The truck, heavy and fast thought it was, hadn't left so much as a single mark on the metal behemoth's outer shell.  Every inch of it was pitted with old wounds, a veritable tapestry of war etched into steel and ceramics with charred paints and explosives.  If one were of the proper inclination and had the time, one could probably trace each and every one back to a time long before Gunslingers roamed the world alongside felines and reptiles, back when Man ruled over the world without equals, back when the world was green and full of life.  But few were, and to dwell on it only sapped the soul.  It was a nice dream, but dreams didn't account for much in the present.<br/><br/>Apryl didn't even get enough time to try writing her name in the sand before the buried machine--for machine it was--let off a sound like a foghorn getting strangled by an obese car salesman.<br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: IMPACT;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 36pt;">BLATT!</span></span><br/><br/>The whole ground rumbled as the thing struggled to heave its massive arms up out of the sand, no doubt thoroughly drenching Apryl in grit as each titan appendage reached desperately for the solid surface of the tarmac.  The truck<em>had</em>managed to do something, and that was nudge it closer to stable ground.  It just wasn't quite enough, and after a few seconds of scrabbling uselessly in the effort to heave its bulk out of the sinkhole it stopped, momentarily defeated.  The machine whined like an old dog speaking through a faulty radio transmission.  Just one of those days.