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Conningstone; Northern Front Line

Sid continued swearing into the radio as they pushed forward. Dirt, fine and powdery obscured their view through the tiny driver's optics and gunners' periscopes. Dave was muttering something about the turret's movements feeling stickier than a nun's arse in the middle of summer and Commander Briant was silent, his jaw clamped, body tense as he rifled through the small pile of papers strapped to his left leg, occasionally consulting his small wrist mounted computer.

''Still can't fucking raise anyone!'' Sid hissed through his teeth, slamming the radio's handset against the butt of his hull mounted rifle. Static crackled and squeaked through his headset. ''You see anything up there boss?''

Briant pressed his eyes against his periscope and then shuffled his position awkwardly in the cramped space of the turret to take a look through Dave's own periscope. Both slats of thick, magnified glass were caked with dust and it didn't help that they were moving at a 'hasty' 25mph across rough terrain. He figured it would be a miracle if any of the new, more delicate MBTs in the line didn't start falling apart under the pressure of the chewed up terrain.

A jolt made his head make contact with the metal roof, forcing his helmet down over his eyes.

''Fuck-! Nothing. We're rolling blind. Marty, do your best to keep up with the others. We break formation, Colonel Dickface'll pluck the scales from our hides and have them made into a fucking mankini.''

Marty grunted, leaning close to his own optics to try and see the outside world. He only succeeded in getting a dirty black smear of grime across his pearl coloured face as opposed to being able to tell the commander of their tank what the hell was going on outside.

''Can't you at least get up top and show me where the hell it is I'm supposed to point this mobile pop-gun?''

''Sorry broski. Dickface's orders. No one's allowed up top during combat, not even to confirm visuals.''

''What kind of stupid-''

''I know.'' Briant interrupted before the angry tirade could start, ''We can't see and we're banned from using extra firepower. But orders are orders and we're on our last chance after that incident we had with the fire engine and bubble bath...''

''Why do I get the feeling you're looking at me.'' Marty grumbled, nose practically pressed against the metal in front of him as he steered the tank away from their neighbours. ''Little Bitch is getting too close to our flank again.''

''It's bad luck to use our old tank names on our new ones.'' Dave said mildly, peering at the small radar bolted to the hull next to him. It wasn't providing him with much data and the gunner was half tempted to rip it out and toss it at a stray Ferroni solider, should the opportunity present itself.

''These tanks_are_ bad luck,'' Sid said ruefully, tapping the inner hull. ''Made of tinfoil.''

''Oh shit, oh shit! ENEMY SIGHTED!'' Marty barked suddenly.

''Where?'' Briant demanded, slithering back into position, wrapping his leather armoured tail around his waist.

''Dead ahead, moving in steadily.'' Marty replied evenly.

Sid continued checking the radio, trying desperately once again to make it work. He flicked through the channels and settled upon the only one that did work, which it turned out everyone else was using. The signal immediately became clogged with static and the voices of their comrades in 150th Battalion, Heavy Armoured Division. 151st weren't within range yet, as they were supposedly holed up on the western flank of the ever encroaching front lines of the designated kill zone which was a guesstimated fifty miles away.

Sometimes, if not every waking moment of his life, Briant could easily do the Ferroni's job himself and shoot his COs for their vague orders and even worse strategies.

''Tiny Boomstick, this is Minion Capers-''

''Little Bitch, you're trailing-''

''For fuck's sake Bone King, stop riding our skirts-''

''Wayward Duck, you're moving too fast-''

''This is Drunken Shenanigans, we have no idea as to what the actual fuck we are doing right now-''

''Keep driving forward, losers, hit those commie fags with all we got-''

''Little Bitch to Racist Comment, I'm not entirely sure that was an official order per say...''

''I'm still in charge of this batallion, Little Bitch, so what I say goes and to hell with Dickface. Now charge those fuckers and lay waste to 'em!''

''In these tin cans? You're kidding me?''

''When was the last time I cracked a joke, Little Bitch?''

Then silence descended as everyone in the battalion contemplated their Major's rhetoric question.

''I do enjoy our radio banter.'' Dave sighed as he sighted like a blind man through his periscope, hands gripping the firing controls of the main gun.

''Here's hoping we don't get slaughtered like the last lot.'' Briant muttered.

149th hadn't lasted long. In factm, it had gone down in history as the world's shortest skirmish and the only time an entire tank battalion had been taken out by the enemy's AA guns. It was embarassing, to put it mildly. But it hadn't stopped whoever was in control currently from sending two more battalions of the newly minted Moarekemp Peace Keeper - 160's to the front lines in the now extinct battalion's place.

''This is Bone King transmitting: you all know the performance records of the MPK-160 when put under pressure. Anyone got any famous last words?''

A female voice crackled over the radio. Sid held the handset tight in one hand and pressed the headset to his ear. He had openly vented his disdain for the new radio equipment when the new tanks had been doled out and it's refusal to work correctly, thus leading him to butcher it to make it work at least half decently.

''This is Wayward Duck: What's the worst that could happen?''

''Drunken Shenanigans here,'' Put in a deep male voice when Wayward Duck had cleared the line, ''LEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRROOO-''

''Shut the fuck up, Dan! Tiny Boomstick out.'' In the background, there was much laughter just barely audible over the static. Most of it was borne of terror.

Sid looked at Marty. The driver had a barely supressed grin on his face as he slowly pushed the tank to higher speeds, sending them bouncing and chuffing across the churned field, keeping pace with the others in the armoured line.

''Holy crap, you're actually looking forward to this!'' He exclaimed, putting the radio handset back in its cradle and deftly feeding a new belt of ammunition into his mounted gun, something he should have done before setting out. To his relief, Briant didn't chastise him for it as he had other, more pressing issues to occupy him; such as the lack of visibility and the poor, lazy workmanship on their new tanks.

''It's more the grimace of a pending anxiety attack, actually.'' Marty grunted, praying in the silence of his mind that the tank not shake itself to pieces before the battle could be joined proper.

He peered out at the horizon. A line of dark squarish shapes was refining into a line of battle tanks, each one bigger than the MPK-160s.

''We are so fucked.'' Briant muttered, voicing everyone's opinion out loud. He shuffled the badly drawn paper maps around on his lap, then checked the little armoured combat computer that was strapped to his wrist.

''On a scale of one to ten, just how fucked are we?'' Sid asked.

''About eighty. This place is riddled with craters from the last five scraps. For tanks, the one-sixties have a shit turning circle and equally bad armour with firepower that's on par. We'll be lucky if we don't overheat or the steering doesn't lock up on us. Either way, I estimate that we'll all die horribly today.'' Briant looked through his periscope and sucked in a deep breath. ''On the bright side, at least when we're dead, we won't have to breath in anyone's personal aromas in such a tight space anymore.''

''With Sid's arse, that's almost a blessing in disguise.'' Marty grunted, fighting the controls as the tank tipped precariously around a large crater. The engine growled a diesel fueled protest as reptile and machine fought to gain purchase on reasonably solid ground again.

The others hung on to the various hand-holds as it shuddered, falling back onto its tracks proper. There was a flash of light from ahead and the ground next to them exploded, raining flint, grass and soil across the tank, the air inside suddenly rising in temperature.

''This is Little Bitch, we're fine!'' Blurted a shaken voice through the radio.

''Bone King report-''

''Bone King's still going.''

''Copy that Bone King. All tanks: open fire!''

Dave checked the autoloader once again and adjusted the main gun, the turret's hydraulics moaning as he sighted as best he could through the dust. The ensuing explosion shook the whole vehicle, fire roaring from the tip of the main gun. The surrounding tanks sent out their first rounds too, making the attacking line waver from the force of the shots. Gouts of dirt and shrapnel exploded around the opposing battalion, one or two shells hitting home and doing very little damage except for leaving blackened smudges and a few shallow dents in the opposition's dark brown and green armour.

''They're getting too close for the heavy guns.'' Dave pointed out.

''They're a helluva lot faster than we were led to believe...'' Marty muttered.

''Minion Capers to Racist Comment, we're overheating, permission to bail out?!''

''Minion Capers: permission denied! Stay the course and empty those racks!''

Sid started up his machine gun, the batallion radio forgotten. The .50 cal rounds spanged harmlessly off the enemy tanks, doing nothing to slow them down. Already the radio was a mess of chaos, each crew reporting tank status to everyone else.

''We can't keep formation,'' Marty said, fighting the heavy controls.

Briant thumbed his headset, ''This is Bone King to Base, come in Base. We're getting hammered out here. The enemy's too strong, we're going to start losing tanks-'' There was an explosion off to the left somewhere. It was powerful enough make the air inside the tanks present vibrate and the temperature to rise a few degrees.

The battalion radio came to life again.

''Racist Comment down!'' Wayward Duck barked frantically.

''Tiny Boomstick- Oh fuck we're burning in here! Someone help us!''

''Bone King to Tiny Boomstick, turn back and make for Base immediately! All tanks form a shield around Tiny Boomstick and move at full speed!'' Briant barked into the radio, taking control of the panicked formation.

''What the fuck just happened?'' Sid gasped, rubbing the bright dancing dots from his eyes.

The explosion that had taken out Racist Comment and its crew had been akin to a sun-burst, leaving everyone with an outside view squinting and rubbing their eyes.

''Judging by Tiny Boomstick's screaming, I'd say that was a mixed napalm payload.'' Briant replied icily. ''I do wish they'd stop stealing our ideas...''

All tanks on the field circled, turrets still tracking and firing at the enemy, black plumes of smoke chuffing from their exhaust grates. Through the smoke, dust and flames Briant saw Tiny Boomstick grind to a halt, its scorched and torn hull shuddering as the engine gave up, fire flickering from the seams of the engine cowling at the back. The top hatch had been popped open and something black and flaming was hanging half out of the turret. Sid tried raising the crew, but got nothing. Then the ammo blew as the heat became too intense for the rack's insulation to handle. The remaining tanks veered around the dead tank, gunning it for safety. The panic was palpable now. The enemy - bigger, stronger and better equipped were gaining slowly, their shots raining Hell upon their heads. The Bone King crew tipped down into a series of interlocking craters, nearly colliding with Little Bitch as they tried to outrun the Ferroni monsters. A blind shot split Little Bitch's hull wide open at the base of the turret, the metal peeling like a flower in bloom. The force of the explosion rocked Bone King, crippling the turret's turntable mechanisms and cracking a drive sprocket, taking a section of track with it. The flailing track slammed noisily against the hull of the tank, hanging on by a single pin that was ready to give at any second.

Ears ringing, blinded by the neighbouring explosion and panting in the burning heat, they hurtled out of the crater, ramming the passing Drunken Shenanigans from underneath by accident. There was an explosion of swearing over the radio as both tanks were disabled; Bone King with its damaged track, wheels and turret, and Drunken Shenanigans with its overheating engine and blocked main gun. Drunken Shenanigans' turret exploded in a cloud of smoke and metal, the gun tube hanging from a sliver of metal and bent. The remaining two crew, battered, cut and bleeding, scrambled out of the hole and decided to run the rest of the way back to base.

''They got the right idea.'' Briant muttered, coughing on the smokey heat inside the tank.

''Right idea?'' Dave said horrified, unstrapping himself and wriggling out of his seat in the half mangled turret.

''It's either run like fuck, or die in cheap coffins. Choice is yours.'' Briant snapped angrily.

''Sid-'' Marty began, unstrapping himself, ignoring the throb in his wrists and the ache behind his eyes, ''Aw, shit.''

Sid was slumped back in his chair, his gun dislocated from its mount, a large sliver of metal buried in his neck. The impact of the two tanks had put out the gunners' optics, the cracked tracks of Drunken Shenanigans having chewed up the front right corner of Bone King. The crushed rear of Bone King's backwards facing turret had been forced down under the other tank's weight and had pressed the reptile against his seat, pinning him. Marty wasn't sure if his friend had bled to death or had been crushed to death. He wriggled painfully from his seat and climbed over the back, making his way out of the cupola with Briant and Dave.

''Get a move on!'' Drunken Shenanigans' driver called over his shoulder.

Marty squinted through the hot smoke and churning dust, wiping soot and hot ashes from his face before pulling his goggles down over sore eyes. The smell of burning metals, oils and flesh made his nose itch and his gag reflex try to make itself known.

''Little Bitch's crew is vapour and so many meat chunks.'' Briant said, trotting back from the wreckage, the dislocated hull machine gun he'd salvaged gripped in his hands. ''Let's get a move on. I have an idea.'' He slung a belt of ammunition over his shoulder and clambered after the remainder of Drunken Shenanigans' crew.

''What idea would that be?'' Dave enquired as they hauled themselves unsteadily but quickly out of the burning crater.

Marty hissed as he felt the exposed scales on the underside of his tail start to blister and melt. They crested the lip of the crater and saw the driver and comtech of Drunken Shenanigans running full tilt towards a smaller than average MBT with the name Minion Capers hastily stencilled on the side of the turret. The MPK-160 was trundling along at a much slower speed, main gun pointing back the way they'd come. The tank stopped and the cupola hatch popped open and a helmeted lizard wearing thick goggles and an olive coloured regulation scarf over his snout and mouth emerged.

''Stick close!'' Minion Capers' commander shouted over the grunting of engines and explosions of heavy guns.

''We're gonna use one of those things as a fucking shield?'' Dave yelped.

''Better than being out in the open.'' Briant growled as they caught up with the others.

Marty cast a quick glance over his shoulder and saw a column of ten more MPK-160 MBTs rolling on to the field of battle, firing frantically at the enemy. Several of the opposing tanks turned to concentrate fire on the new arrivals, leaving only two to finish off the remaining 160s. It was a two on two fight, one that Wayward Duck and Minion Capers would more than likely die fighting.

Minion Capers started rolling forward, slowly picking up speed, turret turned backwards, commander at the machine gun, helping Wayward Duck lay on some cover fire as the five tankers ran alongside them on foot. It was either a lucky shot from the gunner or a well aimed one that took out one of the enemy's turrets, disabling it with a shot to the seam between turret and hull. It didn't stop the main gun from working, it had just stopped it from rotating, which was perfectly fine for everyone else as it gave them a minuscule advantage.

''I can see one of our APCs!'' Drunken Shenanigans' driver yelled over the noise of Minion Capers' engine and guns.

The heavily armoured, mottled green truck bounded across the field, exhaust stacks belching thick black smoke. A reptile in muddied infantry uniform leaned out of the back as it slewed around to come up next to Minion Capers, sandwiching the five foot-bound crewmen between it and the tank protectively.

''Climb in!'' The infantryman shouted, dropping the tailgate. A handful of other infantrymen sat on the benches inside, holding onto the support bars with death grips.

Briant forced the others in first, then scrambled into the back after them. A white hot explosion seared the air, kicking a geyser of burning turf skywards a hundred yards off. The driver of the APC shouted something and Marty toppled onto his back as the truck shot forward with a turbo-charged roar, leaving Wayward Duck and Minion Capers behind. Finally, with a decent radio pack onboard a decent vehicle, Briant could get a signal over his radio headset. He thumbed it, hoping to make contact with at least one of the tanks on the field to relay his idea to them. He eyed Drunken Shenanigans' driver and comtech as both reptiles hung on to the metal supports that ran the length of the cabin: Devin the driver and Karl, the man in charge of radio communications and the hull mounted gun. He realised that several pairs of eyes were staring back at them. A young soldier in torn and bloodied fatigues stared wide eyed at him.

''We're losing this one, ain't we?'' He asked plaintively.

''We ain't lost yet- Bone King to Wayward Duck and Minion Capers'' He broke off when the static in his ear cleared.

Some of the soldiers chuckled as Briant spoke into the mic. The tankers didn't mind; it was all part of the reason for the names. The tanks were all given absurd names for humour. It helped lighten the mood not only for the tank crews, but for those who also had to serve alongside them in the field. He always figured it was better to work with someone with a sense of humour than someone without one, otherwise depression would set in quicker. The names were also great ice breakers, with each one having an origin; some vague, others were an in-joke and most were just blatantly obvious.

''Rubber Chicken, this Bone King, we're heading back to Base for Plan B. Round up Wayward Duck and Minion Capers, keep 'em safe and we'll see you shortly.''

''Plan B?'' Devin asked curiously.

''The one-fifties still in the yard?'' He asked.

There were nods all round and a smattering of mutters confirming the answer to his question. He grinned, spread his arms expansively and nearly fell over when the truck hit a scar in the terrain. Marty grinned through his scarf and looked around at the others.

''We're gonna need some new tankers. Who's up for a last hurrah?'' He asked, clapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly.

The APC roared into the yard, disgorging its passengers in a flood of greens and blacks. The remainder of the Bone King and Drunken Shenanigans crews sprinted across the concrete yard with five of the healthier infantrymen in tow, abondoning the MPK-160s to whatever fate the Battalion's mechanics could muster. Colonel Dawkins stepped out of the nearest squat olive painted building, his brass and silver gleaming in the sunlight on his uniform jacket.

''What the hell are you doing here!?'' He roared, ''You have a war to fight!''

The infantrymen they had in tow faltered, but otherwise continued on after the tank crews who were huffing towards several bulky shapes hidden under camouflage tarps in the corner of the compound under a concrete and tin lean-to. Several mechanics looked curiously in their direction from their workshop as the dumpy colonel continued to shout furiously, spittle flying from his chapped lips.

''Danny!'' Briant shouted, ignoring the tight pain developing in his side and the throb in his lower back, ''We need to get Shenanigans and King ready for deployment now!''

The mechanics looked at each other, then at their boss, Danny. Dawkins was still shouting at them from across the yard, trying in vain to intimidate them into obeying his orders. Danny shrugged, grabbed some tools and gave out orders to his underlings.

Marty and Dave started stripping the tarps from the tanks, looking for their own. Little Bitch, Tiny Boomstick, Racist Comment and Minion Capers were all revealed. They were huge 69 tonne battle tanks. Their main guns were tethered to the hooks on the glacis plates via chains, secured in position with heavy side skirts protecting the wheels and thickly armoured fuel cans strapped to rear of the turrets.

''Fuel tanker's on its way and so's Dickface.'' Danny puffed as he jogged over.

Finally Bone King and Drunken Shenanigans were uncovered- the first tanks they had taken into combat and the tanks they had learned in and survived in until this point. The MPK-150 MBTs were heavy, tough and frighteningly effective, but heavy on the fuel consumption. Each tank was painted a dark green and black in a mottled pattern, their names stencilled on both sides of the massive turrets, each one sporting its own icon beneath, or between the names. Drunken Shenanigans was that of a black and white half full beer bottle with a bullet sat inside it and Bone King's was a reptillian skull sporting an elaborate crown made up of bullets and blades.

''Oh my King, my true King, how I have missed you.'' Marty sighed, running a hand across the scarred flank of the tank.

''You lot get to work, I'll try and talk some sense into Dickface.'' Briant said, turning on his heel and stomping towards their approaching CO who had gathered a small retinue of lesser desk-jockey officers that followed after him like a tail behind a portly comet.

The others set about checking the tanks over, giving the infantrymen a quick crash-course in what to do and the best ways in which to do it whilst Briant confronted Dawkins a few yards off.

''I forbid you to take those vehicles!'' Dawkins snapped, ''They were retired for a reason!''

''For a poor reason!'' Briant snapped back, ''We need these tanks whether you or your groupies like it or not! We're getting hammered out there with those tin cans you put us in! We need some real firepower, not some pop-guns designed by fucking hippies!''

Dawkins sucked in a breath, as if physically wounded. ''How dare you talk about-''

The sound of a massive engine firing up drowned out his protest. Briant could just barely hear what Dawkins was grilling him with over the sound of Devin forcing a quick warm up of Drunken Shenanigans' engine. Marty quickly joined in too; the mechanics had kept the retired tanks in good fighting condition over the course of the year the machines had been out of action. Briant silently blessed them in the privacy of his mind. He turned and walked away from the fuming colonel as Bone King rolled forward on fat tracks, growling deeply in machine anticipation of a fight. A group of the infantrymen that had picked them up on the field came trotting over, a large metal and wood crate to a pair. Karl grinned broadly from the cupola when he saw the markings on the crates.

''Are those what I think they are?'' He called to the soldiers.

''Aye. We found them in storage at the back of one of the warehouses.'' A thin red reptile with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his head replied.

The six crates were carefully put down between the tanks. Briant pried the top off one to reveal the contents. Ten fat rounds each with a grinning shark's face painted on the points sat nestled inside.

''Oh fuuuuck...'' Dave breathed, eyes wide when he saw them. ''Yes yes YES!''

''No no NO!'' Dawkins yelled. ''Using those are now illegal and are considered a war crime of the highest order!'' His face was starting to go from pale green to red.

The others continued ignoring him. They'd be court marshalled into oblivion for disobeying orders. Right now though, that didn't matter. All that mattered was their survival and the survival of their friends and their country. As Dawkins continued to shout and rage at them, calling for someone to arrest them, Briant and Dave started unloading the shells from their crates, passing them up to be loaded into the tanks' autoloaders.

It took only a few minutes of hectic activity for Drunken Shenanigans and Bone King to rumble back out of the compound and back onto the battle field.

''Bone King to Rubber Chicken, we're incoming with a pair of real tanks!'' He called over the radio.

Corporal Chatteris who sat next to Marty on the hull mounted gun peered through his optics as he adjusted the radio headset until it sat confortably under his helmet. In the distance they could see the enemy tanks being led a merry dance by the MPK-160s. Four of the 160s were down, nothing but charred, jagged smoking wrecks dotted across the battered and pock-marked landscape, adding to the debris that 149th Battalion had created. The only way in which their own were surviving was by continuous movement, circling around the enemy and nipping between them hoping to incur a friendly fire incident.

''This is Rubber Chicken, hurry the fuck up! We're running out of fuel and we're down four tanks, one of them yours!'' The voice was female and extremely angry.

''Who's down?''

''Minion Capers! They took a direct hit from a nap- FUCKIT STEVE, GIVE IT THE BEANS!''

The line went dead.

''Rubber Chicken's surrounded, sir!'' Chatteris piped up.

Dave looked through his optics. The smaller MBT, just barely visible as a silohuette in the clouds of smoke and dust had indeed been surrounded by three of the enemy. He looked at his small radar screen and thanked all the gods he could think of for micro-chipping. He saw Wayward Duck, Midget Molester, Jammy Dodger and Glass Jaw's IDs move in towards the enemy markers, Rubber Chicken at their centre. The tank lurched as Marty sped up. Beside them, Drunken Shenanigans kept even pace, both tanks eating up the terrain like it was nothing. Marty laughed at the sheer joy of having his old tank back; it was such a smooth ride compared to the newer, smaller and more useless MPK-160 MBTs. He had also missed the gutteral roar of the powerful engine and the whining clicks of the turret as it moved smoothly on greased rings. The tiny wiper blades mounted on each optic and periscope worked too, allowing them a fine view of what was ahead.

''This is Drunken Shenanigans to all friendly tanks: Just radioed some mates of mine in the RAF. We're gonna help you get out of this situation and get you clear of the field, because it's gonna start raining within the next twenty minutes!''

The two tanks powered forward, muscling their way into the the frenzy, scattering the others. Drunken Shenanigans and Bone King circled around to get a shot at the Ferroni tanks as they came around to regroup, their courage bolstered by the fact that they were now once more on an equal footing with the Ferroni tankers. Main guns lined up, they let loose with a quick hail of shells. The remaining 160s scattered away in pairs as the two giants set about their foe with merciless precision and their own explosive napalm mixes. One of the enemy tanks exploded in a gout of a metal shards, a ball of smokey fire roiling into the bright sky. The radio exploded into life with cheers and promises of much beer.

''Wayward Duck to all 160s: Let's get the fuck out of here and leave the big boys to play!''

''This a warning to all crews returning to Base: Colonel Dickface is not a happy bunny. Drunken Shenanigans out.''

''You fuckers, you stole your old tanks back, didn't you?'' Rubber Chicken asked.

Briant opened his channel and calmly said ''Yes. Yes we did.''

The two older MPK-150s circled the enemy, trying to force them into staying in one place as they laid on the fire thick and relentlessly. Drunken Shenanigans nailed another, tearing the glacis plate, twisting it and leaving it open for Bone King to finish off as it turned to show its rear to them in a bid to save itself by dropping from sight into a crater. Another of the enemy tanks went down. That was three to five. Not enough to satiate the crews of Bone King and Drunken Shenanigans, but they had no choice but to turn and retreat as Karl and Briant confirmed incoming jets. Marty thundered after Drunken Shenanigans and the line of retreating 160s that were led by Rubber Chicken as he spotted 5 broad winged shapes dropping out of the sun towards them.

''Glass Jaw to everyone else: what in the fuck is that falling out of the sky?''

''Glass jaw, this is Wayward Duck: They're called planes.''

''I don't mean those, I mean those!''

Every tank on the field slowed to a near crawl as every crewman looked up at the sky. Bright objects flared, streaking through the sky, trailing a tail of black smoke and sparks and debris. One of the attacking jets exploded and crashed into the earth as one of the fireballs smashed through it. The jets broke off their attack as more objects started slamming into the ground with enough force to rattle everyone's teeth.

''The whole sky... It's burning!'' Chatteris gasped. He was thrown backwards into his seat as Marty pushed the tank forward, forcing it to go as fast as it would across the rough terrain.

Drunken Shenanigans kept up too and together the pair of them tried herding the slower 160s towards Base and its network of deeply hidden bunkers.

Behind them, the Ferroni battlion had scattered, driving for their own cover as all around them the ground erupted, burning and smoking a faint blue. The sky had become so bright with the falling objects, that the sun had become irrelevent.

''I think it's a meteor shower!'' Chatteris exclaimed.

''What the actual fuck?'' Dave grunted.

Up ahead, Rubber Chicken took a direct hit. The others parted around the flaming crater, giving it a wide berth, shards of tank, rock and other pieces of unspeakable debris being ground into the earth by the weight of the larger tanks as they passed.

''Never seen smoke that colour.'' Briant muttered as he braced himself against a sudden dip in the terrain.

''That's not natural! We're gonna die an unnatural natural death! Holy crap!'' Dave cried, realising that his goal of dieing in bed with a beautiful woman was never going to come to fruition.

The concrete yard of the compound was a riot; personnel were running for bunkers, vehicles were left abandoned and still running. Marty cut the engine and they scrambled from the tank, joining the others in running for the bunkers. An explosion knocked them all off their feet. Drunken Shenanigans was tossed aside like a toy, landing inside the front of the mess hall, bricks turning to red powder under its crushing weight. Marty swore bloody murder. It felt as if his flesh had been shredded from his body and his head was pounding as if it were about to explode. He had to touch his face just to make sure that his eyeballs hadn't melted. When he was satisfied he'd just been blinded by the bright explosion he staggered to his feet, almost falling over again. His eyesight gradually started coming back and he found that Devin was tugging on his shirt sleeve, dragging him towards the nearest bunker hatch. Blood soaked the driver's shirt and one eye was swelling shut. Marty looked around at the rest of his crewmates. Chatteris and Karl were dead, thrown aside with Drunken Shenanigans, lying in twisted, broken heaps of smouldering flesh and cloth. Briant looked about to yell something but a fist sized flash of light made everything above his hips explode in a cloud of gore, bone and fatigues. Marty shouted something, stumbled and was tossed into the side of the building by another explosive flash of light somewhere behind him. His entire world burned for what seemed like days before darkness finally claimed him.

Coming to was more of an awkward task than he remembered. His head ached wickedly and he had an unidentifiable taste in the back of his mouth. He wondered just how drunk he had gotten the previous night.

Then he remembered, the thoughts slowly crawling back into his head and fuzzily presenting themselves to him.

The sky was raining fire on their heads. Drunken Shenanigans had been tossed around like a toy in a playschool. Briant was dead, turned to meat mulch by a space rock the size of his fist. Chatteris was dead. And Dave...? Marty tentatively braced his hands against the cool ground and pushed himself up into a better sitting position against the ruined building he'd been thrown into. His eyesight was slowly coming back to him; everything looked watery and blurred. There was something dark and heavy directly in front of him, he could tell that much. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head against the broken wall, trying to give his body time to recover enough to allow him to stand. He pinched the bridge of his nose to try and alleviate some of the pressure in his head and wondered idly about the odd, smooth touch. It wasn't the smooth touch of scales, but more the smooth touch of something else...

Bone.

That's what it was. Bone. He was squeezing his own nose bone. He blinked and looked down, going crosseyed to try and see the end of his nose. It was nothing but a white blur. That wasn't unusual. His grandma used to call him Little Pearl because of the light hue of his scales. He looked at the fingers protruding from his fingerless driving gloves.

More bones, impossibly attached to one another and tipped with the claws he'd come to appreciate as makeshift can-openers. He wiggled them experimentally half expecting them to fall apart. They didn't. He gingerly explored the rest of his body, patting himself down, finding only aching bones wrapped in the remains of the tatty fatigues of a tanker. There was no flesh. None whatsoever. On the verge of a panic attack, he pulled the knife from the sheath hanging loose at his ankle and looked in the reflection: a skull with a piercing blue witchlight in each black socket grinned back. He yelped, dropping the blade and pushed himself up only to drop back down, cursing after he hit his head on something solid above him. Rubbing his head, he looked up. The slab of olive and black metal had all but cocooned him into a corner. He leaned back and looked up, gingerly following the contours of the metal that was resting atop a pile of bricks and shattered concrete. Two words had been stencilled upside down to the metal. He frowned, wondering why someone would stencil a name onto something upside down. Then he realised: It was his tank.

Bone King had been tossed aside, flipped over to land against the sturdy main building, tracks in the air, thick V-shaped belly exposed. Marty quickly wriggled free, his fleshless hands scrabbling on the cracked concrete. He hauled himself upright, staggering in the fading light of the day. Some fires still burned in buildings and meteor craters. A distance off, laying sprawled on the broken, bloodied and scorched concrete on the opposite side of a small crater was Dave. He too was sitting upright and investigating himself. Chunks of his flesh were missing, a strip of scales had been torn from around his left eye to leave a pink seeping wound and the tip of his striped tail was meat and bone. He looked up at Marty, a stricken expression his scarred face.

''... Marty....? Is that you...?'' His voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet.

''Maybe... You're not gonna turn on me and start chewing the marrow from my bones are you...?'' Marty ventured, finding it obscenely easy to form words without any soft bits.

Dave pulled himself upright, cracking his his back in the process. He wandered cautiously across the cracked concrete, a hand hovering just above the grip of his sidearm.

''You've lost weight.'' He said bluntly.

''You don't exactly look healthy, either.'' Marty replied, feeling as if he was about to drop off the edge of sanity and into the dark pits of madness.

They stood a few yards apart, eyeing each other suspiciously, neither knowing what they should do next and not entirely sure of what happened to make them this way. More baffling, was how they'd survived, Marty in particular.

''So er... Now what?'' Dave asked, finally breaking the silence.

Marty shrugged and found it to a be ludicrously easy thing to do without any muscles or flesh to weigh him down.

''Go down town, see if there's a pub open, I guess... Pubs mean people.'' He clarified when Dave's face twisted into a look of 'seriously? That's your answer to everything.'

''What?''

''Okay, fine. I mean, Ben's Speakeasy's not far from here. It is, after all, the go to place in a crisis.''

''See? I can still think without a brain.''

Dave looked genuinely curious all of a sudden.

''Do you actually still have a brain?'' He asked.

Marty went quiet. He had no idea, but judging by the severe lack of fleshy bits and scales, he could hazard a damn good guess that whatever he was thinking with wasn't exactly corporeal anymore. That thought had him take another mental step towards the precipice of madness.

''Can we just go?'' He said instead, casting a look in the direction of the front line. Plumes of smoke dirtied the horizon. There were no longer any sounds of battle. There was no noise at all except for the soft crackling of dying fires and the creak of stressed metal. ''This place is making me uneasy.''

Dave looked around at the damage, taking in the chaos the meteorites had caused, the remains of their comrades scattered about everywhere and the vehicles, broken and burned.

''Yeah. There's something weird here. I don't like it either. C'mon, let's go see if Ben's all right. We can figure the rest out as we go.''

The two scavenged some guns and ammunition, and made in the direction of the town of Conningstone that lay a mile and a half up the road, leaving the ruins of Base Omega behind them.