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Oslo, Sweden. Things were not pretty. Norwegian Nationalists had descended upon the former nation’s capital like bee’s to a field of flowers. For any civilian in the area, it was utterly terrifying, men in murky green uniforms marching in clean lines, lead by a monstrosity of steel which occasionally spit flames at any who impeded it’s path, it’s machine guns threatingly looking around, watching for any who might attempt to charge upon it. However, on the opposite end of the spectrum, the Militia found it hilarious. A bunch of mismatched men, ranging from TLC episodes to pediatric nightmares, with their uniforms rather bulging with their bellies, threatening to rip, or so baggy it looks as though it’s a bed sheet. At the front of it all was the hilariously dated tank. Sure, a frontal case mate is all well and good in concept, but when the tank’s own sponsons block it’s angle of fire, the issue is apparent. Additionally, the machine guns, while menacing, were also severly limited in their angle of fire, and the flamethrowers were easy enough to avoid by just squat-walking behind the vehicle. All of this was gathered through a brief view via binoculars.

The Militia didn’t make it’s move yet, wanting to see what point, if any, the Nationalists had, and as they came to a halt in front of the former Norwegian Royal Palace, and a man clambered atop the vehicle, the militiamen braced their rib cages, preparing for whatever damage laughing until the end of the speech might do. “Brothers, sisters of Norway! For too long have the Norwegian people been stuck under the thumb of the filthy Swedes, their culture corrupting our rich history, destroying our monarchy, and ruining our way of life! I call upon all of you to take up arms…” As the man rambled, the Militia finally made it’s move, sending three men down from their observation post, ordering them to do something risky but simple. Being shot at once or twice as they ran down from their hiding spot, they slowly shuffled into the crowd that had gathered to listen to the lunatic. Whoever had planned the ordeal hadn’t fully thought it through, the back of the tank, to which only two machine guns barely covered, and the fuel tank for the flamethrowers was connected. Crawling forward, and using the increasingly large crowd to hide, the men made their way under the tank, and set about their work

First there was the quiet dripping of molten metal, 16mm’s of steel being penetrated by a small plasma torch. From there, the loud clunk of the tank’s outdated engine rolling over emanated, and the tank slowly began to roll, not a noticeable amount but just enough. Last of the chores was the flamethrower’s fuel line, and with a small slit made in the top of the pipe, and a match struck against it, the oversized bomb began to roll forward. Popping out from under the tank, and hearing the man still rant on and on, the three men begin to shout to the civilians, ordering them back from the tank and the Palace, however, they knew that this also meant the disembarked tank crew, the presumed tank commander atop it, and the men who had marched with it, also had caught wind of their command, and had likely managed to catch a view of their uniforms, which, if they didn’t move soon, would likely get them killed. Chaos soon ruled the moment, civilians running and clogging the street, sporadic shots flying from rifles, attempting to hit any of the three, and the now out of control tank, which had picked up dangerous levels of speed.

Not more than a minute later, the tank slammed into the front of the Palace, the building's architecture groaning as though in pain. Another ten seconds, and the fire finally did it’s job, having travelled through the pipe, burning any gasoline inside to continue spreading inside, like a horrid virus. Once it had made it all the way in, the 105mm shells for the main gun had nothing to prevent them from cooking off, and as the ammo went of, the Palace, and the Nationalists received facelifts, the Palace in the form of a gaping hole, and the Nationalists in the form of shrapnel wounds, lost limbs, and bodies turned to mush.

By all means, yet another wonderful day in the Swedish Republic.

I did a thing, it’s not well written, but I f*cking wanted to do it anyways and no one can stop me.