Story [Issue 63] Between Tabs - Epilogue

[TheZigzagoonThatCan 678]

Read Part I Here

Read Part II Here

Read Part III Here

Read Part IV Here

Read Part V Here

Read Part VI Here

Read Part VII Here

Read Part VIII Here

Read Part IX Here

Read Part X Here

 

 

 

I awaken to the dull chirp of birds emanating from the speakers of the digital clock three meters away from me. After a few seconds of letting it run, I sit up and lean forward towards the large teal dresser it sat upon, blindly slapping my hand onto the large, circular Snooze button and promptly collapsing backward in bed once again. 8:00, I had deciphered from the glowing red panel before gravity tossed me into a pile in my blankets. The clock face was a red haze once more. I need my glasses. After allotting a few minutes to letting my brain slowly reboot itself, I lift my right hand and grope the wooden, concave headboard behind me until the familiar frail plastic scratched my fingertips. Careful not to grab the lens in my dazed state, I bring the spectacles to my face and the world regained real shape once again.

 

Today, the world was dark. I knew that before I put my spectacles on, of course, but the sharpness of the polygons and forms littered about the edges of my room somehow gave the dim lighting even more emphasis. The door on the opposite side of the bed, held mostly closed by only a stainless steel eyehook and a bent hanging hook, blocked most of the light generated from the rest of the house, only the faint orange glow of the turtle tank's basking light seeping between the doorjamb and the bottom of the door itself. Somewhere on the other side of the house, a light humming was emanating from the busted air conditioner, still trying to wind energy through a set of freon tubes that were no longer there. Sounds like a typical Tuesday morning to me. Kay's probably already left for school, the rest for work. Best I get started on my own day. After letting myself lie on the tangled mess that was my comforter for a couple more minutes, I eventually pulled myself up and reset the alarm that I had a hunch was readying to start up again, a quick flick of the left-most switch from Alarm, to Off, then back again. 

 

Tick-tick.

 

Satisfied, I threw on a pair of jeans, a blue T-shirt sporting an articulate diagram of an AT-AT, and my favorite light hoodie, a steel grey zip-up with pockets on the inside as well as the outside. After picking a meticulously disassembled LG 8 tablet from the floor and placing it on a shelf for later study, I flicked the hook to the door upwards and out of the eyehole bolted to the wall, letting gravity slowly force the door open.

 

A familiar sight greeted me after the door reached the conclusion of its swing. The ages-old peach table, the wooden legs marked with countless claw gouges despite the family's best efforts to keep the cats off of them, stood in the midst of four chairs of the same material. The cushioning of these chairs were of the most stringent provision: a short, wide lump of beige cushioning on the seats. Many of the legs had scores visible on them as well. In fact, beneath the nearest of these was Fiver, an obese tortoiseshell who, upon noticing the door swing open, greeted me with a dull stare and a lackadaisical wave of her tail. To the left and beyond the table, the rest of the house spilled into view, a lone window above the pale kitchen sink delivering the first rays of daylight into the house.

 

Upon the table sat the only thing of interest to me for the time being, however -- next to a large pink candle encased in a squat glass jar, a slightly weary but still functional ASUS laptop awaited me patiently. I sluggishly made my way out of my room and wound my way around the table, taking a seat on the far side of it where the electronic device had spent the night. Exposure to the elements, such as cats with a more miscreant-esque idea of adventure through chewing on various portions, had been the price to pay for such storage. The edges of the top screen taped over in a day when I thought it was aesthetically pleasing, the machine was slowing some signs of aging: the left-upper edge of the lower frame was no longer sealed together, the plastic not quite sealing into place as it had before I decided to open it in a moderately successful attempt to repair the cooling fan. The screw that was supposed to hold it in place below the device had its head stripped in the process, and as such it could no longer keep that portion plastered down. The remaining edges that wouldn't seal properly had been glued together a long time ago, leaving bumps and kinks along the edges of the plastic.

 

On the upper screen, another wayward cat had bent part of the screen backwards a while ago upon being spooked by my exclamation as it lingered near, causing the connection between the hinges that allowed the screen to fold to the fasteners on the screen itself to be rendered useless. Several layers of tape were added to that section to keep it steady, but it was clear that the left hinge wasn't willing to cooperate much longer. Upon hitting the power button, the monitor itself begun revealing its scars: the left half of the screen just notably vibrating as the ASUS logo flashed to life, an almost static jarring of the pixel colors in that area causing the image to twitch spasmodically during the loading screen's progress. When the ages-old Gastrodon lock screen appeared, the wounds to the right side of the screen became visible as well; along the edges of the right side of the screen, especially in the corner, a darkness was slowly creeping onto the screen, the edges tinting the surrounding pixels teal and purple in unusual patterns for about half an inch or so. I can't easily see the X on the corner of pages anymore, I thought remorsefully. Occasionally, the left side of the screen flickered yellow, and whenever I moved the screen to adjust it, it would go out entirely and leave a bright white bar across the entirety of the monitor.

 

However, all of the software was perfectly functional, and it let me plug in my laptop's password with no difficulty, sending me straight to the home screen. Within a few seconds afterwards, about two dozen icons appeared on the left side of the screen, another nine slowly filling the grey taskbar lining the bottom. While the images shifted around a bit like a somewhat out-of-tune analog television, they were still clearly visible, and I didn't hesitate to strike the newborn Chrome icon with my arrow. Eventually, a Skype icon appears amongst the taskbar's lineup, a quick peek at the orange dot nearby indicating that I had more than nine different groups send messages.

 

14, to be exact, I thought as another small glowing bubble flashed the number before me when the program opened.

 

I begun dealing with the Reporters' requests one by one as I have been for the past couple of months -- the position of Newspaper Administrator was fairly demanding if left to stack, so I had a tendency to keep the amount of messages unanswered to a minimum -- frequently opening and fluttering amidst various tabs, clicking bookmarked icons that led to different pages of the forum, Google spreadsheets, and the occasional Ratings sheet. Amidst tasks, I glanced at the first Ratings age I had listed within the dull white bar atop the screen, TheZigzagoonThatCan.

 

I'll admit that I sometimes caught myself gazing at the progress I've made on this particular account. A Brigadier, the brass star freshly printed next to my name, stood tall with an overall average of 1.87 and little more than 410 hours total spent. Started it May 2nd of '16, I remembered, a part of my ego feeding off of the numbers before me and the smallest of grins slowly building itself. The first items to appear in place of a whirling loading icon was an M2 BP combo, complete with a mint-condition Loam paint that I had bought during the Women's Day sales. I scroll down the page and let the minuscule smirk grow a bit wider. Perhaps I'll give it some fresh air.

 

After formulating a few more replies and delivering a hyperlink, I clicked the tiny tank icon on the taskbar near the bottom of the screen, hazy but still fully capable of loading the client.

 

Once my credentials were plugged in and the main chat of EN 2 burst onscreen, pumping with the same level of juvenile activity as ever, I began sifting through various battle options, of which there were admittedly few. A pair of full Polygon CPs, an abandoned Brest DM, a Novel with ridiculously unbalanced teams, and two Iran matches that contained a dangerous level of Legends and Field Marshals. Slim pickings today, I concluded bitterly. I was about to immigrate to a more M2-friendly server when I noticed a red dot above the Clans icon. Out of sheer curiosity, I gave the tab a tap, and a giant, likewise named tab swiftly interjected itself in front of me. Having a weak idea about how the page layout worked, I surrendered my sense of adventure to the breadcrumb trail of red markers, clicking on various buttons until I finally wound up on page displaying a lone clan name and its leader: Savage, a Reporter Candidate hired not long ago, previously an in-game acquaintance. 

 

Huh. I remember him saying something about being in a clan a while ago. Said it had disbanded. The writing in the apparently clan-specific chat only supported this theory, but the members list included a wide number of Reporters from various language groups. While it wasn't exactly bustling with activity at the moment, the description page bearing no information about the clan spare its previous name and the last post made days ago, it was clear that a potential clan was under formation. Man, the last time I was in a clan that actually ran was ages ago. I thought beyond the sparse days of Radiation Domination, of which I remembered being a partner of for two brief trainings along with the clan's painfully slow disbandment.

 

Actually, I think the last one I was really involved with was Polyatomic.

 

A wave of nostalgia rolled over me at the mental mention of the name, carrying a multitude of fond memories with it that floundered about in my mental surf. All those battles with Medic and Pokes, the constant in-clan competitions, training the new guys, Fracture, setting up Starladder, building the logo on SolidWorks... I let out an audible cough of laughter. I never could figure out how to beat ieatcookies. An odd sense of coercion came over me, and before I was aware of it, I was already typing in the URL I once had known by heart, today through muscle memory. 237747. The old monotone page evenly splashed with spheres of red, a page I recognized like the back of my hand, took only seconds to load this time around.

 

For the next fifteen minutes, I scrolled through the various regulations buried in mountains of spoilers. Even back then, I had some sort of sense for formatting. I frowned as I felt the need to squint at some sections of the page. Though the color scheme and logo choice left a bit to be desired.

 

It burdened my heart to see TankiMedic's screenname missing from the members list, my own old screenname standing lonely and small in the stark middle of the monitor. Pixels around it occasionally flashed a dull grey in wee rows on the weakening monitor, creating a sort of static that only added to the atmosphere of the relic web page. The followers option was interesting to look at as well, a few members from the clan's very beginning still lurking there. Wow. I had forgotten all about WatchOutBehindYou. He was a Warrant Officer 4 the last time we crossed paths... somewhere in March of '15, if memory serves. Also, when did AR12GAMING get a name change?

 

However, every strand of memory that the topic forfeited to me felt puny in comparison to a brief little update I found in the update spoilers. One little notification, buried in a mountain of other likewise grammatically-ill messages, sat proud in the midst of them.

 

We're Goin' To War! Well, Polyatomic is going to have its first clan war.

 

I relieved myself of a small, bittersweet sigh, letting my mind once again drift to the simpler days of my time with Polyatomic. Our first clan war. I can't believe I neglected to remember this one, especially after spending half a series writing about everything surrounding it. The one that started it all. 

 

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

 

We have no flag. We have no lead. We have no micro-upgrades on our side, either.

 

All we do have is fifty seconds.

 

Every iota of my suddenly maddening fury followed the bullet that slammed into the side of Lilsim's chromatic Hornet, crushing the right treadset beyond repair and emitting a cloud of dust and fire from its point of impact. Maintaining momentum, I snapped my turret northward to determine the status of our flag, a tiny shard of red on the horizon hovering swiftly to the opposing flag pedestal. 

 

"We need to pull away at least a tie!" I begin barking more orders through the headset, never letting my tank's motion cease despite the howl of a horn indicating that our flag was lost to their capture. "Medic, lead east and gun for the flag, I'll be right behind you. Viper, send a message to Pokes to stay left or center, we need to box them in while sims is still respawning!" I barely finished my sentence before I heard a rapid series of taps over the Skype channel, indicating that viperf50 was already playing courier. A grunt from TankiMedic told me has was already on the move, whisking himself to the wall of the central platform within our base in time to narrowly dodge a glowing spike from who I could only assume was MHSxc1, peering from behind the selfsame platform from his side a solid forty meters away. TankiMedic was already prepared to retaliate, apparently, as I could hear the magnetic chambers' howl rising to a fever pitch as he in turn glided from behind the wall and catapulted a mauve beam through the tank's central mass as it retreated, causing it to shudder and ripple along the wall it was partially hiding behind.

 

I checked the platform behind me to make sure Pokemontrainer2 was en route, and sure enough, he had already taken the high route through the center of the map, sending a shot through T3chio and twisting the light hull sideways in a jagged arc that ended in a painful thud with a stone wall. I thought for a moment to finish him off as Pokemontrainer2 skirted behind our side's cornerstone outcropping, but decided against it as I witnessed T3chio struggle to right themselves on the ramp's edge, the treads not accumulating enough grip to move him quickly. He's got 'im.

 

I shift my attention back in the direction my honey-tinted machine was moving, TankiMedic drifting only a few meters before me and readying another shot. Panning my camera about to scout the terrain ahead, fake02 was skidding out of sight behind the adjacent corner of the platform, presumably straight towards where viperf50 was spawning. "Viper, fake coming to you, likely to stalemate 'till the round ends." I checked the clock ticking down at the bottom of the screen. 40 seconds. Do we have time to get the flag across? Unless someone else takes ours before we cap theirs, we might have a chance to tie. I steel myself as I round the bend, TankiMedic launching a shot at the concrete near where fake02 had encamped. I charge my own the second after he missed, striking the treads of the returning navy tanker dead-center. However, all this did was shift the sub-light bullet's trajectory from myself to my partner, who was sent reeling around the flag post instead of atop it. He didn't brake, cursing and letting his forward momentum maintain control and direct him to the main platform's entrance ramp, give or take a few taps of the left arrow key.

 

"It's alright, I've got it." As I said this, the blue banner suddenly teleported to a point atop my Railgun as I coursed over the pedestal, allowing me to whirl about on the spot to return home just as LIlsims' ghost blinked to life a few meters away. I let out a short, frustrated growl as I will my treads to revolve faster, carry me away quicker from what could potentially be sudden death. "Sims behind me, need assistance!" My voice slowly rose in pitch, betraying my instinctual fear of the M3 weapon hot on my tail. At least the fear's rationalized. The inexplicable, bitter statement tugged at my attention briefly before being tossed aside in the heat of the chase.

 

TankiMedic, as far as I could tell as my M2 turret groaned in its socket to face aft, was hustling in my direction to provide assistance, having to shunt T3chio's corpse aside in the process. To my unbridled horror, this gave fake02 the golden opportunity to veer far off to the west, rear his tank backwards, and impale my partner with a purple beam, killing him instantly. Feeling a drop of cold panic slide down my spine, I crawled behind the dubious shelter of a ramp to avoid being struck by LIlsims' impending lightning, of which didn't find ground to strike until I was long out of sight. I continued to backpedal until I reached the stone outcropping of my side, where a damaged Pokemontrainer2 was still posing as a sentinel, having just expended a shell on the Spark-clad war vehicle. As I raced passed him, he weaved around to the front of the stone structure to impede the rapidly advancing tank's progress, adding another scorched bulk of allied metal within seconds to the trail of death I was leaving behind me.

 

I don't know how long I was looking away for, but when my strained vision happened to flicker to the bottom-right corner of the screen, the numbers had long since started flashing.

 

The core of anxiety that had lay relatively ignored within my stomach flew into a rage without hesitation, gushing wave after rapid wave of nervous electric signals to the hairs on the back of my head. Trying to shrug off the growing alarm, I let my tank tumble to ground level, landing on the front tips of its treadset just as fake02 apparated from the far west wall and began generating a lavender glow from his Railgun barrel's end.

 

The screen flashed with a blinding mauve light. A muted explosion rung in my ears, followed in the realm of spilt-seconds by a synthetic note, indicating the flag was now on the ground. WHAT?! How is that po-- I was inches away from howling in anger when I took notice of the message log ticking away in the northeast portion of the screen.

 

[LIlsims destroyed Shedinja]

 

Knowing that my death was a team effort did little to quench my fury. "Need assistance, the flag!" 

 

When the smoke and flame cleared, however, no teammates were within range, the nearest being viperf50 as he struggled to readjust his position. From what I could tell from the camera view that was rapidly ascending skyward, my comrade had been stuck with the same shot, the lighter weight of his M1 Hornet combined with the delayed launched of his own missed shot rendered the craft unable to resist the sidelong force and hurtling sideways, spinning dramatically in place as a dissected rotor shaft would before landing flat on its left treadset, the underbelly facing where I had been forcibly laid to rest. 

 

I couldn't hold back a heartfelt sigh, that wretched core within me melting into a heavy and cold pool of lead. That's it, then. 

 

I spared a lackluster glance at the timer bordering the screen, still flashing incessantly, but before I could get a read on the time, it suddenly solidified into a set of plain, apathetic zeros, and the familiar translucent, red and blue battle results page immediately plastered itself over the still-swinging field of view. I prompt the chat box to appear with the Enter key, input a "GG" that didn't reflect my current attitude, and took a screenshot of the scores before the results timer wound down.

 

The next half-hour was dedicated to recording the data on the second post of Polyatomic [Pc]'s forum page, sorting out post-game arrangements with the leaders of Tanki Brethren, of whom to my dismay proved that micro-upgrades were anticipated to be on, and talking with the clanmates I had fought alongside for the past fifteen minutes. By talking, I mean more or less listening to each other's keyboards clatter intermittently and papers rustle over our respective headsets -- from the match we had just endured, it made sense that none of my partners were really in the mood to discuss much. 

 

We had come so far in training for this thing. We gave it everything. And in return? We were given nothing, despite barely being unable to push the boundaries necessary.

 

I sat in silence for the next several minutes, reflecting on the events of the battle. If micro-upgrades were off as we requested, we wouldn't have lost that flag so early. We might have actually had a shot at winning. 

 

Something ticks in my head as I fill out the remainder of the clan page. Had they not been active, there's a fair chance that we could have made it. All we would have needed to do was survive another minute and capture that flag. We'd have had 'em 3 - 2. I felt a bit of the liquid pressure of stress drain away. Our training wasn't ultimately for nothing. Even though we lost, we still put up one heck of a fight.

 

TankiMedic, having remained silent since the climax of the battle, finally spoke up, clearly reflecting the same thoughts I was currently digesting. "We... put in all we could." His voice was weary, as if he had been running about the field with a weapon himself instead of poking at a keyboard. "To be honest, since they had an M3 tank on their side and an M1 on hours, we probably would win if all tanks were equal."

 

viperf50 puts in his two-cents, stirred by the sudden activity over the channel. "Uh-huh. I might not have even flipped over if my Hornet was M2. I was too light."

 

"We definitely had prowess on the field today, whether the screenshot stated a loss or a win." I finally spoke up, and my clanmates unanimously silenced themselves to focus their attention. "We put in hours and hours of practice to make sure we were prepared today. Tanki Brethren is an experienced clan, they've been around since I was just starting out as a Warrant Officer on Sigma. The fact that we were able to come so close to victory in our first clan war is a victory in itself." I paused for a moment, letting myself digest my own words. "It's a testament to our abilities, really. Probably would have liked to pull out a victory, but we had given it all we had with all we've got. Kinda speaks for itself."

 

I hit Save Changes on the post I was editing, and the Clan War Results spoiler quickly sealed itself away into a more satisfactory format. "We should feel proud about that, aye."

 

TankiMedic was audibly typing over the frequency, presumably to keep in contact with Pokemontrainer2. Though clearly distracted with his current task, his brief response still held personalized, conclusive weight, a reply much akin to something he might say if the events of the match were already a distant yet fond memory. "Yeah, agreed."

 

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

 

A chirp from Skype jabbed a hole in the bubble I had let my daydreaming self wander into, letting in a signal that the program was still online and that the train of administrative tasks was never truly completed. I checked the bottom right corner of the wearing monitor, surprised to see that the tens place of the clock had changed from when I had first opened this tomb of the forums. 

 

Interested to see what the hubbub was about, I flicked the blue icon open with a click, and immediately a message from one of the designers stared back at me, encouraging me to begin preparation for Main Topic's publication. I let out a nostalgic sigh, regretful of having to leave the page for the time being. Those were the days, aye. A whole lot's changed since then. I'll have to finish up Between Tabs at some point, maybe reread a bit and take a trip down memory lane. It's been awhile.

 

It's been awhile since I've sat down and pounded away at various tanks, too, I recollected as I remembered that the client tab was still lying open amidst the row of colorful icons painting the bottom of the screen. S'pose that'll have to wait for another day, too. Shuttling between tabs once more, I prepared my online workstation and begin organizing the hub for an upcoming Issue.

 

 

 

E N D

 

 

Edited June 20, 2017 by Hexed

[Blackdrakon30 2,943]

First comment.   :ph34r:  It's okay Shedinja, even if no one else is here to comfort you I'll read it.  :P Good job

Edited April 10, 2017 by Blackdrakon30

[fordmustang12345 3,910]

Nice job Shed . Good way to end a great series

[ganesha-1 75]

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