Maniacs On Patrol

By Hadrian (Hardman) Howell

The Tank Job

Somedays, not often, but SOME DAYS, I hate my job. Not my job at my bar. I love that job. I built that bar and run it because I love doing it. I take crap pay because I love that job. No, it's my OTHER job I hate. Y'know, that cop thing I do on the side.

Some of you raise an eyebrow about that, but hell, this is par for the course for me. Probably in the whole of the Multiverse, I may be one of, like, three people who runs a bar first and 'protects and serves' second. Most people I know do it the other way around. Anyway, losing focus, get back on the topic, Hardy...

So I was saying I hate my job, which I do, and normally it's one of those general 'I don't wanna go to work' kind of hate my job things. People like the cop from the last story make it their job to make me hate mine. Today, however, it was a very different kind of thing.

Today, it was staring down the barrel of a tank's main gun.

Yeah, you heard me. You don't want to have heard me, but you did. Let me break this down for you, and enlighten you as to how, exactly, it was Topman's fault that I'm standing in the middle of a street, placing myself between that big gun and Spark-Chan.

First of all, understand that I'm POSITIVE it was his turn to do the shopping today. I'd put MONEY on it, and I do NOT gamble.

"We're out of... everything," Geminiman said dully, wandering into the living room. I was, as I usually am, sprawled on my couch. Other occupants of the room included Snakeman and Magnetman (who were engaged in a game of backgammon, I think, which is odd because I never knew either of them played) and Spark-Chan, who was watching something on TV. It might have been the Food Network, or it might have been the doily channel. I don't really know anything past the fact that the woman on the screen was a moderate amount of hot.

"I' was Top's turn ta do th' shoppin'," I grunted with a level of certainty.

"I thought it was your turn," Snakeman said without looking up.

"Yeah," Gemini nodded, "I was under that impression too."

"I did i' las' Tuesday," I grumbled.

"No, I did," Magnetman told me, also without looking up.

"Wow, we let ya out 'n public?" I said with a little more acid in my tone than was probably necessary. Something hit me in the head, albeit not very hard, but it carried enough of a magnetic charge that it made my vision go all rainbows. "Ow!"

Spark-Chan, ever the peacemaker, stood up quickly. "Look, everyone, I'll go get the groceries, okay?"

"Not a chance," Geminiman sneered. "All due respect, milady, but let the lard ass over here get them."

I got to my feet. "Keep yer fruity lil' armor plates on, Splits, I'm goin'," I grumbled.

"What did I tell you about calling me that?"

"Not ta," I grinned before I made my way out of the door.

It was a bright, sunny, cheerful day. I, on the other hand, am not a bright, sunny, cheerful person during the bright, sunny, cheerful hours of the day. I'm much more friendly at times in the double digits in the PM or in small amounts of the AM. 11:30 in the morning is not a good time of the day for me.

Also, the sight of me walking on the sidewalk is enough to make everyone nervous. I'm not really the kind who gets followed by furry little woodland creatures and sings showtunes. People see me coming and take it as a sign that something terrible is about to happen, either to them, their children, their pets, their car, or in some cases, their building.

I was about halfway to the store when Spark-Chan caught up with me. "Hey, Hardman, slow down!" she called. I let her catch up. "I have a list of the things we need."

I look at her, then at the list, and then back at her. "You... ya un'erstan' that this 's freakin' surreal, righ'? Th' whole 'havin' an everday conversation about groceries' while we're standin' in th' middle of th' city, wearin' armor and equipped fer war, kinda thing, right?"

She ignored me and started walking on to the store. I caught up with her in a few short strides. "So, I've always wanted to ask you something," she said as I drew even with her.

"Shoot."

"What kind of accent IS that?"

"Wha' accen'?"

"That."

I shrugged. "I dunno. S' jus' one o' those thin's."

She gave me a glare. "It... it's just that it keeps changing. Seriously, it gets thicker some days, and then others it's like you don't have one at all."

"Depen's on wha' I had ta drink las' nigh'?" I ventured.

"Well that doesn't make much sense," she told me. We made small talk like that back and forth as we arrived at the grocery store, trading stories about weird little things that happened around the base until we got to the checkout. I can't actually go through those little aisles, on account of my overall width, so I went around while Spark got everything bagged up and paid for on the police charge account we've been using to buy groceries for months now. I have no clue if anyone's noticed yet.

As we left, however, each carrying three bags full of stuff, we heard the noise. It was like construction machinery, but with a lot more screaming and people running for their lives. Spark and I gave each other a look, put down our groceries, and went to investigate.

Around the next street corner was a sight to behold. A brand new A-3M-4 'Abigail' Main Battle Tank was trundling down the street like it belonged there. To arms enthusiasts who kept up with current military hardware, the Abigail is a lovely piece of work. Mounted with a 135mm 'Thundercracker' smooth bore cannon on the main turret and a unique tread assembly that allowed it to deal with incredibly broken terrain (this thing looked more like a very low-riding four legged robot than a tank), it's ability to be modified and outfitted with zillions of weapons loadouts gave it a tactical flexibility the military seemed to be demanding from everything they built these days.

This particular Abigail had a pair of light anti-aircraft rocket pods mounted toward the read of the turret and three .50 cal M4 machine gun blisters on the front and sides. It also had a lot of cars under its treads and was rolling forward merrily, crushing even more in its advance.

"Well," I sighed, "there goes MY day," I grumbled. I turned to Spark-Chan "Watch th' bags, I'll be righ' back."

She nodded and watched me go as I waded into the fleeing populace, easily moving through the crowd of people a third my size toward the Abigail, which seemed to notice me. This wasn't surprising, I'm fairly easy to recognize, as I'm sure I've already said. In the back of my mind, I had a thought about reading whoever was driving the vehicle their Miranda rights, but there didn't seem to be too much point at the moment, so I just applied a sticker I carried around that looked like a police badge to my shoulder. I have to do that, apparently, when representing the Monsteropolis Police Department. MPD regulations also state that, as what is technically a 'vehicle' due to weight and size classifications, I have a blue and red light on my shoulders, but I hate those, and nobody really tries to enforce that.

I was about 40 feet away when the front machine gun started spitting fire, putting gaping holes in the cars around me. Anyone who's concerned about my health and safety, please, do some research. The bullets didn't do much to even slow my forward momentum. The ones that hit, anyway. Whoever was in the tank was a bad shot.

I got close to the nearest tread assembly when the thing just shot forward, churning up cars in the wake of its sudden burst of speed. I may have forgotten to mention that the Abigail is capable of what the military types call 'Emergency Relocation Bursts,' which basically moves the tank really fast over a short, mostly flat distance in the event of artillery, mines, grenades, what-have-you. In this case, it was being used to get away from me.

Good call, really.

Unfortunately, that carried the Abigail to the end of the street, the machine skidding in such a way that it was probably now almost directly at Spark-Chan. I swore and leapt to cover the distance, coming down comically short in a thunderous crash on a damaged produce truck.

"We could use some backup here!" Spark-Chan called out over the Mech's comm channel.

"It's just ONE tank," I sighed, mostly to myself.

As I fought to free myself of cabbage and unshucked corn, I noticed that the tank seemed to sit there for a moment or two before the main gun started to shift around and adjust its aim. Normally, an Abigail has a tank crew of three people. The slow transition between motion and attack meant there was probably only one guy in there, really.

"We're on the way," came Snakeman's voice.

My hand flew out and laid a smack on the barrel of the cannon a moment before it fired, and a full two seconds AFTER the Spark Shot slammed into the front of the tank and sent it rocking backwards. Either way, its aim was spoiled when the cannon actually fired, the shell careening into the sky before slamming into a building that was under construction a few blocks away. I covered the remaining distance and put myself between Spark-Chan and the Abigail as the crazy guy inside the tank probably loaded another shell into the thing.

Which is where you came in, I think. I hate my job.

The cannon shifted again, pointing at me, and I could almost hear the guy inside fumbling for the trigger. I was faster on the draw and both Hard Knuckles slammed into the barrel of the cannon, sufficiently denting it on one side and cracking the other. The idiot in the Abigail, however, must not have realized it, and there was a pathetic clank before the base of the cannon exploded, the largest remaining piece sailing over my head and landing some 30 yards behind us.

There was notable swearing as the fire burned on the tank's turret.

"I don't think he's all there," I said to Spark-Chan.

"I don't think he was hurt," she said.

"I mean men'ally," I said.

"Oh."

"We got th' guy," I said over the link. "Gonna arrest 'im and then go home."

"It never hurts to have backup," Snakeman replied. The clarity of his voice told me he was fairly close, anyway.

Through the smoke, I saw the hatch of the turret open up and a surprisingly old-looking man crawled out. "Oy!" I shouted at him, taking a few steps forward. "You have th' right ta remain silent..." I moved forward with more authority and grabbed him by the collar. "Anythin' ya say can an' prolly WILL be used against ya in a court'a law..."

He finally seemed to find his voice. "You can't arrest me, you rustbucket! I have a right to be arrested by a human being!"

I barked a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, ya gave up most o' tha' kinda thin' when ya started drivin' through town in a tank."

"I'll sue the city!" he frothed.

"Yeah, an' they'll sue ya back," I shrugged. "I'd actually count m'self lucky, were I you. City's got nothin' on whatever military outpost ya stole this tank from. They prolly want ya pretty damn bad." I hauled him up by his shoulders and started to walk toward the closest police station. He kept trying to wriggle out of my grasp, but I've got hands like... well, really big robot hands. Come on, they can't all be funny.

"Hey, Hardman?" I heard Snake's voice in my head, "You may want to..."

Then I got knocked down. Funny thing about that, it doesn't happen very often.

"... move... or something. JUST a suggestion..."

The old man I'd been in the process of arresting was sprawled on the sidewalk. He was out like a light, but he didn't look dead. Not even kind of broken.

The wall I'd collided with, however, was broken. Spots came in and out of my vision and I shook my head to clear it. I was barely aware of the debris rolling off my frame as I tried to stand up, and the ringing in my ears drowned out a worried Spark-Chan. From the bits and pieces I caught, however, she was more concerned for Crotchety-Old-Guy-Who-Joyrides-In-Tanks, which I was okay with, in the long run. I managed to get my legs under me with some admitted effort stood up.

My day was getting worse. Another Abigail, this one still in tact, was about a football field up the street. A way that it sat there in the street was somehow more menacing than the last one. Maybe it was the lack of vehicles on this street it was trying to flatten. I got half a swear word out before it fired again.

The shell, thankfully the non-explosive kind, but less thankfully the armor-piercing kind, slammed into my torso, shoving aside three or four layers of Ceramic-Titanium and rubber insulation before it spent its energy. I blew backward through the pile of debris I'd just extracted myself from and proceded to roll down the street, finally coming to stop against an unfortunately placed bus.

I coughed and picked myself up again, this time more slowly. "Sonuvabitch," I muttered, "that HURTS."

Something dropped out of the bottom of my stomach, and the bus scraped against my back as it rose into the air. I turned to look at Kenta, his eyes glowing faintly as they tended to when he was at work. "Can you do nothing right?" he asked me in monotone.

"Well, I got th' milk an' eggs an' bread, but they 'ad this blue light 'n military hardware, an' I just HADTA get me a piece o' tha' action," I grumbled.

The bus sailed over my head, over Spark-Chan's head, and dipped low suddenly and folded in on itself as the Abigail fired again, blowing the bus-ball apart from the inside as Magnetman used it to catch the tank shell.

"The old man is secure," Shadowman's voice came into my head, giving me a warm feeling that comes with not really having to make my own decisions or worry much about the situation anymore. I like my boss. He does all the hard work, I just hit things and take cannon shells to the chest. "Do you have an in, Snake?"

"On an Abigail?" the sniper asked incredulously. "No chance. We'll have to take this guy down the hard way."

"No problem," I replied, propelling myself forward, slowly at first and then into a full run. "Cover me, Mags!"

"Affirmative," he said. I heard him more over the team communications channel than any other way, since I make a lot of noise when I get moving fast. I passed Spark-Chan as another cannon shot rang out, and a full-size van flipped into the air of its own volition, compacting itself into a brick of metal as it did so and sailing into the path of the shell. The impact deflected the 135mm shell into another car and out of the area I was worried about.

I powered forward and then bunched my legs under me and shot into the air. The new Abigail slid deftly to one side, again with the emergency system usually used for avoiding artillery, but this time, I was airborne.

The jet engine fired to life, propelling me forward and down in the line I'd been going in, but I put my hand on my side and fired the Hard Knuckle, the thrust of the Knuckle re-directing me in mid-flight to slam into the Abigail, smashing the right-side treads and shattering a portion of the turret.

"Huh..." Snakeman was saying as I pulled my head out of the ground. "That was kind of cool." I plopped down on the smashed concrete, shaking my head for the second time in as many minutes. I was going to have a headache tomorrow, and there was no way around it. Magnetman was making his way forward as the turrets on the tank struggled to draw a bead on him.

Electric fury slammed into the front turret, causing the mechanics-guided blister to spaz out of control and shake itself apart, while the turret on the other side exploded for a reason I wasn't sure of. I later found out that Snakeman fired directly down the barrel of that particular turret, and things kind of took their course from there. At least, that's what I was told.

The left tread assembly simply folded in on itself, and a cold feeling in my gut told me that was Kenta's doing. With something that could have been effort, Magnetman tore that whole half of the tank away from the main body before picking up the turret and crew compartment up with little more than willpower.

I felt physically sick, but I was the only one, really. After what seemed to be a moment's consideration, the whole thing disassembled itself into its basic screws, plates, and assorted wiring, the two people inside dropping out and landing roughly on the ground. The various pieces of tank that remained piled themselves up neatly on the sidewalk like it was a hardware store sale.

As my nausea wore off, Shadowman appeared from behind me, and dropped the old guy with the other two. They looked somewhat younger, but they all could have been war veterans. Hell, that was probably what had happened; a few old war vets had panicked and tried taking their old war to the streets again. Kind of sad, really.

The leader of the Mechanical Maniacs looked at all of us and nodded.

"Good work, team," he said with a hint of... well, it could have been pride.