Hey guys! This is my first fanfiction I have ever posted. The tank in question is from World of Tanks, and so are the characters, and the initial chapter takes place in the game itself, so if you haven't played it, it won't make much sense. For those of you who want to read this anyways, here is a simple rundown: There are tanks, you battle on random maps in randomly selected teams of 15, whoever captures the enemies base or kills the other team first wins. All tanks are historically accurate, but the teams themselves are not based on alliances or nations. And there are 10 Tiers, with each progressive Tier containing more powerful vehicles than the previous Tier.
Now that that's cleared up, about the fic. It came about in a night of playing lots of WoT in my T-28 Russian medium, and also reading and playing a lot of Story of the Blanks stuff. So, as a response, I came up with this. So, if you want to see those scary ponies get what's coming to them whilst all the ponies that would have otherwise been doomed be saved, this fic is for you!
And, now with a new and improved Chapter 1! I went back, added a scene to strengthen the character development of the crew, and cleaned it up so it isn't as much of an eyesore. Hope this makes it more fun to read!
It was about 17:43 hours as Leytenant Zakhar Klyshko pulled up to the rustic old bar his crew were in. He parked his rusty old GAZ M1 car out front, the door making a rattling sound that confirme somewhere, a few pieces had fallen into the inside of the door. Just great, he thought to himself, We can repair our fighting vehicles in record time, but our cars are still shit and falling apart.
He was a 32 year old Russian, from the region of Saratov. He had light sandy brown hair and dark auburn eyes. His complexion was fair, and he had a average build, standing at 5' 9". He had a quick, business-like gait as he entered the establishment. He made a quick scan of the place.
It had no real flavor to it, it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in fifty years, the once bright wood planks now a rotten greyish brown. The tables were the same aged wood, with splinters coming up an necessitating the use of canvas covers so people could eat without having arms full of splinters. The lighting was provided by a few lamps here and there, sometimes supplemented by jury rigged flashlights where the lamps had been broken or stolen.
The bartender looked as run down as the place. He was in his 40s and stood at 5' 4", and was extremely pudgy. Klyshko was unsure if he was too lazy or too drunk to use a razor, because his sideburns and beard looked like the forests of Siberia had taken up residence on his face. Sitting at the bar was Klyshko's Gunner, Yaroslav Polyanskiy. Polyanskiy was 25, and while slightly less fit than Klyshko, stood a full two inches taller than him. He had dark brown hair side swept at the front, and cool, brown eyes that almost looked red from the right direction.
Polyanskiy had been born in Yaroslavl, from which he got his first name. Being right outside of Moscow, he was born into a line of officers and soldiers, and from the beginning was a bit of a slacker. While he still carried 20 pounds of gut with him, he had been far worse off in civilian life, having almost 4 times that weight. The only redeeming thing about him at the time was his infallible eyes, and his intuitive aiming skills. The armor corp made sure most of his training time was spent getting him in good enough shape to fit in the tank hatch, since that seemed to be a bigger issue than his competency on the job.
At a table off in a corner sat the Driver, Pakhom Metelytsa, and the two Radio Operators, Bronislav Kuhta and Veniamin Plotnikov. Metelytsa was 23, with blond hair and turquoise eyes. He was of an above average musculature, since making the controls respond on an often unresponsive vehicle often required as much muscle as it did skill. He was generally cheery, often trying to pull cheesy one liners with his excellent maneuvers. He had been a bus driver before the war, and said, upon learning that his tank would be none other than the T-28, that he wondered if God had a plan for him involving large, boxy, ungainly vehicles.
The two radio operators, despite the fact they held the same occupation, couldn't be more different than night and day. The younger one, Bronislav Kuhta, was a jet black haired, auburn eyed fellow who was quiet and kept to himself. He went to the bars with his comrades, only because they were his brothers in arms. He never touched a drop of Vodka or tobacco in his life, and was 19.
He kept many books and stories with him, ranging from a Russian copy of the Iliad to childrens books and Westerns. He used to wear glasses when the crew first started their career, but he found out quickly they were broken or knocked off too easy. The quick fix was some duct tape and padding on the radio operators compartment, but by now, with their expansive and decorated service, he was able to buy prescription tanker goggles.
He also secretly traded some..."uniquely Russian" goods with the Americans in exchange for their videos and self made stories about a certain childrens show which he dare not mention to the rest of the crew. But the overly friendly, loving universe of pink and bright colors was a nice comfort when your are blown to bits bi-daily.
The other Radio Operator was a gruff, brown haired, blue eyed man of 27, Plotnikov, who was at the time growing a rather furry caterpillar mustache. He was never seen without his vodka, and even kept some in the tank. He would smoke in the tank, but Klyshko strictly forbade smoking in the tank, due to the fact that there was plenty of fuel and live ammunition inside.
Plotnikov was loud, and loved to sing songs, slurring and often completely missing the lyrics. He would recall tales of their battle exploits wherever he went, and often would get multiple battles confused, leading to references to snow drifts in a battle in Himmelsdorf. Klyshko often had to regulate Plotnikovs vodka intake, lest he pass out or start transmitting gibberish, though Plotnikov somehow could find the controls on the radio after enough alcohol to make most people fail to even stand up.
In fact, Plotnikovs search for vodka was what brought the crew here, since they sold some of the cheapest vodka that didn't kill you outright. Everyone else was here to make sure the team drunk didn't hurt himself or spawn any illegitimate offspring. Klyshko tapped Polyanskiy on the shoulder, waiting for the Gunner to turn around before addressing him. Polyanskiy gave a quick salute and looked expectantly at Klyshko. Klyshko spoke up in his usual, neutral, firm tone.
"Good evening Mladshiy Leytenant. I assume everything has gone without any troubles this night." Polyanskiy nodded.
"Other than Plotnikov believing that there are streets on Malinovka, I believe everything is in order."
Klyshko let out a small chuckle at this statement. "Good to know the crew are being themselves. Tell everyone to down their drinks or toss them, we are headed out in ten minutes sharp."
He cleared his throat and began, "We have about 9 minutes till we head out. Pack up and be ready by that time." The crew nodded affirmatively, and save for Plotnikov, began to get ready to leave. Aside from the crew, the bar was pretty much empty. A few, maybe 3 or 4 scattered patrons were also there, but it was extremely quiet as the tankers headed out of the bar, on their way back to the barracks. Klyshkos old GAZ M1, a copy of the Ford Model B, smelled like the Great War, moldy, muddy and dead, and everybody grumbled as they clambered into it.
Klyshko hit the starter, only to hear the low whine of the starter trying to start the engine.
"Shit, I am really not in the mood to push this bastard." he growled as he tried a second time, hearing a few cylinders fire before it failed.
He kicked the starter harder and this time started praying in his head. Whether through divine intervention, luck or his own forcefulness, the car grumbled to life, the old four cylinder sounding almost as if it was being inconvenienced to start up. Kuhta stuck his nose in a translated copy of a Western and zoned out, not saying anything the entire way. The ride to the barracks was about a 4 mile trip. The wind was rather terrible and intermittent, making a rather unreal howling outside the vehicle.
As they pulled up to the barracks, the car ground to a halt and everyone exited, grabbing their bags from the trunk. Zhdanov, the teams loader, was waiting outside the barracks for them. He was a red haired, wiry 20 year old, with a working tan on him. He stepped over to the car and watched as his fellow tankers climbed out.
"Need any help?" he asked as they stepped out.
Polyanskiy pointed to the back seat, with Polyanskiy sitting in it passed out.
"Polyanskiy passed out...again."
Zhdanov nodded and opened the door Plotnikov was next to, pulling the snoozing radio operator out. He then hefted his heavier, drunken comrade Plotnikov in a fireman's carry, the toothpick of a loader lifting him like he was made of air, and tossed him into his bunk before going outside to get his own bags.
He saw Klyshko sitting on the hood of his car, looking pensive. The low lying cover of the barracks meant the wind was significantly stifled here, enough to enjoy the rather inviting outside temperature.
The barracks themselves were as cheap and plain as they came. They looked like metal crates with doors on the front, and many has large splotches of rust and jury rigged lighting, heating and cooling systems on them. Zhdanov tilted his head at his commander. This man never looked pensive over anything except his crew, and his beloved Katenka. With the recent development regarding Kuhta, he began to suspect the latter.
"Sir, it seems to me something has you worried. Is it Starshina Kuhta and his rather unsettled nature he has had?" Klyshko nodded, but not a type of nod that suggested completely agreement.
"He worries me, but I have been looking at the sky, and weather for tonight might not be good. I worry Katenka might not like sleeping whole night alone in these conditions. I think I might go and see her, make sure she knows it is ok."
Zhdanov nodded. "I think you are right. Old girl has been with us through so much, it is only natural that we make sure she is safe in bad weather like this."
Zhdanov held out a small letter to Klyshko.
"I need you to deliver this to post office. You should pass right by it on your way to Katenka."
Klyshko nodded, taking the letter and slipping it in his coat pocket.
"What is it?" Klyshko asked.
"A deed for 150 acre addition to my families farm. Just bought it with my silver savings.", Zhdanov said with a rather proud smile.
Klyshko nodded. "I will get it there."
Zhdanov waved as Klyshko turned towards Katenka's quarters.
"Tell her I sent my blessings!"
Klysko smirked and with that, Zhdanov headed inside to his bunks, and KIyshko headed off to Katenka's quarters, only a short walk away.
When he arrived, he knocked to make sure nobody had snuck into her room before hitting the switch to open the front door. The doors grinded open slowly, revealing his big, beautiful girl to be safe and sound.
"May I enter?" he asked. A few seconds passed before he laughed and strode inside.
"Well, it is shame that you do not use words to speak, but our conversations are fun nonetheless, right?"
He hit the lightswitch, which illuminated all of her lovely, well sculpted features he loved her for. Many had said she was ugly and ungainly, but those people has been spoiled by their featureless, colorless ladies. She was born in Kirov, Leningrad, and had been rejected her whole life as being unfit for any use whatsoever.
But Klyshko had found her, raised her from the depths of scrapyards, and brought her to her full glory she deserved. For this lovely maiden Klyshko was so deeply in love with, was not your typical girl. She has rough steel skin, long, thin tracks, and a bulky but perfectly proportion hull. While many described her as fat and shabby, Klyshko saw her monstrous profile and extra turrets as making her look like some sort of ancient warrior, like the women of the Mongol empire, who were taught in combat as well as the men.
And the Katenka's girth was no result of overbuilding. She was a drafthorse, able to sprint and gallop at incredible speeds, carrying her and her weapons and crew where they needed to be. Klyshko has found her sitting, rusted out and shot to pieces, being auctioned off for scrap, and he was willing to spend every penny the crew had earned in their battles to save the beaten old lady. Now she sat, after numerous modernizations and lots of love and care, proud. Still, Klyshko could sense her distress at the approaching windstorm. Klyshko put a hand on her front armor plate, speaking softly to her.
"I understand this weather makes you worry. I have come to tell you that there is no cause for fear. I have you in this sturdy hangar, made of best concrete and steel money can buy. You will be safe from silly little windstorm."
Klyshko sensed that he has alleviated some of Katenka's fear, and so climbed onto her turret, a mid war experimental upgrade that had to be replicated for use with Katenka. She mounted the long barreled 57mm Zis-4. While in historical usage, it only saw usage in the T-34, there had been proposals to fit the weapon to the T-28, and so it was allowed for them to use the devastating cannon on Katenka. She bore her forest striped camouflage, a dress of brown and greens that helped make her look better to the crew, and look less to the enemy.
The crew had also made other retrofits, such as converting the coaxial machinegun to a 40mm grenade launcher, and fitting the forward turrets with twin 7.7mm MG mounts. Klyshko had also added a 12.7mm MG on the turret for him to use. All in all, they were sure Katenka was the most heavily armed T-28 in the entire game. Klyshko smiled warmly at Katenka patting her on the turret. "I hope you are ready Katenka, tomorrow is battle day." He felt her radiate the same eagerness for the mission that the crew had, and he dismounted her and shut the lights off before heading out her door.
"Sleep well, my love, for tomorrow we will have busy day." he said, letting the doors close as he headed back to the barracks to catch some sleep.
Meanwhile, back at the barracks, the rest of the crew was bedding down. Metelytsa lay on his back, his arm behind his head as he tried to relax himself. He was in the bunk above Kuhta, who had curled up towards the wall and was reading another story.
Zhdanov slept on the top bunk directly across and parallel to Metelytsa and Kuhta's bunk, with Plotnikov sleeping under Zhdanov. Perpendicular and just behind these set of bunks lay Polyanskiy on the upper bunk, and Klyshko would sleep on the lower one when he arrived.
Finding that he could not sleep, Metelytsa rolled over and turned to Zhdanov.
"Danila, you still awake?" he whispered.
"Yeah, I cannot sleep on our off days. No work to wear me down.", came the response.
Metelytsa sighed. "Yes, but, I guess we need it. Klyshko may not talk much, but I think he has reasons."
Zhdanov nodded. "Well, we will be fighting full time tomorrow. 10 hour battle day."
Metelytsa decided that maybe they should change the subject to something not pertaining to their job.
"So, why do you use all your money to buy new farm for family. It is nice I know, but don't you ever think what that money could also buy?"
Zhdanov shrugged. "I never get pleasure from things, comrade. I feel best when I have done work, or helped my comrades. That, is what I want ost, and it cannot be bought."
Polyanskiy chimed in. "How very profound of you. You should write some philosophy crap or something. At least I have top of line Egyptian cotton mattress, and goose down pillow. Metelytsa, you have no room to talk. You just hoard all your income."
Meteytsa smirked and shrugged. "I guess I do. I am hoping one day I find girl who I can spend it with."
Polyanskiy stifled a laugh. "Metelytsa, how romantic! I hope your pickup lines are better than your jokes, or else that ple of silver will be as lonely as you."
Metelytsa waved a hand dismissively at Polyanskiy. "I hope that I can find girl, who likes my jokes. Also, I want her to be weird."
Zhdanov tilted his head slightly at his Metelytsas comment. "Why would you want wierd girl?"
Polyanskiy smirked. "Because that's the only kind that would ever listen to him."
Metelytsa just shook his head. "Polyanskiy, you are correct, but that's not why I want weird girl. You see, I am weird, so for me, normal girl could never really appreciate me." he said with a smile, his mind starting to float into his romantic fantasies.
He dreamed of one day doing standup comedy with his dream girl, and teaching her how to do donuts in tanks. And then he started to wonder if maybe he could make her laugh so hard she would sneeze. He was just starting to imagine the labor jokes he could tell her to keep her spirit up during delivery, but then he slowly drifted back to reality.
He leaned over the side of his bunk and looked down at Kuhta, who was still had his nose in his book.
"Bronislav, you have been talking less than Dani over here, what is problem?"
Kuhta looked up a bit startled at first, then he changed back to a neutral expression and shrugged. "I...kinda... mean I never thought about romance...but if I had to chose...I would like a loner."
Polyanskiy chortled heartily. "A loner and a weirdo, what hopes you two have for love! Well, at least you are setting attainable goals."
Kuhta blushed a little as he thought of some certain "girls" that he would certainly like to meet, and then went back to his reading.
Polyanskiy looked over at Zhdanov. "What about you? You ever think about girls?"
Zhdanov rolled his eyes at Polyanskiy. "Well, a good girl for me, would be one that pulls her weight better than you, Yaroslav. Preferably with less weight to pull."
Now it was Metelytsas turn to laugh at Polyanskiy, who grimaced and grumbled.
"And I thought one joker around here was enough."
Metelysa looked at him with a very cheesy, over the top grin. "What? Have a little fun big guy! I am sure we can find you girl who can cook 10 kilogram steak."
Polyanskiy was now fuming from frustration and embarrassment. He rolled over away from the other two, and pulled his lush, ornate silk blanket over his head.
"I am very tired! Good night!" he growled.
The snickering only ceased when Klyshko returned and bedded down. And so, the crew slept in preparation for the coming day. But nothing they had ever seen or done, could prepare them for this.
For he was right. Tomorrow would be a busy day. More than Klyshko, Katenka, or any of the crew could have ever imagined. As Klyshko jogged back, two glowing eyes shadowed him, not wanting to be seen by him. Had the commander been any more awake, without the feeling of security being on base provides, he would have spotted the eyes in a split second. But since he was calling it a night, he neglected to check his six for the peach sized orbs that watched him carefully. For, unknown to him, he was a prospective answer to a problem over a century in the making. The real answer to whether he, no they, were right for the task would be answered by fire the following morning.
Having had a relatively good nights rest, the crew set about preparing for battle. They quickly got dressed and had some Combat Rations, which, though they tasted somewhat like cardboard and fish, had enough calories to keep them running at peak performance till noon. Once that was done, they headed off to Katenka's hangar, where they found the lady of war ready to rock n' roll.
Klyshko climbed into the commanders hatch on top of the tank, then Zhdanov climbed into the hatch for the gunner right beside the commanders hatch. From there he clambered down into the turret ring, where the shells were kept. He inspected each carefully for signs of sabotage or defects, making sure each one of the seventy shells checked out.
Polyanskiy climbed in right after him, taking his seat alongside the main cannon. He checked that the sights were calibrated, and that the glass was in good order. Since the original sights the Soviets had made were rather crude and offered poor vision, he had been prudent to procure a replacement, which offered clearer lens that he could aim through better.
The same went for the periscopes that were used by Klyshko when they had to button up, who was also inspecting his equipment. He made sure there were no jams in the traverse range of the periscopes, and that they were calibrated to combat distances.
Metelytsa climbed into the drivers hatch, situated between the two forward turrets. The seat was small, cramped, and, unless he was to remove his seat, offered no access to the rest of the vehicle. Kuhta and Plotnikov saddled up in the forward Machine Gun turrets, each with a radio inside. The radios had been procured from a pair of destroyed KV-2s the found ditched post battle in the mires of Live Oaks. Kuhta had tweaked his to get a little extra range out of it, and it didn't fail as much. He hit the 'On' switch on his and it crackled to life, tuned into the same radio station he always set it to post battle, which meant nobody had messed with it.
With everyone in position, Klyshko hopped out of Katenka and threw the "Queue" switch, which then gave him fifteen second to get back to the tank before they were transported to the strange dimension known only as , "The Queue". Klyshko jumped back in Katenka, and waited for the timer to start. By the time he was back in the tank it was at 11 seconds.
10.
9.
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1.
Entering Queue. The vehicle was suddenly cast into a realm where there was only space, which somehow was still breathable. It wasn't black, there was just simply no light to begin with. They didn't hover, nor sit on the ground, they were just simply there. Standing still.
And in a flash of light the blank nothingness was replaced by a small, ruined industrial district, with 14 other tanks in a small park right beside them. The place they were in was a small green park with a lake in the center and a ruined residential area behind it. About 500 meters south of where they were, in the North East corner of the area, a railroad line atop a small, artificial hill way cut the battlefield in two, separating their teams park from the ruined industrial district of the enemy.
Their side was littered with former refinery and storage machines, and apartments for those who once attended them. A trolley line under a railroad bridge running north to south offered a ground level passage between the two sides. A small train yard offered a narrow if not a bit risky route to the enemies Eastern flank, if one could brave the fire from the hill overlooking the trainyard that was a favorite spot for tank destroyers. By now, the crew had fought at this place enough to have formulated a plan on how this works.
Since they were in a Tier IV fight, they would be counted on to help pull some major weight for the team. Usually if the the enemy didn't try pushing the Train Yard, they could pick off the TD's guarding it with a little support. Once that was done they would have a clear route to wreaking havoc on the East flank, and once that was down, they could either move to the center for even more carnage, or could just head to the enemies base, forcing their defensive line to fall apart.
The countdown timer started and a big, "Battle starts in 00:30" appeared hovering overhead. As the seconds ticked away, everyone was eager, but not in a eager rookie kind of way either. It was more of the excitement of being able to do a job you love and is exciting, with your closest friends right there with you. If you weren't excited, you could become scared, and that was a worse enemy than any they might face on the battlefield.
An enemy tank you can see, it has thin spots in the armor, it too is manned by men who make mistakes, but fear is not like that. Fear cannot be shot, has no chinks in it's armor and doesn't make mistakes. The only defense is ridding yourself of it and not acquiring it. The crew had learned that long ago after a humiliating death by drowning after they panicked when cornered.
Had they kept their cool they might have found a way out, or died with dignity. The panic and disaster that followed was a result of poor communication and a lack of understanding of real combat. The only one not at fault was Katenka, who performed to the best of her abilities but was let down by her men.
After that everyone had worked day in and day out to make sure they were fearless, fighting men who could back up their tank as well as she backed them up. And now they stood, ready to venture into battle as one entity whose sole existence was dedicated to winning the battle.
The countdown timer hit 00:00 and Metelytsa fired the steel warrior up, her 500 horsepower diesel coming to life as Klyshko spoke into his comm headset.
"Let's go!"
And with that Metelytsa put her into drive and Katenka lurched forward. He immediately set her towards the small train yard they had learned to flank so often. Kuhta radioed to the other vehicles where they were headed, and requested support. A Valentine AT tank destroyer, a Panzer III Aus. A and an M3 Stuart followed them as they headed to the railroad tracks, the tank climbing onto the concrete platform between the two tracks in the area.
About 150 meters from the hill, Klyshko sensed something was up. "Full stop!" he shouted into his comm. As Katenka slammed to a halt, a rather large explosion hit right in front of them. It was from a 105 howitzer. They had learned to dread the sound of them, which was very distinctive in firing and in impact.
Klyshko caught the muzzle flash of the offending vehicle, which he pegged as a T82 tank destroyer. Wasting no time in the 12 seconds they had, Polyanskiy quickly trained his gun on the T82, destroying it with three shots in rapid succession, with Zhdanov feeding the gun its shells in one fluid, unending motion.
As they reached the end of the train yard, the tank was rocked by a shot from an AMX 40 light tank. Polyanskiy swung the turret around, popping one shell into the enemy tanks turret before backing behind the control house of the railyard. The AMX was between them and the Locomotive at the end of the train in the yard. Kutha grabbed his radio and shouted into it.
"We are stuck behind the building, can anyone break this guy off of us?"
The response came as the Valentine AT swung the corner on the opposite side of the locomotive, the 3 inch howitzer booming, sending the high explosive round straight into the side of the Iron Duck, destroying it.
"Ello, ol boys, you called?" came crackling over the radio.
"Thanks for the help, lets go to work!" Kuhta replied.
Metelytsa spoke up into his comm set.
"I guess he forgot to...duck."
The entire crew groaned, and apparently the radio was still transmitting when he said it, because the other tanks called back groaning.
"That was bad dude." came from the M3.
"Bloody awful.", the Valentine AT concurred.
The M3 Stuart and the Panzer III A broke off to go wreak some havoc behind the lines, while Katenka and the Val. AT setup to tear apart their East side, first picking off a SU-85B, then taking out a Pz II C.
At this point the two light tanks from earlier had done their job, killing both of the enemies SPGs and a Cruiser Mark II light tank. However, the centerline of their teams defensive line had sustained rather heavy losses, with a sole T40 being the only thing standing between 5 enemy tanks and their side of the map.
"Get us over there!" Klyshko barked.
Metelytsa threw the steel warrior into the top forward gear, bringing her to full speed in rapid succession. Plotnikov had already relayed the T40's contact reports to to whom it concerned, and upon reaching a good firing arc on the trolley underpass, Polyanskiy sighted in the first target, a Pz. B2.
The first two shots sliced into the hull, the third bounced off the angled turret. This shot made the steel duck turn to look at them, missing it's first retaliatory shot as Zhdanov threw another shell into the gun, Polyanskiy hearing the breach closing as his cue to put a shell into the tanks engine, igniting a fire which detonated the tanks ammo, sending it up in a massive fireball.
They felt the shake of a near HE shot, and right then Klyshko realized they needed to move. Metelysta responded smartly, wiggling the hull as he lurched forward to throw off the incoming shots as Katenka gained momentum, barreling right into the four enemy vehicles remaining. They found themselves slamming right into a Renault UE-57, the tiny Tank being crushed under the impact of the bus sized Russian tank.
"Looks like he went from french bred, to flatbread!" Metelytsa quipped, earning another chorus of chagrined groans.
An A-20 swung in from the right, trying to circle the massive beast to death. Polyanskiy had learned how to keep his aim while tracking moving targets, and with a little help from Metelytsa and his prowess at keeping the vehicle steady while improving turn rate, the crew was able to stop the speedster dead in it's tracks with four shots.
Klyshko then spotted the enemy's Panzer III A gripping the front of a friendly M3 Stuart, about 100 yards in front of them. The Stuart was between the T-28 and the III A, leaving only about a 2 foot space of the enemy's armor exposed to a flat angle shot from Polyanskiy's gunsight. He took his time, letting the vehicle steady out and the gun stabilize. Both tanks were shot full of holes, either one could be destroyed with a single hit at this point. To save their ally, they would need to make the shot precisely and swiftly.
Polyanskiy took a slow breath, paused for a split second, and pulled the trigger, sending the 57mm payload straight into the Panzer's front armor, tearing the tank apart and ceasing any danger it once posed.
"Incoming message from the Stuart," Kuhta spoke into his comm set, "They say thank you and congratulate us on our marksmanship!"
Metelytsa grinned, glad they were able to help their fellow tankers out. Klyshko simply nodded, and asked Plotnikov to hand the mini map up to him. The minimap was a piece of unexplained, and never questioned, technology that always displayed relayed radio contacts and would always display a map of the battle zone that infallibly was accurate, even if they had never seen the battlefield before. It was a 10 inch by 10 inch square that felt like a steel plate, but was transparent until it had a map on it. It divided the map into a letter by number based grid, which Kuhta had heard was derived from an American board game.
On it, they saw the last few enemy tanks being routed, a sign that the battle would be ending soon and they would return to their garage, to prepare for the next battle. As the last enemy tank was destroyed, everything froze as they entered what was known as the "Return Queue", a half second delay zone that was identical to the "Queue", but revived the dead and fixed your tank before you reached the garage. As they exited the "Return Queue", they immediately noticed something was wrong.
Instead of Katenka being back in her cozy hangar, she and her crew were in some sort of dark, almost cartoony looking forest. They were in a clearing about 150 meters across. On the South side was a stream running east to west, meandering in a S pattern. 2 kilometers due West of their position was some small collection of buildings, and on the North West side was some rocky, tree packed hills.
The entire east side was almost enveloped in less dense but very consistent foresting, with a few clearings here and there. The whole thing was about 10 kilometers both ways. As they tried to gain their bearings, they failed to notice a small, grey pony with a orange and yellow mane, clinging to the underside of Katenka. As soon a she realized they were back 'home', she let herself hit the ground, crawling out from under the iron maiden and setting to work with the next stage of the plan.
Bringing them to the village.
Ok, so my ending wasn't the best, or the longest. Honestly, it was the worst part in my opinion, but hey, all the alternatives I thought of were even worse and more awkward. So, what do you think? Please, even if you absolutely hate this and think I should take it down, then say so. As long as the criticism is accurate and contains relevant analysis and facts, I will take whatever you have to throw at me.
R&R, as the whereaboos say!