This Is Not A Drill

"Exactly the right stallion for this mission. Right. Just because of what I managed in that, that massacre... no. Dashites are Dashites. And they're dangerous." The pegasus stallion moved the cigar around in his mouth, the tattered, perfectly white suit that covered his body from head to hoof offering considerable warmth as he lay on the snowy ridge. He'd seen his target crawl into that door for something, goddesses-know-what, and now he was just watching, and waiting, eye focused through the scope of the large-caliber rifle. He took a long draw, feeling the warmth of the ash nearing his face, letting the smoke out in a long, slow huff, watching as it disappated on the icy breeze. Never could trust the wind, but from this distance, it didn't matter too much. It'd be simple - one bullet, one head, one dead Dashite.

His attention fell to the wooden door as it shifted, swinging open out into the icy blast, a curled, tattered red mane attached to a blue body crawling out of the hole. Had to be her. He took a breath and held it, viewing the crosshairs in his rifle's scope as they settled across her face. Let's see the boys back in Thunderhead pull this off with their beam weapons. Plinking someone to death with condensed light? No thanks. His hoof pulled back on the trigger mechanism, keeping it tight, watching his prey for the moment as the figure crawled out into the wastes. A thin trail of red moved behind her body; Poor thing's hurt. This'll be mercy, even if she didn't deserve it. Orders were orders. Dashites are Dashites.

The white cloth suit flapped about his body as he fully squeezed the trigger, time seeming to slow down in those passing moments. The hammer in the rifle's action was released, flying forwards and impacting the primer at the back of the case. The explosion caused the powder inside to burn with extreme rapidity, propelling the round forwards out of the barrel of the rifle while the force of the expanding gases also pushed the rifle backwards, the stallion tensing at the energy the stock transferred to his shoulder. The large bullet expanded to fit in the rifled grooves of the half-inch pipe, spinning as it traveled through the remaining length and passed through the muzzlebrake, the rapidly expanding gases erupting in a thunderous explosion that rang through out the wasteland. Slicing through the cold air, the loud crack of the half-inch round piercing through the air meeting the first explosion from the muzzlebrake, making the wasteland ring with the sound of inevitable death once again in the two-century history.

The mare had just lifted her head from the snow, weakened, eyes glazed over in pain and looking around the icy, white wastes with no rhyme nor reason. The stallion with the rifle locked eyes with her through the scope mere hundredths of a second before the round impacted, piercing directly between her eyes and causing her skull to rupture, the force of the high-caliber round driving through skull and brain vaporizing both on it's path, the spray that exited staining the snow in a wide, bloody fan shape. What was left of the mare's head fell into the snow, her body falling limp entirely, red staining her bluish coat along one side, the pegasus stallion exhaling a held breath, the nub that remained of his cigar falling to the snow. He lifted himself to his hooves, the rifle slinging onto his back and the suit allowing concealed movement in the snow, a gentle dusting beginning to fall.

"Hell. Just what I needed, some radiation poisoning to bring back home. Damn wasteland." He bit out another cigar from a pocket on his suit's hoof, striking it against the ground and watching it ignite, drawing and huffing a light grey cloud, trotting forwards down the mountain pass. Had to clean up, can't trust the wasteland to reclaim. Just like Pripytrot.

His wings spread wide underneath the suit, the weight and unrulyness of the camoflauging fabric just barely allowing him to glide down from his position, the faint click-click-click in his ears only making him want to be over and done with it all already. His hooves landed heavily against the snow, quietly trotting forwards to look over the remains of the Dashite - there wasn't much left of the head, and the body... a small pool was forming where the trail out of the wooden door ended, the pegasus shaking his head and rolling the body out of it. What the hell happened to her in there, anyways, there shouldn't be nearly this much blood from just her head getting blown off.

He looked to the side of the nearby road - it would along a mountainside, a deep crevice bordering it. Perfect. He grunted, looking back to the overturned body, limbs spread open in the snowy ground. There was a distinct wound along the stomach, deep, gashing, still dripping with blood that oozed from it's sides. Must have been a timberwolf that got to her, or something. Surprised she even managed to survive that. No splinters, though... he mused over the wound, standing in idle silence and taking a draw off of his cigar, huffing a thick cloud of smoke from his nostrils and watching the red ooze that stained the snow a deep crimson. If this was a timberwolf, or even a sand dog... there wouldn't have been just one cut like that. There wouldn't have been anything left, at that. Those marks on her coat, the places where the fur was lighter and thinner...

He stalled, staring down at the body of the decapitated mare in the snow, his jaw falling loose. That mare... that mare was pregnant. -Was- pregnant. Titchbreeze never mentioned anything about her being pregnant. He... he knew what happened at Pripytrot, he knew about... goddesses. The stallion's cigar fell from his mouth, landing in the snow with a hiss. This was more than he could handle. This was too much. Pripytrot... he couldn't go back. He couldn't go on with himself after... after this. That wasn't taking down an Enclave defector, or wiping out an enemy force, that was... that was cold-blooded murder. He stepped backwards, feeling the pool of crimson starting to wet his hooves, turning his dropped cigar into a bloodstained mess. Blood on his hooves. He killed his own kind in cold blood.

He swallowed heavily, looking down the road that led out north, far up into the wasteland. He wouldn't live with himself if he went back, but... all the same, he wasn't going to die on a firing squad. He'd find something. He'd fight on his own terms. One day, he'd confront Titchbreeze. But... that wasn't today. Today, he learned what a deserter would feel like. He removed the snow-white suit, laying it over the body of the Dashite, hiding it from the wasteland. Dashite... deserter... nopony deserved it.

His under-armor providing some warmth, he spread his wings widely, the large rifle on his back jostling about as he rose into the icy sky. There wasn't anything he wanted that could make him go back home now. The further he flew along the road, and the more he thought, however, one word kept returning to his mind, slowly gaining a hold in a subconscious section of his thoughts as the chill wind bit at his face.

Revenge.