• Inspire Stories #0: Tank Girl
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    She had to admit, stealth wasn't her thing.


    Charlie crept under the bush, more concerned with trying to make sure her cigar didn't fall out of her mouth than noticing how loud the bushes rustled and her frustrated yells every time she was struck. The jackamaroon on her back, also oblivious to the thunk as various pointed objects flew into Charlie's helmet due the obstruction of his eyes by a puke green army helmet, decided it was a good time for it to light up as well, keeping clear of the fat rocket strapped to his back. Wouldn't want to set that puppy off too soon.

    "Man, I hate this place," it said, flexing its fingers. "So cramped. Hey, wanna hear a joke?"

    "Not now, Mar," she said, putting a finger to her lips. "We got to get to the base before we can joke."

    "But it's a good one!" the little orange thing said, readjusting the spotted bandana around its neck. "You know ya wanna hear it."

    "Maybe later." She shook her head, sighing when the itch up inside her helmet seemed to fall away. This was her last chance. She'd screwed up more missions than anyone in her unit, and just that morning, her commander had threatened to throw her to the hajams if she failed another. Her nickname was Tank Girl because she'd "tanked so many jobs," the others said. Oh, ha ha. She'd show them.

    That was why she'd taken Mar, her companion, and the rocket they'd intended to use on the enemy base and snuck off to do it herself. This would get her back in the commander's good graces. This was her chance.


    But the brambles jabbed at her skin, the branches smacked her in the face, and she kept eating the ******** mud. She slammed her fist down in a puddle, which only made her angrier as the sludge splashed in her face. Mar laughed, a loud, disjointed sound, but not uncommon to most jackamaroons.

    “Mm, Tankie, know what we need? We need a head of liyer. Y’ain’t got any on ya by any chance, huh?”

    “Mar, seriously?” she hissed. “Rocket. Enemies. Busy. Now’s not the time to get you higher than that rocket will be inna minute.”

    “No fun,” it said, its thick tail flopping against her back. “Really, it’d make this whole deal a lot sweeter.”

    “Shut the ******** up, will ya?” A fence showed up in her vision, and she crawled toward it as fast as she could. Another knife thumped into her helmet. She always figured that, the more nicks and scratches on your helmet, the better you’d have done your job. She came up to the fence and sat with her back to it, carefully unstrapping Mar. It stretched its spindly little fingers and smiled crookedly. She gave it a thumbs-up, and it cut the rope that tied the rocket to its back. Charlie reached up inside her helmet for her pack of matches, saved especially for this moment. She’d only used two for lighting up. She was proud.

    Then she realized that there was nothing up there but her hair. That itch had been the matches. She’d lost the matches.

    She took her helmet off to check once again. A bullet flew at her head and thunk. Blood sprayed beautifully onto the gleaming silver rocket, dripping down the smooth surface. Mar could smell it, the iron tang in the blood on the adamantine surface. Charlie was dead.

    It grabbed up the rocket and dug around in her (dead) pockets, hoping to find her spare (dead) match. She always kept a spare.

    He pulled out the tiny stick, stared at the (dead) red tip. Charlie’s final (dead)
    triumph. She’d show them.

    Small though the rocket was, it carried her (dead) body over the fence like a champ, landing (dead) on the base, (dead)-center.

    She showed them, all right.