze-dried. High in protein, vitamins, fiber, and calories; completely devoid of flavor and texture. Food for the body, not for the soul. Dwight waved goodbye from the window of the flatbed, his civilian farm garb completely convincing in the beat-up utility vehicle. Maria spent a couple of hours carefully scrutinizing the treads before pronouncing them usable in their current condition. Peter, having no duties while the tank was idle, returned to sleep promptly after breakfast. Deila entered the tank, performed her inventory, and returned to report to Auschun. “Commander, the ammo count.” Auschun looked at her with some amusement. “And has it changed since last night’s count?” “No, Commander.” “And yet you persist in counting it twice per day.” “As is required, Commander.” Auschun looked approvingly at her. “Quite right, Deila. Quite right. Very well, what is the count?” “Armor piercing, sixteen rounds. High explosive, twenty-three rounds. Anti personnel, seven rounds.” “And your assessment, Gunnery Officer?” “We are ill provisioned for combat, sir.” “Assessment and count noted, Gunnery Officer. Job well done. You may perform your daily maintenance then have the remainder of the day off. We roll out at dusk.” Auschun appeared collected in front of his crew, the very image of a proper commander, but he was troubled. Deila was right, and Maria was right. Their tank was wounded; their ammo inventory, laughable. Their only option for fuel was purchasing it from the enemy. To be so far behind enemy lines, unsupported, in such a condition… There was but one end for them. Still, if they were careful, and clever, and if their luck were to hold, he could well imagine staying free long enough for each of those twenty-three rounds to strike Gak targets. It was with that thought he ultimately lulled himself to sleep. Watching Peter climb into the tank was something that never ceased to fascinate Asuchun. Peter was a bear of a man. In a barroom scenario, Auschun would confidently bet a week’s wages that such a man could not fit through the hatch, much less fold himself into the confined driver’s space. But Peter did so, and he did so with the grace of a ballerina and the flexibility of a gymnast. Behind the tank’s controls, those huge human paws could coax the most delicate of maneuvers out of their sixty ton, fifteen-hundred horsepower beast. As soon as the tank was warmed up, Auschun authorized Maria to recheck their intelligence. The risk of their satellite uplink being detected was small, but it did exist. Maria moved to Dwight’s empty station and initiated the uplink. “Confirmed, Commander. Our target is scheduled to depart at oh-four-thirty, the day after tomorrow.” They drove through the night at a moderate speed, reaching a wooded area of concealment long before dawn. The day they spent taking turns on watch and napping in the shade beneath the tank. During the night, they moved again, arriving at their destination near midnight. Again they were in a wooded copse, overlooking a country road roughly two kilometers west. The crew climbed out (Auschun pausing to marvel at Peter’s graceful self-extraction) and spread camouflage netting over the tank, embedding branches and leaves.They paused for a brief snack of protein concentrates, then returned to their duty stations to wait. WIth the engine off and the hatches sealed, the interior of the tank quickly became stuffy, but Auschun wanted no risk of a residual heat signature to betray them to an ill-timed glimpse from an IR camera. The sky lightened; the edge of the sun broke the horizon. Tension in the tank rose. Deila, in particular, became more intent on her sites, waiting for the expected convoy. “Dust on the horizon, Commander. They are punctual, these Gaks. We must remember to thank them for that someday,” she said. “Duty, Gunnery Officer. The time for jokes is not now,” admonished Auschun. “Sir. Range is approximately four thousand meters. Speed is approximately sixty kilometers per hour. Likelihood to hit currently favorable.” Deila’s voice was suddenly flat; emotionless; professional. Auschun consulted the map, looked at the clock, and the chart showing the elevation of the sun. “Let them come, Deila. Let them come. The higher the sun, the less likely they are to see. The closer they come, the more deadly our hit. Let them come.” “Three thousand five hundred meters. Speed constant. Likelihood to hit very favorable. “Three thousand meters. Speed constant. Likelihood to hit high. “Two thousand five hundred meters. Speed constant. Likelihood to hit approaching optimum.” “Gunnery Officer, you are clear to fire at optimum trajectory. Driver, stand ready.” Seconds ticked by. Auschun licked sweat from his upper lip. “FIring,” said Deila. The tank, large though it was, shuddered with the recoil. A vehicle in the center of the convoy erupted in a cloud of smoke and flame. “Target hit, Commander,” said Deila, her voice still flat. “Reload high explosive and stand ready. Driver, continue to stand ready.” Auschun watched his monitors closely. Unless there were some indication that the convoy had spotted his tank, he would simply sit here until the enemy regrouped and fled. If, against all probability, the convoy elected to stand its ground and start searching...well, the moment the Gaks received solid intelligence on his position and strength, his mission would be compromised. That must be avoided at all costs. The convoy actually did not pause, but increased speed. The trailing vehicles swung wide into the meadows to clear the wreckage of the burning truck; their dust trails chased them up to and over the horizon. “Well done, well done. We post watch in rotation until sunset, then we will break cover and move to the silo. With a little luck, Dwight will be awaiting us with steaming beef and cold beer!”

I'm actually kind of worried about the volume of dialogue coming up in the remainder of this arc. Hopefully, you'll find it fulfilling!

D'oh!!! Good catch! I'm introducing a character in this arc named Deila. But my fingers keep typing Delia. I've spent so much time trying to keep Deila Deila that I didn't pay adequate attention to my core group!

Gadsby, perhaps? ;)

One lipo-thing, eh? Doesn’t seem to difficult. Simply eschew from pressing one or more keys. I put something gross on my ivories to help me miss it. One tiny dollop of berry jelly, right between Q, S, Z. If my finger gets sticky, I need to try over! With enough time, there won’t be choices open. Just jelly everywhere.

Guard Duty Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii “Escort duty, sir? Is that really the best use of our resources?” The captain fixed Fred with a dispassionate stare of infinite patience and said nothing. The cherry on his cigarette flared and dimmed as he inhaled; the clinging pseudopod of ash grew a centimeter longer. Smoke wafted through the sunlight slanting in through the window. Fred cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. Of course that’s for you to say. Sorry I interrupted.” The captain pointed at a map. “In the last ten days, we’ve had three supply convoys attacked. Here, here, and here. You can download the map and study it after this briefing. Your team will accompany the next convoy, and you will continue on this duty until such time as you can assure me that this particular threat has been neutralized.” The captain gestured with his cigarette, miraculously not losing the completely-intact ash. “Staff Sergeant, I picked your team because you have a reputation for getting things done in a manner both effective and conscientious. Our soldiers are losing lives in these attacks, and the resources that are being destroyed could cost more lives, both military and civilian. Make it stop.” He crushed out the cigarette. “Dismissed.” Fred walked away from the command center, heading back to his tank, already downloading data on his pad. Briefings with Captain Morrison were famous both for their one-cigarette duration and their lack of useful information. That he seemed to have caught the captain’s eye in a favorable manner worried Fred to no end, but he would have to fret about that later. Fred distributed the information to Georgie, Chip, and Nienna, and called for a briefing in half an hour. The next convoy was scheduled to leave Ostacor before sunrise the following morning; Fred and his team would have to drive through most of the night to meet up with them, leaving very little time to do more than briefly scan the intel they had been given. From what Fred could tell, the three incidents weren’t actually attacks, but were more likely the result of I.E.D.s. In each case, only one vehicle in each convoy had been destroyed, and those each by a single blast. An explosive device, remotely triggered by an observer, seemed the most likely scenario to his mind. Team Greenway reached the rendezvous, a repurposed football field just north of the recently-liberated city, with barely enough time to refuel and slug a cup of coffee before heading out. Fred placed Nienna’s heavy on point, followed by one of Georgie’s APCs. The other APC came up the rear; Fred took the left flank, and Chip the right. Red-eyed and sleep-deprived, they set off on (hopefully) the most boring duty imaginable. The convoy consisted of nine trucks loaded with food and medical supplies, destined for the even-more-recently-liberated town of Millhaven, roughly 300 km distant. The route was largely through empty land, former agricultural spreads that had been abandoned after the last war, punctuated by small pockets of forest and endless lines of windbreaks. This far from any active conflict, the normal escort would have been a single armed scout vehicle with a crew of four; today, they were joined by the three tanks and two APCs of Team Greenway. The sun rose on on a beautiful day. The sky was clear; the dew sparkled on the grass. Fred imagined that, were it not for the ruckus of a heavily-armed convoy trundling by, there would be birdsong floating on the breeze and woodland creatures cavorting in the meadows. Dust motes and dandelion fuzz floated dreamily in the slanting early morning rays; the sun’s blazing glory was scarcely above the treetops of the distant woodland. It looked like an illustration from a children’s fairy tale. Until the second truck exploded. The remaining trucks immediately dispersed into the traditional herringbone pattern. Georgie’s Dozen boiled from the APCs, taking cover behind and underneath vehicles. Nienna’s tank stopped, her turret sweeping the forward horizon. Chip and Fred’s tanks roared, banking out from the roadway into the meadows on either side to run in tight circles, searching for activity in every direction. Adrenaline surged. Eyes squinted and strained. Radio traffic flew, terse and chaotic. Churning treads flung dust into the air. The convoy was a bristling cluster of death, nerves strung taut, fever-pitch ready to unleash a withering barrage of ordnance at...what? Medics dashed to the burning wreckage, but there was no hope of survivors. Milliseconds stretched into actual seconds. Several eternities later, those seconds had become minutes. And still there was no movement, no sign, no point on which to focus the accumulated hostility which was so desperate to be unleashed. Five minutes. Ten. “Mount up!” signalled Fred. “Resume course, dispersed column, double speed!” The infantry scrambled into their APCs; Nienna’s tank gunned its engine and lumbered forward; crews returned to their trucks and pulled back on the road. The convoy scurried forward, moving much more quickly this time. They pulled into Millhaven well ahead of schedule, the remainder of the trip having proven uneventful. There was a debriefing, but between the sleepless night and the adrenaline crash, Team Greenway wasn’t in good shape to really accomplish anything. Fred sent everyone for a nap, with a call for an after-dinner meeting, before heading to the comm shack to get lashed by Captain Morrison. Chip didn’t sleep. He never had. Three hours a night was really all he needed, much to the despair of his parents. True, no parent ever sleeps with a newborn in the house, but Chip’s parents had not enjoyed an uninterrupted night’s sleep from the time he was born until the day he left for the military. In military training, of course, there was no “doing things” after lights out, so Chip got pretty good at lying in his bunk and thinking. Chip wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and he knew this about himself. He was surrounded by people smarter than he was, and had made peace with that. But Chip had good instincts, and he was meticulous, and he had a notebook. He found that if he kept writing down the things he did know in different ways, and looking at it over and over again, he could sometimes discover things he didn’t know. His instincts told him there was something to be found in the information they already had, so he spent naptime lying in his bunk with his tiny notebook. Fact: Three of the four incidents had happened just after sunrise; the other had happened during sunset. Fact: Each incident had targeted exactly one vehicle with exactly one explosion. Fact: Each vehicle had been quite effectively destroyed. Fact: No one in any of the vehicles had survived. Fact: There wasn’t a firm pattern to the intervals between incidents. Fact: All of the convoys had departed from the same Ostacor rally point. Fact: No route had been attacked more than once. Fact: The locations of each incident were spread over a pretty considerable area. The shortest line you could draw to connect them was close to a thousand kilometers long. Fact: The distance between the incidents, when mapped chronologically, seemed directly related to the intervals between them. Fact: There were no reports of any unusual activity immediately before or immediately after any of the incidents. Fact: Not all of the convoys had reacted in the same way. One had fled immediately; two had herringboned; one had simply stopped. None of these behaviors changed the lack of any follow-up activity. Fact: The four convoys that had been hit weren’t particularly special. Fact: In the same time span, departing from the same rally point, there had been over a dozen other convoys that proceeded without incident. Chip continued listing what he knew. When he got stuck for an idea, he would just stare at the ceiling for a while. Sooner or later, he would think of a new entry for the notebook. TIny page after tiny page, he wrote, one fact each. When finally he judged it had been half an hour since the last entry, he began flipping through them. Carefully, meticulously, he tore pages out and re-arranged them. And again. And again. Some pages he set aside. Some he duplicated to place in more than one grouping. It took a while, but Chip was also patient. And by the time the others were rousing themselves for dinner, Chip was pretty sure he knew four new things: there was only one hostile; it was armor, most likely a tank, with a very big gun; it was more interested in stealth than confrontation; and it was receiving pretty good intelligence.

Thanks! I'm working hard to have ties across stories. The next arc will have a detail-oriented tie to the first story I published here... pretty proud of myself for working that in ;)

Schrodinger's tank? I often see tanks "teleport." The tank is clearly headed across my screen, then suddenly, it's waaaaay over there, nowhere near where I was aiming. It seems to me that there's some local predicting going on with my machine when lag gets high/ It seems to think "Well, that tank was going in a straight line, so it'll probably keep going in a straight line, so I'll just draw it that way until I get confirmation. Oh, wait, he actually turned left? Half a second ago? Well, let me update the display. I bet my user never even notices." If that could happen, I don't see why my machine couldn't think a tank which was in the act of flipping would continue to flip, not taking into account any corrective action the player might use. But when you say "...managing to self-right an upside-down tank," did the tank just instantaneously change states, or did you see it wriggling and struggling?

Regarding mission chains: Imagine that today, I complete all three of my missions, but only click "Claim Reward" on one of them. Tomorrow, I don't complete any additional missions, but click "Claim Reward" on one of the missions I completed today. The next day, I again don't complete any new missions, but do click "Claim Reward" on the last of the missions I completed today. Have I broken the chain, or is it intact? Mahalo!

Really lovely description of that late-night long drive.

Good fun!

The Two-Bottle Coup Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii For the amount of time it took Kevin to drive across town, retrieve the precious cargo, and return, the generals sat and reminisced. They laughed over past shared victories, caught up on each other’s personal lives, even chatted about current films. Anything that had to do with the war, past friends, or their current situation was, by unspoken accord, taboo. All too quickly, though, Kevin was back, carrying a shoebox. “Really?” asked Fred, eyeing the image of stiletto heels adorning the cover. “It seemed appropriate,” chuckled Georgina. Inside, wrapped in a soft towel, was another bottle of the same whisky, also bearing the same select signatures. “I took the liberty, sir,” said Kevin, setting two field cups on the table before withdrawing. The generals sat looking thoughtfully at the bottles. “Whose should we use?” pondered Georgina. “I’ll pour for you; you pour for me. Seems to me we’ve both got a point to make, so it’s only fair.” Each twisted the lid from their own bottle and splashed a calibrated eyeball’s-worth into the other’s cup. They raised their drinks; there was, of course, only one first toast that would do. “To Chip,” they said in unison. Georgina flinched. “Gods above! Do you remember when that used to taste good?” Fred nodded. “Yep. At the time, it was above our pay grade. Sure seemed special then.” Small talk expanded now, allowed to include more sensitive topics. Chip’s death in the northern campaign, the deaths and lives of other close comrades. The sun set; the moon rose; the levels in the bottles slowly fell. At Fred’s back, the crews of the tanks changed shifts. Presumably the snipers overseeing them did the same. There is a natural rhythm to a reunion between dear friends, even in the most pressing of circumstances. No priority is higher than re-establishing that level of comfort and intimacy which only comes from long association through both triumph and adversity, and which is so lacking in most of one’s daily contact with humanity. It is an experience, nearly a ritual, to be savored and cherished, and not to be rushed. Not until well after midnight did they allow the exigencies of the situation to be aired. “I imagine it’s a beehive of activity in there,” commented Fred, nodding at the Capitol. Georgina nodded. “Watching you and I sitting out here, drinking and laughing, must be driving them nuts.” Fred sighed deeply. Now that it came to it, he honestly didn’t know what to say. He lifted his gaze from his cup to Georgina, seeking solace in her soft blue eyes. She smiled and shook her head. “This is your mess, Fred. You go first.” There was so much to say, but so much that she already knew. The orders followed loyally as they had begun their service. The increasing levels of responsibility, and of access to information, that accompanied a successful rise through the ranks. The gradual sneaking realization that perhaps the motives and goals of the Leadership were flawed. Or did she share that? “Suicide Ridge” was what came out of his mouth. She was surprised. “I remember the story, of course. It’s part of your legend, the only tank commander to be decorated while still a recruit. The man who made his tank fly.” She smirked. “How is it relevant?” “At the time, we saw a situation, and we reacted. The enemy was slaughtering our friends, and we happened to be in the right place at the right time to try something desperate. That it worked was a bit of a surprise; that we survived even more so.” Fred held his cup out; Georgina obliged him with a pour. “I spent a lot of time afterwards wondering about the three people we killed that day. Their names were Nyun, Alicia, and Ted. What would drive them to do such a thing? To open fire on the people they had trained with, drank with, grown close to? What blight so clouded their hearts that mass murder seemed an acceptable choice?” “What blight so clouded their hearts… Fred, you’re a poet!” Fred chuckled, grateful for the small levity. This was hard. He finished his shot and held out his cup again. “Yesterday…” He paused and consulted his watch. “Ok, day before yesterday, I stood in front of the graduating class, and I understood. Suddenly, I understood. In the moment where I had to choose between, well, between two undesirable ends, I understood. I saw a situation, and I reacted. I was in the right place at the right time to try something desperate.” Georgina chuckled. “And is it a surprise that it seems to be working?” Fred nodded. “And that I’ve survived this long.” “Tell me what it is you understood.” Fred took another drink. “This is going to sound silly, but since I was given my first platoon, I have made it a point to start every day by staring at myself in a mirror and reciting my oath.” He chuckled. “Ok, maybe it’s not practical every day, but I do try.” He emptied his cup and reached for another refill. “Georgie, for the past few years, those words have made me sick. I force myself to meet my eyes in that mirror, and listen to the words as I say them. And what I hear is sarcasm, and bitterness, and irony, and contempt. What I see isn’t a hero or a leader, but a despicable hypocrite willfully supporting a corrupt agenda. And, standing there in Victory Hall, I saw an opportunity to change that. To try to be who I set out to be. It wasn’t a blight; it was clarity.” He took another swallow, and looked into Georgina’s face. Gods above, was she crying? “I came here today to ask you one question, Georgie. Just one. Were you to look in a mirror and recite your oath, what would you feel?” She came around the table, pulled Fred from his chair, and took him in her arms. “Fred, you are such a ****ing *****.” She pulled back and held him at arm’s length, smiling through her tears. “I knew that out of us, it had to be you. I just can’t believe it took you this long.” It took Fred a while to process as he held her in his arms. He was tired, he was drunk, and he had a pretty girl pressed up against him, all of which made clear thinking a challenge. He was elated that she had just said “yes,” but… something was missing. “The snipers,” he said as he stepped out of the embrace a few minutes later. “You didn’t signal the snipers before you hugged me.” “Noticed that, did you?” “There aren’t any snipers?” “Of course there are, *****. Dozens, like I said. But, included in their instructions was a special signal. Were I to hug you without signaling first, they were to move against the Leadership. By now, with any luck, all of the bastards in charge are being trussed up like Christmas geese, and some pretty radical commands are going out.” Fred laughed and pulled her close again. She shared the embrace, and the laugh, and the tears. Then she pulled back. “We really should get under cover, though. I wasn’t lying about the Air Corps, and one of those asshats inside might get a message out before being subdued.” Hand in hand, they sprinted back to his command vehicle. “Now tell me, Fred, how we’re going to lose this war.”

Ruby Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii The interiors of strip clubs were not meant to be seen with the lights on, reflected Fred. While the Stiletto wasn’t dirty, it was most definitely tired. Frayed edges on seat cushions matched bare patches in the carpet. The wallpaper curled up at the edges, eager to be free from the yellowed walls beneath. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors were coated with decades of residue from cigars, cigarettes, and bad breath. Even the floor of the stage showed depressions where thousands of dancers had repeatedly paraded and pirouetted over the years Fred sipped his beer. Cold beer, served in an actual glass, so there was that. Across the table from him, Georgina did the same. “The beer is cold,” she said, “and my chair is clean.” Fred chuckled at how her observations echoed his own. “Nice place for a first date, eh, Georgina?” “Call me Georgie. And I’ve been to worse places for a first date, but none with so interesting a back story.” Leather walked up and joined them, sitting at the end of the table. She was dressed more comfortably than the last time Fred had seen her. The jeans and t-shirt were form-fitting, still accenting her dynamite figure, but were almost certainly more relaxing than the leather gear she’d been wearing at their last encounter. Leather nodded to Georgina. “We’re not usually open so early, but for Georgie here, I’m happy to make an exception.” She took a drink of her own beer, then looked at Fred. “So who is this then?” “Ruby, meet Fred. It was his tank you were, um, engaging the other night.” “So you’re Tankgit.” She smiled to take any sting from the name. “And you’re Leather.” She laughed. “Leather. I like that! Leather.” She stood and extended her hand. “I’m Ruby. This is my club.” Fred took her hand and shook it firmly. “Fred. NIce to meet you. It’s a lovely club.” Ruby snorted. “Nah, not now, it isn’t. But come back in a few hours! The Stiletto is real magic when the sun goes down. All this,” she fingered the scarred tabletop meaningfully, “don’t matter once the lights start flashing and the beer starts flowing!” They all laughed for a moment; partly relaxed, partly awkward. “So why are you here?” Fred look at Georgina. “We just wanted to follow up, see how you were doing after, well, you know.” Ruby laughed again. “After I shot myself? Hun, that was barely a scratch. Your medic popped the pellet out, slapped a band-aid on it, and I went back to work. But you knew that, I’m sure. Don’t waste my time. Why are you here?” Fred leaned forward. “I want to understand. We,” he gestured at Georgina, “want to understand. Why did you attack us? What were you trying to accomplish? Why weren’t you glad to be liberated?” Ruby leaned back and took a sip of her beer, her eyes locked on Fred’s in a calculating fashion. Fred waited for her to decide how to proceed. “Hun, how old do you think I am?” “Oh, I, er, I wouldn’t, um…” She laughed again. Ruby really did have a delightful laugh. “I'm sixty-two years old.” The stunned expressions on Fred’s and Georgina’s faces seemed to satisfy her. “Don’t look it, do I? Good genes and filthy living. Anyway, if you do a little math and know a little history, you’ll realized that I was ten years old when we were liberated from you Gaks.” “Gaks?” “It was the pejorative of the day for you evil bastards. Our liberators made sure to officially discourage the term while never passing up an opportunity to use it. As a child, it was all quite exciting to me. I couldn’t understand why my parents, and their parents, were so worried. “Years bring perspective. Clearly you aren’t jack-booted thugs. You’re not smashing up my bar, raping my girls, or stealing my liquor. You two seem like pretty decent human beings, dropping in to check on the crazy lady who opened fire on your tank. But what did you expect, a parade?” Georgina snorted into her beer; Fred choked on his. Ruby guffawed. “You were! You were expecting a parade! They told you we’d be happy to see you, be thankful to be liberated!” Georgina nodded while Fred struggled to catch his breath. “In no uncertain terms. They even suggested we wear our dress uniforms.” “Gods above! Talk about naivety! A forceful occupation rolls into town, replacing the government with a wave of its hand, and you want to know why I’m not joining in a parade? I’ll tell you.” She held up one hand and started raising fingers. “Money. Property. Freedom. Business. “Money first. You’ve just changed the national currency, so my current cash holdings are worthless. Because we’re in a transition period, I’ll have to exchange my money for scrip. In the process, the currency will be devalued. In a year or so, when things have settled down, I’ll have to exchange scrip for Gak money. In that process, the scrip will be devalued. All of my holdings in local banks will be converted to the coin of the new regime, and in the process, devalued. Half of my financial holdings are gone just because you Gaks wanted to be in charge again. “Property. New regimes are known to annex properties and businesses. I bought this bar from the outgoing… do you have an unflattering name for them?” “Mongs,” replied Georgina with a smile. “Mongs. I bought this bar under the laws set in place by the Mongs. Now, for all I know, the Mongs annexed this property from a Gak family fifty years ago. They would be within their rights, under Gak law, to take it away from me without compensation. My house is probably safe; it belonged to my parents during the former Gak rule, but the Stiletto is at risk. “Freedom. I’m now a Gak citizen, and as such, will need all new papers. For as long as this liberation takes, and when it inevitably escalates to a war, my movements will be restricted. Perhaps, as someone of questionable loyalties, I’ll even end up interned. Once things have settled down, maybe in two or three years, I’ll be free to travel again, but borders that have been open to me my whole life will now be closed. “Which brings us to business. I need a steady supply of liquor, of salty snacks, of lingerie, of cleaning products, of many things. All of my distributors for those items are now scrambling, trying to find new sources, new supply routes. And they’re dealing with a devalued currency, meaning they’ll be forced to raise their prices. So even if I can get my next shipment of liquor before I run dry, it’s going to cost more than I budgeted. Between that and my own financial blow, I’ll be forced to raise prices. All of my clients just got beaten by the currency exchange themselves, and have less money for drinks and good times. Any way you slice it, the next few years will be a struggle just to stay open.” Ruby stopped talking and drained her beer. “Wow,” breathed Fred. “Wow,” echoed Georgina. “Wow,” nodded Ruby. “Wow indeed. Things you never thought of. Of course we’d be glad to be rid of our Mong overlords, to be back in the Gak fold. Here, let me get you a refill.” Fred and Georgina sat in silence until Ruby returned. Then they all sat in silence, nursing their beers, each digesting their own thoughts. After a while, Ruby continued. “You also asked what I hoped to accomplish. I don’t think I had an actual goal in mind at the time, I was just pissed and had a shotgun.” She sipped her beer, looking at Fred and Georgina above the rim. “I think, though, from the looks in your eyes, that I might just have planted the seed of something terrible. Lord willing, I won’t live to see the fruit that bears.” She finished her beer. “You two take your time, help yourself to refills, stay as long as you like. I’ve got to get back to work.”

Is there any benefit to the player who drops a gold box?

A-22!!!!!

Ok, wow... it's mid-January, and I JUST stumbled across this topic. I have GOT to start looking around more! What can I say, but thank you! I am honored!

Stiletto Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii A faint metallic ringing sound echoed through the cabin. “Yep, she shot us,” said Al. “Seriously?” asked Liza. “With what?” “Looks like a twelve gauge,” replied Al. “And here she goes again.” The ringing sound was repeated. This was absurd, and for lack of anything more productive to say, Fred went with that. “This is absurd!” Again came the faint ringing of shotgun pellets impacting the armor of their tank. “Someone’s going to have to repaint that,” remarked Al. Fred studied the monitor, looking at the forward camera. Whoever she was, she was dressed to kill. Usually, you’d use that term figuratively. She was a sexy woman, and from the leather corset down to the thigh-high leather stiletto boots, with tantalizing glimpses of skin in all the right places, she clearly was presenting herself for a certain clientele. The pump-action shotgun was an unexpected accessory, though. "‘It’s just a goodwill tour, Staff Sergeant,’” muttered Fred. “‘We just want them to see our presence in the streets, to assure them that the Mongs are gone, and that they are once again valued members of the Federated States. They’ve been waiting over fifty years for this, Staff Sergeant. They are going to be overjoyed! I wouldn’t be surprised if they form a parade around you, so better wear your dress uniforms.’” “Is that really what he told you?” asked Liza. “Yep,” grunted Fred. “I guess she didn’t get the memo about joy and parades,” noted Al. “Woah, she’s down! Splashback, I bet. Shouldn’t be standing so close to an armored surface when you shoot it.” Sure enough, she was lying on her back, one hand clenching her left thigh. The other hand had no problem pointing the shotgun at them and pulling the trigger, though. “We should go out there, boss,” said Liza. “She’s hurt!” “You willing to stick your head out of the hatch?” asked Fred. “Or you, Al?” Their silence was answer enough, punctuated by the ring of yet another blast against their hull. “We’re out of our depth here. I’m calling in the cavalry. Well, the infantry.” The liberation, according to all reports, was going well. Enemy resistance to their unexpected border crossing had been minimal; several major cities had been reclaimed with little incident. This was territory that had changed hands dozens of times in the past hundred years, but this time their ancestral right and their lightning-quick assault seemed to ensure that it was returning to its rightful Leadership. The lady outside, however, seemed inclined to disagree. “Greenway Alpha to Greenway India. Greenway Alpha to Greenway India. Come back. Over.” After Operation Greenway, Fred had been given leeway to choose his team’s name. They did have an official designation and attachment, but within the context of their specific mission, they were free to use a reserved name. Fred’s first choice had been Whisky, of course, but such a prime name had been long since claimed. In a flash of deadline-inspired uncreative panic, he’d gone with the name of the mission that had brought them all together: Greenway. “This is Greenway India Actual. Over.” “Georgina, it’s Fred. We need some help. Over.” “Roger. What’s the situation? Over.” This was going to be tricky. By default his communications would be recorded and listened to by his higher-ups. Explaining the situation clearly would, at best, open him up to company-wide ridicule. At worst, it could result in a direct order to terminate the hostile. “We’re at the corner of West Third and Prominent. Believe communications may be compromised; recommend you surveil and assess. Over.” Ok, that was the best he could do. “Rolling the dice with her, aren’t you?” asked Al with his eerily prescient ability to know Fred’s thoughts. Rolling the dice. Yes, that he was. He didn’t know Georgina well, but she had played along at the Hederson Distillery without batting an eye. And she could really hold her whisky. He hoped that was enough. If Georgina went by the book, an active hostile was to be eliminated. She’d snipe Leather from cover. If she were humanitarian enough to spare this lady’s life, but not team player enough to fudge the difference between rules and morality, her report could be a black mark on Fred’s record. But if she were the type of person Fred desperately wanted her to be, Leather would walk (ok, limp) away alive, and no one up the chain of command would ever know there had been an incident. “Holy ****!” exclaimed Liza. Fred wrenched his attention back to his monitor. Leather had worked herself into a sitting position, but was now pointing her shotgun away from their tank, across the street to where Georgina had appeared standing in an alley. “Liza, traverse left and down. Point that muzzle directly at the Leather’s head. Load flechette.” “Leather?” asked Liza, already moving to comply. “Is that really what we’re going with?” The moving turret, and its stopping point, certainly caught Leather’s attention. Fred could see Georgina’s hands moving in a calming fashion. “Dammit, what’s she saying?” It was several minutes before Leather stopped dividing her attention between Georgina and the tank; and an eternity before she slightly lowered the muzzle of her shotgun. Fred was pretty sure he’d been holding his breath for the entire duration; he heard massive exhalations of relief from both Al and Liza and knew he hadn’t been alone. Slowly, patiently, non threateningly, Georgina crossed the meters separating her and Leather. Fred realized that Georgina had placed herself far enough away that a shotgun blast probably wouldn’t have even dented her body armor. Had Leather been so foolish as to pull the trigger, she wouldn’t have lived long enough for a second shot; doubtless several of Georgie’s Dozen were concealed nearby with rifles trained. And, of course, there was Fred’s tank. Georgina reached Leather, knelt down to inspect her wound, then called out over her shoulder. A soldier with a medic’s armband appeared from nowhere and trotted over. The two of them raised Leather to her feet, one on each side, and helped her back into the adjacent building. It was then that Fred realized they were paused outside a nightclub named Stiletto.

Following up... I put in a post such as I wanted. It never appeared and I never received any notification, so I assumed that it hadn't been approved and was gone. Thus my earlier comment about the moot point. Today, for reasons unrelated, I was looking through the FAQ, and there was my consolidation post! So I've gone in and added the spoilers. Sure wish I'd received some form of notification! I spent days being bummed over that :(

Mahalo! I appreciate that!

If I use a spoiler tab at the end of the story to link directly to the other stories, then every time I add a story, I'll have to go back and edit each previously-posted story again. If I had a thread that was just a consolidated list, then I would only have to edit that one thread each time I posted a new story. Seems to be a moot point through.

I know the story you'r talking about. Gimme a day or two, and the name will pop up in my head. Actually, that didn't take long. I think you're mixing two stories together. The Monkey's Paw is a story about a mummified monkey's paw that grants the bearer three wishes, but they come at terrible costs. The Bottle Imp is about a bottle with an imp that grants wishes, but if the owner dies, his/her soul goes straight to hell. The bottle cannot be abandoned, but must be sold at a loss. Both of these have been the bases for numerous movies.

Can't wait to see how this unfolds! Kinda reminds me of Stephen King's "Word Processor of the Gods."