Ch.11 Maintenence bullshit_An A.Is’ guide to genocide, tank edition. [Tank you (A tank evolution lite litrpg)]

Haha bitch!

Fuck around.

Find out.

-Human proverb.

POV: Charmand. (If you wonder, why so little landscape description? Then wonder no more! Why does it matter how green something used to be if the mc has literal planet crackers at his disposal? It’s all going to end up fucked up war torn and mud filled anyway, before that, imagine it. What I do. For the elf city, imagine a mash between futuristic and primitive, for the landscape, the rolling hills and valleys of rural England, trees spouting, anti discord mod shrubs growing, with a little cobblestone paved road in the middle of it all, good for both tanks and carriages. Imagine birds chirping and flying, little lakes dotted around, with ducks migrating, and fish… well doing fish things and swimming about, unless it is expressed, always assume it is mid day or early morning, the sun rising or risen, either the chirps of crickets or the serene smell of freshly cut grass and shrubs, morning dew sparkling in spider webs. All other cities/ outposts be looking like Roman era European architecture, the smell of shit and bustling city life, angry tavern patrons, bored people working monotonous jobs. But that isn’t what this book is about. It’s about genocide and tanks, the simpler things in life. Now you know what grass looks like! Such wow.)

So. That happened.

I’ll start from the beginning.

It was just another average day (Yes I’m doing this shitty movie thing.) for the city, but me and my accomplices decided to do what we had to do. We had to save the eleven race. The alien machine knew genocide and only that. It took some kind of pleasure in hurting and killing living, thinking, feeling creatures. You might think ‘hey that’s evil, no one could possibly do that!’ Well you’re wrong. Forget everything they taught you about the eleven council in school. I know I have.

They teach you to respect the council. Do not respect them, I know I respected them before I met them. What they are in reality is a bunch of cowards. They wish for the status quo to be undisturbed, for them to keep their false positions of power, wouldn’t realise death is at their door until it comes crashing down. A little fish in a big sea, thinking they made it big. Then a shark comes and eats them. Sure, they have some skills, but they are about as useful as an ‘ashtray’ on a ‘motorbike’ or that’s what the adventurers say. Whatever either may be.

I write this anonymous letter to the daily elf, to not ask for forgiveness, or mercy, but for understanding, to be witnessed. The rot will be purged, one way or another. The game is on…

-Letter written from Charmand to The Daily Elf, received 1 hour after the attack, posted three days ago.

The plan started off perfectly, letter sent, me walking to another faux meeting with a bunch of half brained walnut looking fuckers. I breathed deeply before exhaling. Adrenaline pumping in my ways as I made my way to the main chamber. Like a game of chess, one wrong move, and a skilled enough player can make your plan come crumbling down. I needed to be both sides. I force the hand of the council to make the wrong move, and I make them pay for the mistake. Better die in a blaze of glory, then sputter out and die like a flame without a wick or fuel. I slowly clenched and unclenched my fists, biting my lip as I did so. I closed my eyes, the only sound being the echoes of my footsteps against the tiling of the floor, the empty hallways reverberating with the waves. I had one know, knowing this was for the greater good of the people.

(Sounds like some classic ‘for the greater good’ ahhh villain. Make your own decision if what he did was evil or noble. Personally, I think these types of political systems aren’t ’cut the head of the snake’ but cut the head of a hydra, inevitably causing the people to go into a state of chaos for an undetermined amount of time, as people fight over the vacuums of power, making life worse for the common people. What do I know though? I’m only the author, and I don’t know what’s happening the next 500 words, even as I write.)

I walked into the room. Suddenly, the light cut out. It was time. “Shit shit shit!” I screamed for the ‘flavour’. Me and the council rushed with the security agents to a secret panic room. A muffled explosion in the distance either marked the death of the generator team, or the destruction of the generator pre-emptively. The lights flickered, died, then came back on with a red tint. The emergency generators. We finally reached the room, and the door slammed shut. “What the fuck?” One council member asked. I thought to myself, you happened. I pressed the detonate button.

Huh? I looked down at the mist that used to be my body, confused. How come I ain’t dead? I snuck a glance all around the room. It should’ve worked! It did work! The council members and security forces were all mist or salsa. The closed nature of the room worked against the dead, the shockwaves unable to get out, the heavy unobtanium fractured and buckled in multiple places. The outside still the same shade of red as the gore in the room. No guts, just bloody chunks and blood, with cartilage and bone generously sprinkled throughout. Is this hell? Is this heaven? It was almost as if the entire world was just frozen, in one snapshot, unmoving. I was disturbed to say the least. Very disturbed at this horror bullshitery.

‘I am the ghost of genocide past, and this is why you are here, to see and appreciate the full scope of what you have done, inadvertently causing an early canon event before the world was ready. For this, you shall follow me.’

What the fuck? I thought as my body moved of its own accord, following the ‘ghost’. It’s been a weird month.

POV: George Whistler. (If you’re wondering ‘where’s alpha’ I’m writing that shit last, to see the results of the poll. I value your opinions! Sometimes…)

”Arghh my fucking head…” I moaned as I sat up. “Why… why am I in some random ass forest? Oh shit… I remember.” The memories of what had happened prior welled up. I used a hand to rub the previous cut mark to see if it was healed, it was. Not even a scar. Fuckin hate this shit man. I sat up, still rubbing my head and looked around. So. Last thing I remember before blacking out is a branch bonking me on the head after some big ass explosion. Ever since I revealed my true potential as a dick wielder, my life’s getting weirder. I sighed. I knew I had a job to do, and if I was going to quit just because shit was getting heated would mean I’m a shitty person, even shitter promise keeper. The only thing keeping me going was revenge. Revenge against the bastards that took my family from me. Raised me as little less than disposable cannon fodder, but now I’m resisting. Sometimes that’s all you’ve got.

I remember the saying ‘nothing’s more dangerous than an animal backed up in a corner with nothing to lose’ I had nothing to lose. And I aint far from being backed up in a corner.

I stood up, doing the only thing I could. Start walking. Where? Here? There? Don’t know, don’t care. I just need to get somewhere that doesn’t have a bunch of rètards chasing me. I looked ahead, and hoped to whatever god there was for trees, or nature for that matter not to make me black out via concussion. Sure, I have a thick skull, but at this point it’s just getting insulting.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Pov: System. (Which is another A.I. Amazing, I know.)

As I looked down at the tourists I couldn’t help but laugh. What a bunch of fuc-