The Stranded Pilot

The first thing he saw was blackness.

Not surprising when he had his head against the console.

He heard chirping birds. He opened his eyes and coughed, then remembered what had happened the night before, seeing nothing through the cracked visors, flipping them up. He undid the oxygen mask over his mouth and breathed in. He blinked and tried to lift his head, but felt his helmet hit the canopy. He turned and looked up, there was no way the canopy was moving. He shifted over to the right, ready to punch out the cracked and broken canopy, but when he tried to lift his arm, he shouted in pain. He looked and saw a shard of glass in his upper arm, blood streaked down his arm.

Shrugging off the pain he moved over again, lifted his good arm and punched the canopy, looking down as the glass shattered around him. He unbuckled the flight harness, and pushed himself out of the cockpit with his good arm and legs. He sat on the right hand side of the cockpit, legs dangling over the outside, 2 feet off the ground. He looked himself over, but the only injury he seemed to have gotten was the shard of glass in his arm, and probably a concussion where he hit his head. He slid down the side of the plane and grunted as he landed on his feet. Now probably a sprained ankle as well.

He limped away from the crash, over to a large flat rock. He sat down took off his helmet, placing it next to him. He inspected his arm, the sleeve of his normally green flight jacket was red with blood where it had bled while he was unconscious. He grabbed the combat knife from his ankle strap, carefully cutting off the bottom half of sleeve from his good arm. He put the knife down and pulled the sleeve off his arm and, straightening the fabric out, placed it on the rock. He gritted his teeth, and moaned as he pulled out the shard of glass. He ripped off the sleeve of his bad arm, revealing the cut and wrapped the piece of cut-off sleeve around it to stem the bleeding, knotting it tightly.

After dealing with his arm, he sat and looked around. He was next to a river, on the other side thick forest. On this side was a small semi-circle of clear land, about 30 meters wide at the river. The Eurofighter had left a long path of broken trees and destroyed foliage behind it, digging out a 2 foot deep trough when it had hit the ground, about 100 meters long. At least the sparks hadn't started a forest fire. He pulled off his gloves, and walked over to the river, flexing his bad arm and testing it. The glass hadn't cut too deep, only a flesh wound, but it hurt like hell. He knelt down next to the river and splashed water over his face.

After a minute, he went back over the wreck, and looked inside the cockpit. The controls didn't look too bad, but most of the glass was cracked. He looked at the radio, wondering if anyone had been listening to his mayday. He thought about the rescue helicopter that must be looking for him even now. It HAD to be. He climbed down gently, not putting too much pressure on his ankle. He looked around the clearing again, wondering where the hell he was. Base-Plate had been in the middle of the North Sea when he launched, and he had flown north roughly 30 miles, but that was still hundreds of mile from land. The only areas he could have reached were northern England, Scotland or somewhere like Finland. He looked at the forest. It wasn't snowy, so that ruled out Finland or Northern Scotland.

That still didn't explain how he got there.

He decided to figure it out later. He looked at his digital watch for the first time, which had a cracked screen. He was surprised it was still working after the crash. He was surprised HE was still working after the crash. It was now 6:52 am, and it had been 3:42 when he had reached the co-ordinates given to him by Base-Plate. He guessed it been 2 minutes before he got hit, and another 7 minutes after that, which meant he had crashed at about 3:51, almost 3 hours ago. Exactly, actually, as his watch moved on a minute.

Pegasus. It had been bugging him since he had seen it last night. The small horse with wings, it would have been called a Pegasus, had it not been a hallucination.

He remembered the settlement he had seen, and guessed it was in the direction the nose of the plane was pointing. He grabbed his short wave radio from his jacket, and turned it on, to get the same scream of static, same as last night.

"Fucks sake. What the hell's wrong with this?" He switched it to receive transmissions, but got nothing from the rescue team's frequency. He transmitted:

"Rescue Team Whiskey, do you read?" there was no reply. "Anyone?" still nothing, so he continued "This is call-sign Maverick. I have crashed landed in an area of thin forest, location unknown. If anyone can hear me, please send help. I have seen a small settlement, unknown direction, and will head for it in 2 hours if rescue does not arrive." He put the transceiver down on the rock, and sat down again, taking off his flight jacket. The sun hadn't fully risen, but it was warm compared to 2 weeks in the North Sea on a Royal Navy aircraft carrier.

He looked across the river, and saw a small family of deer looking at him. Of all the places to crash an experimental fighter plane, this definitely wasn't the worst.

-An Hour Later-

Howards was sitting on the rock, facing the wreck of his fighter and looking at a map. After looking around and filling his water canteen from the river, he had searched the plane and found that most of the equipment would be salvageable if he needed to salvage it, but hopefully rescue would be on its way. He had used the other sleeve of his flight jacket, the one he had ripped off of his injured arm, to make a crude sling for his injured arm, after putting his flight jacket back on.

Right now he was using a map to try and find out where the hell he was. It was too warm for Scotland, but it was autumn in England, so he supposed it could be this warm there. He scanned the eastern coast, tracing it with his finger. He saw a shadow fly over him and then disappear. He ripped his M9 out of its holster and stood up, knocking the map to the floor. He put himself into a combat stance, and looked all around, into the sky, the forest, across the river. He wasn't ready for a fight with his injured arm, but knew he might not have a choice. He got ready, aiming into the forest.

He saw something move in the forest to his right, and turned to it, the plane behind him. He backed up and flicked the safety off with his thumb, looking for a threat and stood ready, but he wasn't prepared for the sight that met his eyes. A small cyan coloured horse, like the one he had seen last night, stepped out of the forest. It even had wings. It walked into the clearing and stopped, eyeing him up wearily, staring at the gun. It was roughly 4 feet tall, maybe more, and for some reason had a wild rainbow coloured mane.

"What the hell are you?" he asked squinting at it and lowering the gun.

"I should be asking you the same question." it said with a feminine voice.

His eyes widened. The horse spoke again. "What?"

Flight Captain Howards, one of the toughest men and one of the best pilots in the naval branch of the Royal Air Force, dropped his gun and fainted.

When Howards regained consciousness, he had a headache. He stirred and felt a cold cloth stroke his forehead and heard a gentle, female voice.

"Shh, it's okay."

It made sense now; he had fallen or hit his head on Base-Plate, and was in the infirmary. The flight, the crash, the talking horse, it had all been a dream.

"Nurse?" he asked, reluctant to open his eyes.

"Oh my, you talk." said the voice.

"Told you." said another voice, the one he had heard before fainting.

Howards opened his eyes and saw there were several of the small horses, about the size of ponies, around him, backing away. It hit him: they were ponies, not horses. He sat up, his eyes wide, supporting himself with his good arm and the ponies backed away once again. There was the cyan coloured one he had first seen, but there were also 3 new ponies. A light yellow one with wings and a long pink mane and tail, a purple one with a horn – a unicorn he realised – and an orange one with a Stetson hat. They were crowded around, looking down at him, but they had backed away when they saw him open his eyes.

They looked at him curiously, about 4 feet away. Well, except for the yellow one, who was hiding her face behind her mane.

"Where am I? What are you? What's going on?" he asked, looking from one to another, using his good arm to push himself backwards, away from them and against a tree, looking to see what it was stopping him from going further back. He looked back at the cyan coloured one. "You can talk?"

"Of course we can talk," said the unicorn. "But first, what are you?" she asked, tilting her head.

"My name is John Howards, Flight Captain in the naval branch of the RAF, I'm a pilot. I crashed and, wait wait wait, what are YOU! You're a horse, that can talk." he closed his eyes and held his head with his good arm, looking down. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought." he muttered to himself.

"Hit your head when?" asked the cyan one.

"When I crashed my fighter. Look!" he shouted gesturing to the crashed Eurofighter that was still smouldering.

The ponies looked at the plane, then one another. "Uh, what's a 'fighter'?" asked the orange one.

Howards just shook his head, staring at the ground. What in the hell was going on? Then he realised. The ponies, their ability to talk. It had all seemed familiar. It was a show, popular on the internet, and he and a buddy of his had watched a few episodes for a £10 bet, but he hadn't really cared for it. That had been 3 months ago, and he tried to remember the names of the ponies before him. The unicorn, he remembered her because she had the same name as that book. Twilight. And the orange one, Jack or something? Applejack! That was it. But this was a cartoon world, how had he got here?

He was looking at them curiously, and grimaced as he tried to lift his bad arm. The yellow one noticed, and moved forward to help.

"Can I help?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her, still in pain and gritting his teeth, and nodded. She moved forward with a bandage and unknotted the sleeve he had tied around his cut. As she worked, he wondered how she could do that with hooves, but let her clean his cut with the wet cloth she had wiped his head with and wrap a proper bandage around his arm.

"Thanks." he said as she backed away. "So, um, where am I?" he asked, unsure of himself.

"You're in Equestria." said the unicorn. He wondered if any of them knew about him, what he was. He guessed not, and grabbed the water flask from his jacket pocket.

The cyan one was looking at him. "You said you were a pilot, do you mean you fly airships?"

He looked at her, swallowing a mouthful of water. "Well, sort of."

Applejack looked at the crumpled remains of his plane. "That was yer airship?" she asked incredulously.

"IS," he said "It just needs some repairs." He looked back at it. "I'll explain in a minute, but first I'd like to know, how did I get here?"

"I think I can explain that." They all looked over to see a tall white pony with wings and a horn standing there, with 2 more ponies in golden armour, a sun insignia painted on.

The ponies around Howards bowed, but he just stared in awe at the new arrival.

"My name is Princess Celestia, and I would like to welcome you to Equestria, human." she said, smiling at what must surely be to her an odd creature.

For the second time that day, John Howards fainted, his head slumping against the tree behind him.