“Twelve north, eight east. Permission to fire granted; advance… Normal.”

Yin understood that hesitation wasn’t in the books any longer. The Royal Guard never accepted behavior that leaned into reluctance; it showed weakness. He waited for the confirmation through his crewmate’s radio and proceeded to fasten his seatbelt. These Polynesian suits were another thing he wasn’t used to, but he figured that was a universal feeling amongst the soldiers; they had just been shipped in from some no-name warehouse from Te Anau to Tinsukia, and the flatbed drivers who were coming from Bhutan had a hard time keeping quiet about the difficulty of loading the giant saffron-painted machines, going so far as to nickname the machine “Laosies”, with the little English few of them knew. Regardless, he persisted; it would be base not to, especially as one of the few Bamar in the Royal Guard. The clatter of the newly-modified radio system continued as he fiddled with the sloppily painted-over control knobs which were once in Maori, but now had the familiar Burmese letters in bright orange, just like the massive machine itself.

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