The Tanker

[thethiefofvictory 339]

 

This was my second planned entry for Write for Tanki (the first plan was an English exam task, which wasn't interesting enough), but after writing it all I decided it wasn't good enough. I tried a few times to write a Tanki story about the Dictator, but stopped each time (I can continue if you want, though). Then I realized that, having been making the Peace world, I could write about that. So, you know what happened. As for this, I thought, why not post in AWC?

 

 

A purple glow. A barrel. Thin. I suppose it’s a weapon. Mounted on a tank smaller than my mother’s car. I believe the tank’s green. I’d have thought it was a bush, had it been slightly inconspicuous. And I explode.

 

I wake from my dreams, but my eyes are still sleepy. I sense that it’s a forest… but forests do not have skyscrapers. My eyelids shoot up, spurred by a bullet exploding upon my skin. Harmless. Where do they get their ammo from?

 

I force myself to walk over to my desk, where my laptop and my breakfast is. I’m not hungry, so I ignore the breakfast and focus my attention to the more pressing matter. My laptop’s open. A picture of a garden, with a serene song playing in the background. No, why are birds moving around?

 

I realize. It's some game on Steam. Multiplayer, but not about tanks. The dream would have me believe it’s Tanki. Someone’s managed to get access, but my mother cannot comprehend it. And I’d doubt she could learn overnight. Yes, it’s me who’s been playing. Sleepwalking.

 

Another bullet, exploding upon my skin. Harmless again. Only except I explode.

 

I wake from my dreams, but my eyes are still sleepy. This time, I realize I’m inside a tank in the middle of a war. But why does Valve exist as a video game distributor? Why was I playing any video game, while around me a war rages?

 

Nevertheless. I scramble for the wheel, the controls. I notice messages. “Hello! Where are you?” said a certain KillerGnat. Why won’t that cat change his nickname already? Oh, he's not that cat.

 

I cannot reply. If I do, it won’t end well.

 

A key brings up some names. I cannot comprehend them, but what I do understand is that everybody has a Railgun, mounted on Wasp or Hornet. Except one. Me.

 

That’s not supposed to happen. I’m only a Warrant Officer. Level one, too. I can’t enter a Railgun-only site... unless it's not a Railgun-only site. Plus, everyone else’s a reporter, from what I can gather. I’m not. I’m not supposed to be here. Or did they make me one too? I'd doubt it.

 

Did they forget to close the gates and portals to the training site? Even if they did, why am I here?

 

I see a portal opening before me. I walk forth, but a voice reverberates within me. Don’t. Thief, don’t leave. Don’t run.

 

….who? Nobody I know calls me a thief. And I’m not a thief, even if my name says so. I’m not a thief, and I’m not telling this to convince myself of false innocence.

 

A sense of dread creeps over me. Who was this? It wasn’t me, and I know that. I’m aware that I’m sane.  

 

My mind searches frantically, trying to match the voice to a face or a name. Flags, thief. Flags, and chickens. Do your job. You’re a thief, and an assassin.

 

Flags, and chickens. I will my mind to cancel its search, and force my hands to activate the tank. A car, I’d have thought, had I not known better. My systems tell me it’s a Wasp. We all start with modification zero, young thief. Time turns the number to a four. Or an eight. So M0. The weapon mounted is a Smoky. Zeroes and fours do not make a good combination, little assassin. An… M4? Systems tell me it’s an M2, minus the aesthetics. Statistics, however, support the voice’s argument.

 

You've forgotten everything. Poor boy. Once respected like a king.

 

This time I’m unable to restrain my mind’s search. What does this voice mean?

 

When have I been respected like a king? What have I forgotten? 

 

My trembling hands turn the wheel, forcing the tank to face a flag. A blue flag magnificently flying in obedience of the wind, set on a tall white flagpost standing atop a magnetic platform in the street. It evidently commands much respect - even in war there are tanks looking to it, vowing to protect it with their lives, oblivious to the explosions nearby. And there are thieves, fleeing with it securely attached to the barrel of their turrets, reaching the red flag and making the blue flag bend to Red’s will.

 

I’m a Red. And a thief of flags. It’s an ordeal to drive this monstrosity of a badly designed tank a metre forth, but I force it to run towards the blue flag. A sense of regret overcomes me. I’m about to steal and trample over the honor of the Blue team. Is it a duty? If so, I will duly discharge it. But it’s not a duty, is it?

 

Before me a tank stands, looking to his flag. Chicken symbols and the eerie smell of fish adorn his Hornet. A hexed tank. Fear overcomes me, for a red glow appears at his turret’s barrel. I know I’m done for. My hands tremble, and somehow reach the button that seems to say “savior” to me.

 

I shoot, and a flash of lightning appears, so powerful that the tank turns to ashes and disappears. Relieved, I vanish from the street, leaving the flag pedestal empty. I look for a moment at the beach left to me, and the quiet, serene ocean beyond. No time to waste. No time to waste, young thief. Oh, so the voice’s opinion finally matches mine.

 

Speeding through the road at a hundred miles an hour in my tank which now feels somewhat more comfortable, I reach a ramp. I imagine I’d have to pay a pretty hefty fine had I done this when it was still peaceful. There’s a signboard that marks the speed limit as forty miles an hour. There’s nothing to enforce it any more, of course. I miss the times of peace, but it’s not the time. The tank rumbles ahead to the platform where the Red flag stands, just as majestically as the one I’m carrying.

 

My legs are numbed by the fear caused by a bullet exploding upon my titanium skin. My fine white paint, reminiscent of snow animals, is charred by the shell. But more importantly, this is no longer harmless. The chassis of my tank weakens and begins to fall apart. Anything would destroy it now.

 

My mind instinctively forms an imagination of the shell’s trajectory. It came from the hills nearby. It’s a Railgun. They don’t shoot bullets, but what they do shoot is worse. It’s mounted on a Wasp. M2, M2.

 

I scream. Somehow I muster up the courage to drive, and force the tank forward. But by now the second shot is already on its way. Indifferent to my inevitable death, I drive forth, and plant blue upon red. As I die, I see the name list appear. My name above all others.

 

***

 

I wake from my dreams, but my eyes are still sleepy. It occurs to me that I’m not in Rio de Janeiro. And that I’m a ghost.

 

Ah. I’ll miss the quiet, calm sea. I look to my left and see a laptop upon a desk. The screen’s contents are painfully obvious. Fortnite Battle Royale, loading. But I don’t have it installed. My laptop wasn’t pleased when I last tried. Is it…?

 

That’s not supposed to happen. I convince myself it cannot happen. Looking around, I realize where I am. Yorkshire. My tank is a Viking M3, Smoky M4.

 

I didn’t change my hull, did I? Oh you naive little thief. You really don’t know a thing, do you? I was right. The voice. Deep, soft, eerie and terrifying, and just so slightly familiar. I know this voice. You do. So do I. I’ve become a bit accustomed to this voice by now.

 

A key brings up some names. They’re not the same as before. I don’t recognize them. Nor do I understand why a Warrant Officer is allowed to have third modification equipment. Have the rules changed? There was a time, well before I joined the army, when Lieutenants were allowed to lead entire forces with M3s. Have I travelled back in time? But Rio and Yorkshire never saw war in those times, nor any training.

 

A familiar name joins the list. My mind searches to give the name an identity. It fails. But it knows it’s heard this name, met the face. I cannot ask who he is, because if I do, I’ll die. Stop daydreaming and look around. You’ll disappear in seconds. And there’s someone who wants to meet you. In instinctive obedience, I look behind and see a bird. A dragon, actually, breathing fire. A dragon mounted upon a Hunter clad with magnificent blue lightning. I’m awestruck by its beauty. I wonder if that’s the intention, because at the same time my skin is being burnt. The metal of my tank melts away, succumbing to the heat it is being subjected to. White turns black. I die.

 

I wake from my dreams, but my eyes are still sleepy. A ball hits me, turning the barrel of my Smoky sideways. Then another, and another. In front of me is an tall, imposing Dictator. The rusty metal plates indicate they’re M0, and deserve less than the Ricochet M2 mounted atop the walking skyscraper. A button makes short work of the building, crumbling as though destroyed by controlled explosions. To be fair, that’s what happened.

 

I become aware of a clock ticking away, far into the distance. Its ticks become louder by the second. Twenty six. Nineteen.

 

A Wasp happens to fly by me. It’s yellow, covered in graffiti. It explodes milliseconds after a button press, its ashes discoloring a nearby house.

 

Ten. Zero.

 

My name below all others.

 

I do not understand. How did I fail? Everyone else had M2s at most.

 

I contain my rage.

***

 

I’m in a tank. There’s no laptop with me this time, for I left it at home. I’m on a road. Trees and grass on both sides for as far as I can see. So lonely. Why does nobody care?

 

At last I reach a village. A settlement at last. It has the air of military operations. I enter a building, money in hand. I reach an office, and enter. It’s like any other - a desk, a man behind it, working. I greet him, and he smiles in ecstasy, looking at his newfound money. With no hesitation he gives me some extra ornaments for my uniform, and promises a grand ceremony. I leave, admiring my new rank. Field Marshal, The Thief of Victory.

 

At last, official legitimacy to my equipment. Some respect and honor. No more will people think of the questionable background of my garage.

 

But what if someone learns?

 

I return to the office. I claim I need a favor. And, pulling out a dagger, I silence him. I leave the blood as is. I take the money and leave, scared. Oh. That’s why you’re called thethiefofvictory. You are a thief. A murderer. You should be ashamed. You’ll live your life in fear that someone’ll find you.

 

Poor boy. Once a Brigadier, honored and respected by all. Now you’re nothing. You’ve gone so low just because you couldn’t convince people that you should be promoted. And because you never could write well. To be honest, I liked your style. You shouldn't have done this.

 

***

 

I return home. My mother asks me what happened. I show her my new uniform, and watch her joy. Then she looks at me with suspicion. Frightened, I lie shamefully. You’re left to lies. Sad. I pretend I have a severe headache and that I’m going to the nearest Isida, and that I need a dose of Tankicillin.

 

I’m your headache. You know it. You can still save yourself. You won’t. No Isida can cure you now. You’ll have to kill me.

 

I dismount the Smoky and replace it with a Magnum, M2. I load it, turn it to the sky, and enter. You cannot run. I can run. Voice! Silence yourself!

 

I leave the garage, and press a button.

 

I struggle to walk. To think. To breathe. I see blood in my hands.

 

I see my mother, dead. A letter in her hand.

 

No blood.

 

Even now the voice will taunt me. She died because she realized. Her heart couldn’t bear it. It ceased to pump blood.

 

This, you see, is the fate of those who disregard the rules and the law. You could have read the EULA when you joined the army. You could have done well.

 

I vanish.

 

And on my laptop is a message. Tanker! You have been blocked on account of hacking.

[LOLKILLERTOTHEDEATH 1,921]

Approved!

 

Once more, wonderful to read your story. As usual, I couldn't really find any mistakes. 

[Chronicle 164]

I don't want to throw a wrench into the works, but for me, the beginning is rather confusing. I lost the thread of your story at the 4th-5th paragraph. The rest is presented nicely, structure wise it's dispersed evenly ish.  :mellow:

[thethiefofvictory 339]

the beginning is rather confusing. I lost the thread of your story at the 4th-5th paragraph.

'course it is, that's what happens when one decides that it is possible to play videogames inside a tank during a war :p

 

Oh, and 'I wake from my dreams, but my eyes are still sleepy' indicates the respawn phase.

Edited July 29, 2018 by thethiefofvictory