Hi all, for the below chapter there is a small paragraph that describes a...less than pleasant situation. I've tried not to go to in depth about it, just enough to get the idea across. I feel it is necessary for the plot to advance, but want to keep this work light without venturing towards the darker and more gruesome areas of FF. I apologise in advance if this has upset you. Thanks, wolfd890
Life in the Garage was pretty routine. Their handler, the human clicking the mouse and pressing the keys had a very firm routine that rarely deviated in any way, shape or form. What that meant for the crew members of this particular account was that for 18 hours almost every day, there was no activity, which meant no standing at the ready because there was a miniscule chance the user would log on and play at random hours in the day. They were fortunate that way. Other garages were active almost 24/7. And even then, a user might only have a select preference when it came to what was in his or her garage. Four or five vehicles that went out more than all the rest. Hell, some crews hadn't been out in the field in months, sometimes even years. Those, Sargent Davies thought, were the ones you pitied. They would sit around next to their tank, playing cards mostly. It was dull, because every crewmember was programmed to love tanking, and not being able to do so really, really sucked.
So what some crews did was go rogue. It was a serious offence, but ultimately even the Policing program, a guy named Edwards turned a blind eye on these poor bastards. On the field, these tanks and their crews were often called out as 'Bots' because they behaved erratically, or sometimes played so well the humans suspected something was up.
But it gave these neglected and forgotten crews an outlet for their need to tank.
The lights in the garage dimmed, and a long, drawn out buzz echoed thru the building. Their handler had logged out for presumably the night, and more than 150 sweaty, grimy tankers filed out of their respective bays for the showers.
The last update added a second bank of bathroom facilities for the single member of the fairer sex. Several of the guys had peeked into the newly added space on the first day out of curiosity. They were only a fraction of the size, a total of 20 showers, because that's the maximum any handler could achieve with the current mission scope.
Allison turned away from the crew and headed into the girls only section. Only she could enter there now, a barrier stopped anyone else from crossing the threshold after she had been recruited.
Davies waved casually as the long haired blonde left his side. The TOG's crew had become very protective of Miss Rickelton since her arrival here a week ago. The Commander felt bad for her, first because she was alone, and second due to the fact that she shied away from attention by nature of her personality. Dealing with over a hundred gawking men was difficult for her, so naturally her fellow crew members did everything they could to make her feel at ease. Even if that meant that the inside of their War machine now smelt of shredded flowers and perfume rather than oil and diesel.
Secretly they all didn't mind. Preventive maintenance was never something their trainable skills included, but damn that girl had a way of making you fall in line, and without pulling rank or anything! Their TOG was scrubbed daily! Davies didn't complain. They hadn't used the fire extinguisher in over twenty games now. A new record!
To alleviate Allison's continued hardship the Commander had even gone so far as to inquire about the status of the Tank Destroyer Missions, visiting Oberfeldwebel Schmitt earlier that day to inquire about their progress. Their TD, a tier eight Rhm.-Borsig Waffenträger was quite powerful, its gun alone almost as long as the TOG 2 itself.
Once the TD-15 mission was done, a second crew member would follow, and hopefully Alison could befriend this new member.
"Master Sargent", the German held out his hand in greeting, which Davies shook. "Oberfeldwebel Schmitt, how do you do?"
"Herfohragend, danke der Nachfrage." Schmitt replied in German. "Herzlichen Glückwunsch zu ihren neuen Radio Ofizier", the German said casually before switching to a heavily accented English. "I trust she is settling vell?"
"Ah, yes. Thank you very much. It's actually the reason why I'm here. You see, she's a bit lonely as the only lady amogst us, and therefore I was simply wondering how your quest to finish the TD-15 mission is progressing?"
For some reason language barriers were no issue when speaking to fellow crewmember of different origin. Software programming, he reasoned whenever something was beyond his understanding. The word substituted 'magic' in his mind.
"Yes", the German officer stated with a sigh. "Ve have come close a number of times, but ze magic number continues to elude us. It is zee reason ve lost to our Kollegen in zee E-100. But alas, I am sure ve will reach our goal soon."
Davies smiled politely, head nodding in sympathy and understanding.
"That is unfortunate, but I'm sure you are right."
The two chatted for another ten minutes until the open toped TD was selected for battle, its crew jumping up and over the paper thin side plates and into their respective seats. Davies backed off, observing as the crane plucked the gray vehicle up and pulled it into the dark void in the ceiling.
'Perhaps this battle', he thought hopefully before turning to head back to the TOG2 bay.
oOo
The next morning marred the arrival of a special events week, meaning instead of a loud garage the TOG 2 was sitting on a grassy field. It was a nice change of scenery, and the crew had a great old time throwing horse shoes, playing ladder golf, and eating from the complementary picnic basket sitting on a blanket nearby. They didn't get called out to battle, but neither did anyone else. The handler didn't log on at all in fact, which in itself was not an unusual thing. An event week usually meant a holiday or day of remembrance in the 'real' world. Perhaps he too was outdoors enjoying a picnic as well.
But the one day turned into two, then three. After a week of no activity concern started to spread thru the ranks. In the six years this account had been active, never had they sat idle for so long.
A whole month passed. The number of AWOL crews going to matches increased dramatically. The account had plenty of credits to support repair and resupply operations as long as no one used gold rounds, but consistently bad crews were banned from leaving soon as they drained funds only the Handler technically had access to.
Davies and his crew stood strong, as did most of the other German and English crews. The Americans and Russians meanwhile seemed more out of control every day. Edwards had his hands full with them almost constantly. Soon enough the numerous complaints about bots drew the attention of an Admin. By a stroke of pure luck no tank had been out in the field when the account was opened.
The connection was closed a few seconds later, but the event had straightened everyone out, for a while anyway.
Before long, two groups had emerged, one calling for restraint and caution, the other for more freedom. Everyone ultimately wanted the same thing, to drive and shoot their tanks unhindered. The problem was the level of risk each deemed acceptable. The Admin scare was proof of that. Their very existence could be erased if the glitches and 'bots' continued to roam unchecked.
But with the handler gone what could they do?
The answer it seemed, lay with the younger of the Rodgers siblings. Bloody brilliant lad, Davies thought. Completely wasted in his current position, but he wasn't about to give up being a Commander to load heavy shells.
Besides tanking, these men (and now woman) needed an outlet for all their energy when sitting idle. It meant that all had hobbies unrelated to the game, and often crew members with the same interests met in groups. Davies personally was an avid reader, and even convinced several of the other English chaps to join a weekly book reading meeting at the officer's lounge. With more time than ever to focus on these things, William Rodgers and a few others had managed to do the impossible…
Force a reverse log-in that gave them access to the handler's personal computer.
It was all so far above his comprehension that it seemed laughable. Software engineering they'd called it. Well in any case, his loader and friends had managed to access the Webcam, streaming live video and projecting it on all screens within the garage.
Loud chatter swiftly filled the massive space. The Master Sargent frowned. Luckily his programming didn't include a weak stomach.
The partially mummified remains of a person filled the screens. Black, leathery skin pulled taunt over sharp cheekbones and eye sockets reflected the real world midafternoon light in a sickly way. Hollow eyes, open mouth revealing stained teeth, several days' worth of stubble, mostly gray. He'd read about mummies from Ancient Egypt, accounts and notes from archeologists such as Howard Carter and W.M. Flinders Petrie. Seeing a recent one was a lot less appealing than those romanticized accounts from scholars long gone.
It had been 41 days since he'd been online. No doubt the resident surgeon would be called upon to visually approximate the time of death, just to be sure.
In any case, it certainly answered what happened to their handler. The screen flickered off a few moments later. The dozens of tank commanders were called upon for an immediate and mandatory meeting, requested by the garage's Control program. Not very many individuals had ever seen this mysterious entity, who handled everything from consumables to credit distribution between other accounts, for instance if you damage a friendly tank.
William and his fellow club members it seemed were the only NCO's in the room, besides Edwards the enforcer and of course Control himself.
The small room allowed for standing room only, and murmured conversations carried surprisingly well within its confined walls. Before Davies had the chance to eavesdrop, intentional or otherwise a loud voice bellowed; "ATTENTION!"
The man with the voice was the program known as 'Control'
At 6'-3" tall, he was too large to be a tanker, and thus towered over the crowd of assembled men. His appearance was that of a man in his fifties, with neat, cropped silver hair and impressive matching mustache. The way he carried himself radiated authority, and the sharp, no nonsense voice fit his physical description to a T. The commander briefly wondered if all control programs in the game looked like this. Despite having never met the man, it was clear as day that the expression he wore was grim.
"Commanders, thank you all for assembling on such short notice. I'm sure you all know why I've called you here."
Heads nodded in confirmation.
"The handler is dead, and with him this account."
It seemed motivational speeches were not part of this man's particular set of skills. Nor did he beat around the Bush it seemed.
"I am also aware of the ever growing rift within this garage, and with the help of this group over here have managed to increase the number of options you all have."
Control gestured to the Software Engineering team, led by a portly man whose physical fitness put into question how he was even recruited.
"These exceptionally gifted men are credited with supplying us with the knowledge of the handler's unfortunate demise. I have also been told that they can, in time modify the base code of this account, making it invisible to the administrators. We would be free to pursue our passions unhindered and without fear of being destroyed."
Exited chatter filled the room at the most positive revelation, only to fall silent once more as he spoke again.
"There is a catch. Modifying the base code requires both hardware and software beyond what we have access to here."
A quick thinking Russian commander spoke up. "Heere sir? Are you implying there iss somewhere else these items can be found?"
There was a hint of approval in Controls features, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "That is correct. I've been told there are hundreds of Massive Multiplayer online games like ours out there. Games with tech beyond your wildest imagination."
Davies's brain to mouth filter failed him at that moment. "So how do we get it?"
Control spun around, cold hard eyes boring into the Brits.
"That is why you are here." The Commander wasn't quite sure if he meant all the commanders, or only him. Their eyes were still locked, as if whomever breaks contact first would be thrown to the Wolves.
Finally Control moved on, and Davies released the breath he'd unintentionally been holding in.
"The commanders whose crew belong to the Software engineering club now have a new mission, should they choose to accept."
Several men of all nations stepped forward, 15 in total. Control nodded approvingly, though his gaze lingered after noticing Davies was amongst them.
"The rest of you may as well stay here. No sense in spreading false rumors later on." Control sighed, referring to the rest of the commanders whose crew didn't hold a seat within the Engineering club.
"There is a way to send the tanks and their crews into the vast expanses of the internet. Using this web like a network of roads, you may travel to any and all games that could be suitable for our purposes. Your vehicles will need to be modified to travel this digital road, and will have to be accompanied by someone who knows how to navigate this so-called information highway."
Control paused, his previously neutral features scrunching in worry.
"This mission however is not without risks. While away from your game…your home, you are vulnerable. Mortal."
"That is why, once again I ask you this. Are you, and by extension your crew ready to lay down your lives in order to complete this mission? I implore you to discuss this with them this evening, and expect an answer from each of you by the following day. Should one or more not be ready to make this leap, I fully understand. Those that do wish to go will sign here. A blank page appeared on the bulletin board hanging from the nearby wall. This will be taken as confirmation of what I just asked."
With that, the tall mustached man exited the room, leaving several dozen stunned and speechless Commanders to digest what had just happened.
I was stuck on the last quarter of this chapter for almost two weeks! Banging out a plot right now, and I do have a few ideas. Will need to brush up on my computer terminology though if it is to sound half believable, hahaha. As always, reviews are welcome. Thanks for reading!