Don't mind me, just re-reading.
Ahh, good times. Tis heartening to contribute something other people like.
Edit: unusually motivated, I wrote my own take on the start of the tank confrontation scene. Feedback wanted please.
When she drew the hammer, Mjolnir started to itch. Mjolnir ALWAYS itched.
Valentina could feel little filament shocks questing and and digging and twisting where her skin touched the god-hammer. Just as distracting was the THUMPTHUMPTHUMP-THUMPTHUMPTHUMP-THUMPTHUMPTHUMP of her primary and backup hearts pounding searing blood into her swelling muscles with furious abandon.
She ground her teeth, snarling internally at the weapon that, in fact, It Was NOT Big Red Button Time
. Raw soldier's discipline aside, there was too much do after this and she couldn't afford the physiological backlash engaging the Avatar's signature adrenal supercharge created.
And that was how their relationship worked: pure lust. She used it, it used her -no kissing. Just thinking about the artifact made her pulse pick up. Pulling it from it's back sheath made the world grow brighter as her pupils dialated and her muscles twitched with both the effort of readying the obstinate god-weapon but far more with the rush of hot blood energy that genetically growled about a day that didn't end with something big burning To The. FUCKING. GROUND was a day spent disgracing the TRUTH that was the call of Ragnarok.
Valentina forced herself to breathe, and stepped into view of the tanks -three Shop MBTs travelling in basic arrowhead formation.
Val would gladly kill every Shop agent, shatter their holdings, burn their remains and call in a particle beam saturation on the bloody ashes, but the Shop surely did make a sleek, imposing tank her inner gearhead would've thrilled to take for a rampage around the 29 Palms Armor Training campus.
Well, even Hitler loved his dog.
So much had come and gone since first finding Thor's lost weapon, but one thing that Valentina had learned for damn sure was this: when throwing Mjolnir, throw with your knees AND your back.
Proper modern hatchet or hammer throwing techinique was hold the weapon overhead like you were going to perform a basic Kendo strike, and release at about your own throat level.
Mjolnir didn't give a shit for any of that.
You threw IT with your soul.
Valentina dipped her hips as she built power, swinging the weapon down past her right knee, conscious of how the itching had become a hungry pulling that wanted to melt her entire arm to the artifact's handle. At the bottom of the arc Mjolnir became the anchor of some jealous god, yanking at her grip like she'd grabbed a planet by it's root and was attempting the monumentally ludicrous feat of hurling the very thing she clung to for footing.
She bent forward as she kept the swing going, feeling the laces of her boots fray and burst, feeling the stays of her armor stretch and pop, feeling the veins in her nose blut
open and douse her upper lip in burning metal and her wristwatch explode and creation itself screaming THIS CAN'T HAPPEN, THIS ISN'T POSSIBLE YOU MUST STOP in a million shrieking-air voices at Mjolnir's upward sweep as the god-hammer burst into volcanic light.
At the top of swing was snow's own tranquility, a single solemn voice, a vast bell's peal, that spoke in an impulse as deep and as clear as the eternal blue sky: release me, I strike true
From inside the lead tank the operation to acquire, check, and shoot was the work of a dozen seconds. Valentina's appreciation of it's aesthetics would've readily extended to the masterfully designed and surprisingly roomy crew space, to the reliable, minute-of-angle accurate targeting system, and especially to the lavish climate control system capable of keep a ripe banana fresh for days.
She would have also very respected how completely DEAD anything, or anyone, who it got even a sliver of target to direct a massive rocket at was 98% likely to be.
From her perspective Valentina had hurled an (unwieldy, exhausting, addictive) artifact weapon.
From the angle of the tank's commander a comet had very rudely and impossibly imposed itself on his field of fire.
Falling prone from overbalancing, Valentina only got a glimpse of Mjolnir's impact. Still she was pretty sure she saw a trio of eyeballs rocket in obscene gaiety ("we're free, we're free" chorused some twisted internal voice) up out of the simultaneously melting and imploding vehicle's top hatch.
One down, two to go.
Soundtrack to the hammer throw:
Lords of Acid, LSD = Truth