Aloha, I'm looking at buying a module. I've decided one of my least favorite things is when my tank gets bounced around by hits while I'm trying to drive. I'm driving a Wasp, so it's light. Which turrets have the greatest effect of knocking my tank around? Will a module reduce that effect? Mahalo!!

Poignant.

Thanks for the feedback and compliments! It's funny... when I was writing this, I felt like it wouldn't go over well. Glad I was wrong!

Graduation Speech The general looked out at the sea of expectant faces, row after row of them, all looking expectantly at him, all fiercely proud. He had risen through the ranks starting from one of those seats himself, not even twenty years ago. He’d been near the back, as he recalled; certainly not the lowest in his class, but comfortably in the middle of the bottom half. No one, himself included, would have ever foreseen this day. “Attention!” he barked. Six thousand bodies moved in unison, rising to stand rigidly. “Salute!” Again, six thousand bodies moved in unison, arms snapping into salutes with crisp precision. He stood and surveyed the scene a moment, emotion welling in his chest. He fought to keep his face composed as he one-two returned their salute with an equally crisp one of his own. “At ease!” Six thousand feet shifted apart; twelve thousand hands clasped behind six thousand backs at precisely the right height. “As you were.” Ok, it was a little too much to expect six thousand people to sit and get comfortable in perfect unison, but the noise lasted less than a minute before everyone was settled. “That was your last salute as recruits. That moment marked the end of your training, although hopefully not of your learning.” He paused for a general laugh to run through the audience. “You are now all Tankers. Welcome to the Corps. “ “FIRST IN LINE! LAST TO DIE! TANK CORPS! TANK CORPS! ROLLING DEATH!” The general paused and let the echoes of that heartfelt chant fade from the vaulted coliseum where they were gathered. He nodded proudly, letting his eye roam, meeting the expectant gaze of as many of the doomed as he could. Gods, he hated himself. The war was lost. The general knew this. The Leadership knew this. Anyone with half a brain and access to real information knew this. The enemy’s tanks were superior; their numbers, larger; their resources, vaster. Surprise was the only reason for the early successes in this war and the surprise was long gone. The only surprise left was waiting for these eager young souls; the surprise that comes from having confidence in your own invulnerability stripped away by a foe that truly outmatched you in every way. These proud young men in their perfect uniforms were going to ride their pristine tanks straight into oblivion. A mutter slowly began to rise from the crowd. People stirred in their seats. How long, the general wondered, had he been standing there without speaking? He glanced down at his notes, then back at the sea of faces. He remembered his graduation day vividly, remembered the keen sense of purpose that the general of that day had honed to a razor sharpness. He would have eaten broken glass and asked for seconds if that’s what his general had wanted. Now, today, what did he want these new Tankers to do for him? The audience was definitely growing restless, concerned. This was a terrible time for a crisis of conscience. Was he going to send these young men, the best and brightest that his nation had left, out to die for no good reason? That the war was lost was a foregone conclusion; the only points open to debate were the timeline and the cost. Minutes ticked by. The general stared at his podium. In the audience, feet shuffled, whispered conversations broke out. He cleared his throat. “Attention!” Despite the unexpected command, six thousand bodies again moved in precision. “Listen to me carefully. I am going to ask you a question, and you must answer it for yourself. It is simply this: which do you value more, your allegiance to your nation, or your allegiance to your leaders? “My duty, as set forth by the Leadership, is to send you out on a fool’s errand to die fruitlessly. With honor, maybe. With glory, maybe. But to die in the name of a suicidal national pride that is about to cost us everything. My duty, as set forth by the Tankers’ Oath, the same Oath you took today, is to protect my country against enemies foreign and domestic. And I say to you that these duties are now in conflict. So, I ask again, are you loyal to your nation, or to your leaders?” He stared at them, counting seconds, watching as discipline warred with confusion in their faces. It was nearly three minutes later when a voice from the rear finally called out “Sir!” “Yes, Tanker?” “We will honor the Oath, sir!” He smiled and nodded. “If any of you doubt that my intention is to serve the Oath, walk away now. Do your duty as you see fit, and Godspeed. Dismissed!” No one moved. Six thousand bodies stood firm. Tears flowed from the general’s eyes, and he made no move to conceal them. Good. “Let’s go lose a war!” A ragged cheer arose from the crowd. While they may not understand his plan, they understood that he was offering them a purpose. “Mount up!” It was organized chaos as the crews immediately headed out to their tanks. The general smiled. With two thousand tanks at his command right here in the capitol city, there was about to be a brand-new surprise for the Leadership.

Nevermind... a Google search did what a forum search couldn't!

Aloha! New to the game, and I was just wondering, where'd you get the reference material for this article? I've tried searching the forum and the Wiki for "overdrive" but don't see anything (besides your article) detailing these new features. Mahalo!

Thanks for the compliments! It's been a while since I wrote creatively; this felt good!

“It’s a helluva thing, waiting around to die.” Chip stared at the words, then carefully flipped to the next blank page in his tiny notebook. Despite his caution, he smeared a little blood along one edge of the paper. Sighing, he turned to the next page. Only three pages left; he had to get this right. The blank page was as intimidating as it was uninspiring. Chip carefully set it aside, placing it gently atop the ruined Nav console to his left. Just below that, the twisted door to the snack locker hung open on one hinge. Chip reached in and came out with a bag of chips. At least there was food. Probably he’d bleed to death before he had time to worry about starving. It was too bad that the bottle of carefully-hoarded whisky had broken; the smell filled the cabin, mingling with the scents of diesel fuel and burned electronics. The light came from a ChemLite stick. He had a few more in his pocket, but again, expected the soft glow from this first one to live longer than he would. Without it, the cabin would have been pitch dark, a fitting tomb. His tank was dead. His crew was dead. His unit was dead. The enemy was dead. Everything on the battlefield was dead; everything except Chip. And that would change soon. Chip opened his chips, and sat crunching in the green light. His thoughts wandered without focus. He was amazed at how effective the standard-issue pain blockers were; he couldn’t feel anything from the mangled remains of his left leg. He could see the pool of blood beneath him still slowly growing despite his best efforts at getting not one, but two, tourniquets tied around what was left of it. He found it interesting that the red of his blood, when viewed under the green glow of the ChemLite, appeared black, while the red buttons beneath the forward display appeared to luminesce yellow. Something interrupted his reverie; something in his mouth felt wrong. A piece of chip that hadn’t crunched when he bit down on it. Chip spat into his hand; saliva, chip fragments, blood, and a pretty sizeable chunk of tooth were the result. Huh. He didn’t even realize he’d injured his jaw. Another point for the pain blockers! Chip sat and finished his bag of chips, one chip at a time. He didn’t try to focus his thoughts, just let them come and go as they saw fit. Finally, the bag was empty, and he came back to the task at hand. Chip was dying. He had no illusions about that. He wasn’t particularly distressed by the knowledge; he’d always expected to die in his tank, with his tank, a meaningless tick in the ledgers of this meaningless war. He was pleased that he wasn’t dying screaming, or burning, and that he had a span in which to leave behind some manner of reminder to the future that he, Chip, had existed. Problem was, he had no idea what to say, or to whom he was saying it. Chip reached for his tiny notebook, but misjudged the placement of his hand, and put a bloody thumbprint right in the middle of the pristine blank page. Dammit, that wouldn’t do! Last words should be presented in a dignified manner, not on a bloody scrap from a pocket notebook. He carefully turned to the next page; only two left. Who was this for? Was it for Mom? Arlene? Any of the nieces and nephews he’d barely met? Some random historian of the future? And why? Why did anything he had to say deserve to be preserved? Was he going to be the next Anne Frank? Was this just self-indulgent crap? Hmmm. Self-indulgent crap. Chip pondered. If he was dying, his last minutes his to spend as he saw fit, why not be self-indulgent? Chip looked at the snack locker again, then back at his notebook. Yep, good plan. He flipped back a couple of pages to where he had already begun. “It’s a helluva thing, waiting around to die.” He continued. “But at least there’s food. I’m eating it all before I go. Because piss on you, that’s why.” Chip smiled, settled down in his chair, and reached for some jerky.