Gord Bayfield was restless in his seat, his hands sweating and fidgeting as he waited in the dark gloom of the decrepit parkade. He'd been training for the past year, working in the simulator, learning how to drive something that, at that time, didn't quite exist. The first trial runs had shown that the simulator was off in a few areas, and never could quite convey the reality of driving nearly nine tons of metal around, even at low speeds. The vehicle was twitchier, the rubber compound a little stickier than predicted, but also a fraction slower in acceleration than anticipated. However, the top speed was mind boggling.

But this was not a test. This was not the simulator. Through the thick, transparent aluminum armor viewport, he could see the muzzle flashes of gangsters and regular people fighting to try and get to the supply drop. Blood was being spilled over more ammunition. Worries over his welding were taking a back seat, as his calloused, black hands settled on the tillers, gripping the grip-tape wrapped metal poles; twisting, drying his palms.

Something nudged him from behind, "Aye." With a nod of habit, his left hand reached out and took hold of the master power knob. A solid twist , and the silence of the vehicle was muffled by the groan of fans starting to whirr. He paused to pull down the light goggles from his forehead, as the air in the cabin stirred into a continuous draft. He'd found that his eyes dried quickly in the positive pressure and constant air movement without the goggles. The dash board was lit up, the volt and ammeter were reading solid from the battery bank, cabin pressure was at point-nine psi and climbing. He depressed the black starter button with his right thumb, and the small V6 turbo diesel shivvered into life. A dull, deep, droning, throb in the back of the vehicle. The tachometer, oil pressure, fuel pressure, intake temp and egt gauges all flicked to life, needing swinging and settling.

A voice with a sophisticated English accent rang in his ears over the comms, "Bloody Aryans, good number of the sodding bastards. Gordon," Ira refused to use the shortened form of his name for reasons that escaped Gord, "steady hands now, aye? Let us be off our pop! Grand fashion I should think!"

He had learned that Ira Wolstrum had a bit of theatricality to him, and that saying such as, "Grand Fashion", generally meant as loud, showy, and spectacular as possible. The younger man, if only by nine years, was as enthusiastic as ever, and sense only if you could learn to interpret his funny English. But, he was an ex-British Mechanized Forces Engineer, and knew his trade to a degree, which was quite reassuring. As Gord plied the levers to turn the vehicle on the spot, the semi-slick tracks rustled in the grit of the garage as the engine grew fractionally louder, its exhaust heavily muffled and the engine bay lined with sound deadening. Lined up with the exit ramp, he pushed the tillers forward, and the muted whine of electric motors built as he was pushed into the seat with modest authority as the torque hit instantly. At the bottom of the ramp, the tank pitched slightly to the left as it raced over a small pile of debris that would stop most cars dead, the suspension effortlessly handling it as the vehicle picked up speed, and then....Music.

The throbbing drums and bassline opening of Queen's [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rY0WxgSXdEE]"Another One Bites the Dust"[/url] began throbbing through the intercom, and the hull as Ira put the song on, max volume over the loud speakers.

Gord burst out laughing, even as small caliber bullets started sparking and plinking off of the ultra-high-hardness armor plating over the aluminum hull. All the tension was just destroyed, and refused to come back even when the music was drowned out by the massive 20x139mm rifle upstairs thundered its report.

Ira Wolsturm grinned devlishly, as the song came over the loud speakers. He could see through the gun-sight the confused expression on people's faces as the loud music started blaring over what had become a battlefield. He lined the barrel of the cannon-like rifle with one of the armored trucks of the Aryan Bigots as best he could, they hadn't yet managed to implement the gun stabilization programming, but with a bit of practice and luck...he squeezed the trigger under his right finger of the elevation control, and the cannon fired, loud and dominating, even inside the turret. Outside, the thunder was nearly apocalyptic. 20mm rifles little used since few had need of them, and even then, every last one of them paled in comparison to the LP139. The empty steel casing was ejected into the catch chute, where it rattled into a catch can beneath the turret basket.

The shot went wide, but the second struck solid; Punching through the 1/4" mild steel welded over the door, the driver likely never knew the shell detonated within his stomach. The blast punched the weakened driver's door wide open, as the truck carried on straight, before slowly veering off to the left, slowing down as it coasted into the side of a building. Two passengers staggered out of the back seat, bleeding profusely from the shrapnel wounds that tore open their flesh.

Suddenly the charcoal grey vehicle pitched forwards, it's tracks biting into the pavement and leaving a smoking trail behind it, veering slightly right. The music paused as a sudden, very English voice cried out, "Well that was duff as bollocks! You bloody sodomites best pucker your arses if that were the best you got!" As the tank settled, the cannon rang out twice more, far more accurately from a still and stable platform. A biker exploding into a fireball trailing pink mist and black smoke, and another truck hit int the engine, scattering connecting rods and hot, twisted metal into the cab behind it.