Chapter Two: Shell Shock
Disclaimer: I still don't own Zoids. Or much of anything else, for that matter.
Two used-Zoid dealerships later, Vic Douglas was running out of hope. Big John and Crazy Al both laughed in his face much like Loopy Larry after he had asked about a Zoid priced under five thousand. The best he'd found so far was a Molga with mangled wheels and a cowardly temperament for ten thousand, but that was almost twice his bank account.
He plodded on, increasingly convinced that there was no way he'd pay for three more semesters and finish his physics studies.
Of course, he had one last used-Zoid lot to go, fittingly dubbed "Last Chance Zoids."
A dumpy lot with a sheet-metal shack for an office, Last Chance Zoids was clearly the cheapest, crappiest place you could buy a Zoid. Its name came from it being the last stop for a beat-up old Zoid before it was sent to the scrapyard, stripped apart, and sold as junk. The evening had begun to fall when Vic entered, looking at their tiny Zoid selection. In fact, there were only five Zoids parked there, and another was being loaded onto the back of a Gustav as he entered.
A jaundiced old man came out of the shack and approached Vic. "Yeah? What c'n I do ye fer?"
Vic glanced at the Zoids. "What can you tell me about these things?"
The old man hobbled over to the first, a giant Shield Liger. "This'un killed 'is own pilot. I've shut 'im off fer the time bein', but that don't mean he might not wake up an' be yer friend."
He gave Vic a positively evil grin.
Vic took a step back from the psychotic Liger. The scrap dealer continued.
"I'll let 'im go fer 15 grand, since 'e's still a Liger'n all."
Vic still didn't like the sound of the Liger. Besides, it was still out of his price range. "What about this one?" he said, gesturing to the next Zoid, a black rhinoceros-type.
"This ol' Black Rhimos? Ye'd better just get yerself a new Zoid fer the amount it'll take to fix that 'un up. Still, I'll let it go fer eight thousand."
Still too much, especially for a non-functioning Zoid. Vic moved to a bipedal zoid, like a pint-size Godzilla, that looked in fairly good condition. "And this one?"
The old man glanced at the miniature Gojulas-type. "'E's a good Zoid, so I s'pose ye could have 'im fer ten grand."
Vic practically choked. Ten thousand was still too much.
The next two Zoids turned out to be duds as well, the first one a three-legged Saber Tiger for seventeen thousand ("Good as new! Just get 'im another leg!"), and a velociraptor-like Gunsniper missing its tail and arms ("Sure 'e falls, but ye don't have to spend money on sniper shells!") for nine thousand.
Vic was just out of luck. No Zoid he saw was within his price range. He turned to walk out…
…and he spotted the Zoid from earlier, still getting loaded onto the scrap trailer. A roundish hulk, it strained against the cranes and magnetic winches while the scrap crew cursed and yelled.
Vic couldn't quite make out what it was, but it was worth a shot.
"Hey, what about that thing?"
"That old rust bucket?" laughed the old man. "That's a Malder. Stubborn as a mule, missin' most weapons, drive doesn't work too well. Scrapyard's givin' me five thousan' fer it."
It hit Vic like a thunderbolt. "Wait! I can give you…uh, six thousand for it. Three up front and three later." He didn't know what a Malder was, just that it was a Zoid, and you had to have a Zoid to battle."
"It's also the only thing I can afford," he muttered to himself, out of earshot.
The old man yelled at the workers, showing yellowed, cracking incisors. "All righty, boys, bring out the ol' Malder fer the customer!"
The men attempting to load the Malder onto the transport sighed with relief, as the Zoid had stubbornly refused to budge.
"Thought I gave ye the remote!" yelled the proprietor.
"You did," wheezed one of the men, "but it won't listen. Just get rid of the damn stubborn thing."
While they were talking, Vic had walked over to the Zoid. It was, in fact, a gigantic snail a good two stories tall. Its shell was a dull, unpainted gray, though there were a few flecks of the original silver paint on it. The head, as well, was the base teal primer color. It certainly wasn't the biggest Zoid out there, but it looked like the only one he could afford.
"What can you tell me about this thing?" he asked.
The awful old man took a breath.
"Well, 'e's a stubborn stupid git of a Zoid who won't do anythin' unless 'e feels like it. That there's a pop-out mortar launcher," he said, pointing to a seam on the front of the shell, "but it's gone, so ye have to buy yer own mortar. Same with the beam guns on the side. They're non functional, an' the electronics are gone. Only things that work are the damn pulse lasers and the drive system. This zoid's basically a shitload o' armor an' two little popguns. Still want the old bastard?"
"Mind if I take it for a test drive first?"
"Go fer it."
With some irony, Vic noted that while the old man and the scrapyard crew did take cover behind a few blast shields, they didn't bother closing the gate. Apparently, the codger figured there was only so far you could get in a stolen snail.
Victor Douglas was no thief, especially not one dumb enough to swipe a Malder. He approached the thing the same way he did a physics lab, sizing it up, looking the snail completely over before even touching it.
Of course, when he did, he was met by the same response he'd expected: the Zoid just sat there.
Not having any experience whatsoever with Zoids, he didn't know if this thing was brain-dead or just watching him, or if it even had minimal intelligence.
"Isn't there a remote or something for this thing?" he asked the workers.
"Oh, yeah, 'ere you go," said the junkyard worker absentmindedly, tossing the remote to the student.
He caught it and immediately felt as clueless as before, considering the remote was just an array of buttons with no labels.
Hmm.
After pressing a few and having nothing happen, along with one that caused the snail to wiggle its antennae for no discernibly logical reason, a large blue one caused the Zoid to extend its head out. The upper part of the head flipped up like an opaque visor, allowing him to climb in.
The first thing he noticed was that he wasn't really much farther off the ground than he thought he'd be. The land snail's head was nearly flush with the ground, though it seemed to have solid structure underneath it, judging by the thick supports underneath his seat. Said seat wasn't as old and ratty as he expected, but it was still very old, and very ratty.
Vic laughed to himself. At least it's broken in.
The cockpit wasn't very easy to see from, either, with only a small green transparent strip before him, and he was sitting in a fairly reclined position. Maybe it's got some sort of heads' up display, he thought, grasping the control yoke in front of him. It was almost ironic that the snail's cockpit was oriented in much the same way as a fighter aircraft, considering its sluggish nature.
Vic closed the canopy and was surrounded by blackness for a second before a blue fluorescent light buzzed to life, illuminating the small area in a strange glow.
The Zoid was fairly dormant, but he had a feeling that was about to change once he activated the engines. He found the aircraft-style throttle and, behind it, a steel key in the ignition.
He turned it.
Well, at least he was right on one count. The snail awoke and waved its head around a little, various buttons and displays flickering on in the buzzing blue light of the old cockpit. The engines refused to start, though, and Vic had a feeling that the Zoid was just being stubborn. He took a gamble and tried to persuade what may have been just a stupid machine.
"Look, Malder, I need a Zoid, and I picked you. That means that if you're a functioning Zoid in good standing, I'll take you. If you're not a functioning Zoid, then I'm leaving and finding another. And you get a trip to the scrapyard."
Well, at least it got a response. A cracked video screen flickered to life before him, and replayed his exact conversation with the old man:
"Hey, what about that thing?"
"That old rust bucket? That's an old Malder. Stubborn as a mule, missin' most weapons, drive doesn't work too well. Scrapyard's givin' me five grand fer it."
"Wait! I can give you…uh, six thousand for it. Three up front and three later."
And then, amplified by the Malder's sensor equipment, Vic heard himself mutter "It's also the only thing I can afford…"
Big mistake, apparently. "You're not as dumb as you look," he admitted.
The snail responded with an electronic tone of sorts, reminiscent of something one would hear mashed on an old MIDI keyboard. Vic didn't know if the thing was talking or just laughing at him, but he argued with it nonetheless, admittedly feeling a little silly for doing so with a two-story mechanical snail.
"Well, it still gets you out of here. And I intend on taking you straight back if you give me too much trouble. So how about you start the engines?"
The engines rumbled to life almost with a dejected sigh, and Vic eased forward on the throttle. The snail inched forwards ever so slightly.
He pushed the throttle to halfway, and the metal gastropod accelerated to about twenty miles per hour. Thing's not fast, but then again, it's a snail, and it's all I can make do with at the moment.
He eased the yoke around, and the Zoid responded much like a car. A car, however, that felt like moving in a sinusoidal wave motion. The Malder not only went forwards, but moved its head a little back and forth and up and down in the process.
"Wonder how well this thing's lasers work…" Vic mused, and immediately regretted it.
The only functional weapons on the snail were situated on the right side of the large, circular shell on a vertical turret.
Immediately, a creaky old targeting computer popped up and displayed the psychotic Shield Liger within a blinking red reticule.
"Agh!" yelled Vic, jumping back in his seat.
Luckily, he pulled the yoke with him.
Said yoke, apparently, turned out to be the axis control for the lasers. A burst of light at a 45-degree angle from the ground told him that he had indeed missed the Shield Liger, and most likely spared himself from death at the hands (or rather, claws and teeth) of a 90-ton psychotic war machine.
Feeling satisfied in the Zoid's capabilities (or rather, the most capabilities he was going to get for a measly six large), the soon-to-be-broke Vic Douglas stopped the Malder a few yards from the old man and popped the cockpit open.
"Think I'll take it. Three now and three later?"
The old man shook his head. "All of it now."
Vic scratched the back of his brown-haired head pensively. "Er, I'll give you three and a half now, and the rest later."
The old man turned to the workers. "Get this rust bucket ter the scrapyard. This fellow ain't interested."
"W, wait!" stammered Vic, nervously removing his wallet. "F, five now and one later. That's as high as I can go."
The old man grinned through those yellow teeth. "Deal."
Vic knew he'd been out-haggled by the old man, and the old man knew he knew it. He filled out the paperwork in the sheet-metal office, swiped his card with that of the old man, and was instantly five thousand credits poorer.
"Nice doin' business with ye."
"Urgh…er, yeah, I guess," replied Vic dazedly, wondering how he was going to eat for the next month.
End o' chapter two! As always, hope you enjoyed it, leave a review, and I'll see you next time!